Page 55 of Hooked
“We” could mean the household staff—three were full time—or it could mean Mena and her mother, who were joined at the hip. Mena’s voice was cool—not because she was unhappy to see Tayla, that was just her voice.
“I’m here for an interview. I won’t be more than a few days. Are my parents home?”
“I believe your father is at the club tonight…”
A sinking feeling in her belly.
“…and your mother is in the upper garden.” Mena’s smile was tight. “Reading.”
Drinking.
“Got it.” Tayla started toward the stairs.
“Let me get Charles for your bag.”
“Please, Mena.” Tayla’s shoulders slumped. “I’ve got it. You don’t need to bother Charles.”
“It’s his job,” Mena said quietly. “He’ll be irritated if I don’t call him.”
“He’s got to be seventy now.”
“And it is still his job,” Mena said. She got her phone out and sent a quick text message to Charles, who was the gardener, her parents’ chauffeur when needed, and general handyman around the giant Victorian house. “He’ll take your backpack and bag up to your room. Would you like a drink in the garden?”
Tayla wasn’t going to get away with avoiding her mother, so she nodded and pulled her sweater more tightly around her body. “What’s she drinking?”
“Red wine.”
“I’ll have the same.”
Red wine was her mother’s booze of choice. Bianca Reyes McKinnon had long claimed wine ran in her blood. And in a sense… it did. She’d been born in the Sonoma Valley to one of the oldest winemaking families in California. During Prohibition, her family had even fermented sacramental wine to sell to the Church in order to keep their vineyards.
An alluring mix of Spanish, Italian, and Hungarian blood, Bianca had been known as one of the leading beauties of San Francisco society when she was growing up, and she’d quickly caught the eye of Aaron McKinnon, a newly arrived financial genius who’d grown up in Philadelphia and attended school at Stanford.
Her parents met, married, and partied through the 1980s until Tayla’s birth brought their high-flying lifestyle to an abrupt crash landing.
Bianca had never been suited for motherhood, despite her traditional Catholic upbringing. And Aaron? Aaron worked. They did their social duties, sent their daughter to the right schools, and went through the motions even though it was obvious both of them were miserable.
Tayla walked up the stairs to the third floor where a terraced garden had been carved into the hill where the house was built. Overlooking the deep blue of San Francisco Bay, the yard was Charles’s masterpiece, though her mother liked to putter around and pretend to tend it when the weather was nice.
Tayla saw her mother sitting on the far end of the patio, a glass of wine in her hand, wrapped in a thick Pendleton blanket, watching the lights blink on the bay. Tayla ignored the buffet of wind and walked across the gravel. Her mother turned when she was only a few feet away, and her eyes widened in surprise.
“Tayla!” The smile came quickly, as did the shadow at the back of her eyes. “I didn’t know you were in the city. When did you get here?”
“Just now.” She bent down and gave her mother an awkward hug. “How are you?”
“Fine.” She waved her wineglass in the direction of the Golden Gate Bridge. “Beautiful night. Just watching the sunset. Enjoying a cab from 2005. Excellent year for deep reds in the valley. Daddy got some top-ranked wines that year. He won an award or two, I think…” Her words were only a little slurred. It was early. “Sit, baby. I like your hair. It’s not purple or anything.”
“I know. I’m trying something more conventional.” Her mother’s approval made her want to dye it fluorescent green just for spite. Tayla closed her eyes and forced the contrary urge back. “I like yours. Did Charity add highlights?”
“Just a few.” Bianca patted her dark brown hair. Tayla’s coloring came from her mother. Bianca’s vivid blue eyes were famous. “Our hair is almost the same now.”
“Close.” Tayla glanced at her mother’s glass and the bottle, which was almost empty.
“Where’s Mena?” Bianca craned her neck and almost fell off the bench. “Why isn’t she bringing you a glass? And this bottle is almost gone, but she’ll bring me another.”
“I’m sure she’s on her way.” Because Mena was all knowing and accommodated every whim her mother had, including drinking massive amounts of wine and vodka.
It was hard to fault the woman. It was Mena’s job to work for her mother. If Bianca ordered another bottle of wine, Mena opened a bottle, even if Bianca was roaring drunk.
