Page 37 of Tate
Aka, the daughter who should have lived.
Yes, Joy would have been the perfect fit for their mother’s world. Even with her physical limitations, she was the life of the party, her love of life drawing people to herself.
Glo, more than often at these events, stood in the quiet shadows, plotting her escape.
But she was the only one left, so apparently, Reba was throwing all she had at her remaining daughter. Including a velvet jewelry box that held diamond earrings and a matching diamond choker.
Sort of like a dog collar.
Glo put it on and gave herself a final look. The broad dressing room mirror reflected the elegance of the guest bedroom—the tray ceiling, the dripping gold chandelier, the king-sized bed with a brocade white cover, the antique side tables. And outside, the stretch of lawn that bordered the pool area, all the way to the horse barn.
And if she forgot she was back on the Jackson family estate, her grandparents’ portrait hung over the bed—Bishop and Alma watching over her as she slept. If that didn’t give someone the urge to run…
Oh, she shouldn’t be so cynical. Even if they possessed the warmth of an Eminem rap song, it didn’t mean they hadn’t made a positive impact on the world. They had founded the Jackson Family Foundation, had supplied antimalarial drugs to Africa, and funded hundreds of scholarships for low-income students in Tennessee. The foundation had started a twenty-million-dollar clean-water project that provided hundreds of wells all over Africa and the Middle East and subsidized schools and orphanages in war-torn Sudan, Uganda, and even Croatia and Slovenia.
They even had a disaster relief fund that distributed help all over the world.
So yeah, Grandfather Bishop hadn’t been exactly cold. He’d just been driven.
Apparently, like father, like daughter.
Glo cast a look at her cowboy boots, then slid into the black heels, pulling on the back straps as she leaned on the doorframe. Grabbing her clutch, she headed toward the hallway. It curved around the two-story entry on one side, the massive family room on the other. Below, she spotted Cher talking with—Dad?
He must have heard her steps on the wood floor because he looked up and smiled at her. “Hey Glo-light. How you doing?”
She wanted to run down the stairs like a ten-year-old. Instead, she navigated it in her five-inch heels and glided over to him.
He wore a tuxedo, his hair graying at the edges. Shorter-than-average, but well-built and fit, Michael Beckett, her father, was an odd mix between history teacher and poet, preferring to keep his hair long, caught in a man bun, donning gold-tinted sunglasses, and wearing jeans, T-shirts, and Converse tennis shoes.
Glo wasn’t sure how her mother fell for him, or why she didn’t take his last name—inserting it into her own in the middle. Or why she’d insisted on Glo being a Jackson. Still, her mother changed around her father. Turned into a gentler version of herself.
And, Michael Beckett could clean up when he wanted to.
“You got a haircut,” she said as she hugged him.
“Spiffing up for your mother’s big day.” He held her at arm’s length. She’d covered her healing gunshot wound with the strap of her dress, and the bruising had dissolved.
“You flew in just for this event?”
“Got here a couple hours ago. Nearly got stopped at the gate by the new security crew—your mother’s surely amped up the detail.”
“She’s freaking out about this Bryant League stuff.”
“She briefed me. Said you were attacked?” Concern filled his gray-green eyes. “Maybe I should stick around and keep an eye on my girl.”
Dad. Warmth flooded through her, and she caught his hand. “Maybe I should go home with you, back to Winona.”
“I’d love that. But I think you have other things to do…like attend the CMGs? Maybe win an award? I’m so proud of you.”
Sometimes her dad could make her feel like the only one, and her eyes heated. She blinked back moisture before she destroyed her makeup.
Cher, of course, looked like she might be a runway model in a pair of silk shorts and a glittery silver top, a pair of five-inch heels that made her legs appear a mile long. She wore her red hair down and curly.
“IRL works for you,” Glo said, giving her an air-kiss.
“Are we ready?” Senator Jackson’s voice echoed down from the hallway above and Glo turned, spotted her mother descending the stairs.
The senator wore a simple body-hugging dress that accentuated her height as well as her trim shape. A high collar and no thigh slit for her, but diamonds at her ears and a thick diamond bracelet on her wrist.
