Page 122 of Own the Eights Maybe Baby
Decked in head to toe Gucci or a retreat-issue tunic, this Denver socialite was back, and she wasn’t messing around. And she was hurting. Georgie had seen the flash of wounded vulnerability in her eyes. A look her mother had never given her. Even after all the pageant fights and the back-and-forth over her choice to own a bookstore and make her way on her own, her mother had never looked so brokenhearted.
Howard raised his hands as if he were readying himself to broadcast a message from the great beyond. “My cowboy friends, the road is long, but the journey is short. Meditate on that and skip the meatballs. Namaste,” he said, then turned to follow her mother.
Georgie clutched their fake baby as she and Jordan weaved their way through the packed ballroom, now buzzing with whispers and hushed conversations. But she didn’t give a damn about what any of these people thought.
“I need to get to my mom before she leaves. I need to talk to her without every jet setter in Denver watching,” she said, emotion welling in her chest.
Jordan threw open the ballroom doors, and she ran into the hotel’s main vestibule. Her mother stood, dabbing at her cheeks with a handkerchief, but returned the item to her pocket when they spied each other from across the cavernous space.
“I was going to tell you, Mom. I was,” she pleaded.
“Georgiana, you could never understand,” her mother answered.
“Lorraine?” came a man’s voice in a thick French accent.
Everyone turned toward a spindly gentleman dressed to the nines, wearing a Ritz-Carlton name tag with Jean-Philippe written in gold lettering.
As if a switch flipped, the thread of vulnerability she’d seen in her mother disappeared.
“Dear, dear, Jean-Philippe! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!” she purred as the two exchanged air kisses as if nothing life-shattering had occurred.
The man frowned with concern etched on his expression. “It has been several months. The staff and I have missed your visits.”
Her mother smoothed her tunic. “As you can see, I’m in bad shape, JP. You’re the best concierge in Denver. I’ll need the full spa package, and I need it now. Can you make it happen?”
“Mom, can’t we talk?” Georgie sputtered as Jean-Philippe clapped his hands, and a woman, materializing from nowhere, sailed over and handed her mother a glass of champagne.
“Mr. and Mrs. Vanderdinkle are checking in. Ready the spa. Call her stylist. Let Chanel know we have a wardrobe emergency.”
“Thank you, darling,” her mother said, squeezing the concierge’s hand.
“And I promise you full discretion. We will never talk of this dark, dark day,” JP added, touching the fabric of her mother’s tunic, then cringing.
Georgie’s mouth hung open in astonishment. Was that it? Was everything okay?
“And your daughter? Will she be joining you at the spa?” Jean-Philippe asked.
Lorraine Vanderdinkle met her gaze, and Georgie felt an icy chill trickle down her spine. That uncharacteristic flash of vulnerability she’d seen in her mother’s eyes was gone, and flippant indifference had taken its place.
“No, JP, she won’t be joining me. I’m far too much to handle and such a burden,” her mother said in a teasing tone, but she wasn’t joking. The hard glint in her mother’s gaze conveyed that much.
“Mom—” Georgie tried, but her mother waved her off.
“No, no, no!” the woman said, then flashed a plastic smile. “There you go, pumpkin. You don’t want me involved—so I’m not! It’s done. I’ll be no more trouble for you.”
Georgie ran her hands down her face. “I don’t want it to be like this,” she said, barely able to get the words out.
Lorraine Vanderdinkle’s socialite smile wavered a fraction, but the woman was able to get her emotions in check.
“But you do, Georgiana, you do. Your actions or, more like your inaction, proved it,” she finished.
“This way, Mr. and Mrs. Vanderdinkle, your suite is ready,” the concierge said and gestured toward a bank of elevators.
“That’s it?” Georgie asked, her voice cracking as her mother and Howard started for the elevator.
Her mother stopped, then turned to face her. Georgie rested her hands on her belly, and her mother’s gaze landed there as well. For a split-second, she’d thought all had been forgiven until her mother’s expression hardened. A plastic smile stretched across the woman’s lips as she donned her socialite armor.
“Yes, pumpkin. That’s it.”
