Page 42 of Maid of Dishonor

“Winifred, why don’t you come meet my mom?” I say, because this is going south very quickly, and I did not sign up for this today. Orever.Without waiting for her to respond, I link my elbow through Wini’s and tug her firmly away from Boris and into my mom’s room instead. She shoots one last venomous look over her shoulder and then follows.

“I wasn’t aware your mother lived here, Samantha,” Winifred says as we enter. “Tell her not to trust the men in this place.” I wince at the volume and quickly close the door behind us.

“She does live here,” I say, nodding, “and she’s married, so no worries there. Mom, this is my landlady, Winifred. She’s here…” But I trail off as I realize I’m not sure exactlywhyWini is here. To see Boris, I guess. She said there wasn’t a speed dating event today.

“I do the speed dating every week,” Winifred says. “I came to bingo night with Boris Baumgartner, and then we took a lovely walk through the gardens, and then I find himremoving his clothingin the presence of another woman—”

“All right,” I say loudly, cutting her off as she gets worked up again. I reach over and hesitantly pat her on the shoulder—she’s not a particularly touchy-feely woman, but I don’t just want to shout over her—and then say, “I’m really sorry, Wini. I didn’t mean to cause all this mess.”

She harrumphs and says, “It’s not actually your fault, Samantha. He’s the one whose knickers were on display.” Then she begins to turn around, as though she’s going to head back out there for round two of shouting at Boris.

I clamp down on her shoulder, and she stalls in place. grumbling. Then I sigh, rubbing my temples. “Mom, I think I’d better get Wini home,” I say, frowning apologetically at her.

My mom nods, looking a little frightened of Wini, and honestly, I don’t blame her. So with one last kiss on my mother’s cheek, I steer Wini out of the room, down the hall, and out to the parking lot. I get Winifred all settled in her car, and when I get in my own car, my mind is still swimming with unwanted mental images.

One day I will make a list of all the details I never wanted but got anyway, and Boris Baumgartner’s knickers will be at the very top.

* * *

“Hey, how was it?”Carter says when I call him once I’m home. His voice is loud through the phone, but I don’t even adjust the volume; he feels like the embrace that I could really use right now.

“Meh,” I say, sighing, a little distracted. Something about my mom’s words is troubling me, and I can’t figure out what it is.

“I’m going to assume that means it was the same as usual.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I say, going to grab the bag of chocolate chips from the pantry. I have to go up on my tiptoes to get it from further back on the top shelf where it must have slumped over, and I spend a second slapping my hand around back there randomly before I find it.

“Hah!” I say when I get it. Then I rethink my answer to Carter’s question. “Well, no, actually; Winifred turned up. She caught her man friend—Boris, the one with the dermatologist grandson?”

Carter grunts but doesn’t say anything.

“Yeah, so she caught him playing strip poker with another woman,” I explain, padding over to the couch.

“Wait, who? Boris or the grandson?”

“Boris,” I clarify.

“Huh,” Carter says, sounding thoughtful. “He’s gotta be—what, eighties? Nineties? Not great that he’s cheating or whatever, but I admire his body confidence.”

I just shudder. “Let’s talk about something else, please.”

“Right. Okay. How’s your mom?”

I sigh. “She seems kind of down on herself.” And I hate it. I hate that she feels that way.

I swallow against the frustration, the guilt, and let my body sag into the couch cushions. I eye the spot of carpet I inhabited the other day when I was so emotional over my book, but I stick to the sofa.

“What’s she down about?”

I rest my head on the arm of the couch, putting the chocolate chips next to me. “Her physical therapy,” I say. “Range of motion in her arms. Stuff like that.” Running one hand down my face, I recall her gaunt face, draped in exhaustion. “I told her that she’s making progress, but she’s so impatient. She was—wait, why are you laughing?”

Because Carter’s stupid little chuckles are now caressing me in that way that makes me shiver, even when I suspect he’s laughing at me.

“Oh, nothing,” he says, and I scowl. “Just savoring the absolute ridiculousness of you telling her that when you’re completely incapable of believing the same thing about yourself.”

I press one hand to my cheeks, which I can feel heating. “What? No, I’m not.”

“You absolutely are, Sam. In every way. I tell you this all the time. You drive yourself for perfection and refuse to acknowledge that your efforts are just as important. In fact, I mentioned this just the other day at the batting cages, and you spouted off some nonsense about the way I pour my cereal.”

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