Page 3 of Sweet Chaos
“You dress like a hobo and you’re working at a surf shop. For anex-con. With all the opportunities you’ve been given in your life, is that all you aspire to?”
First of all, I loved my job as a surfboard artist. Second of all, it was unfair to reduce Shane Wilder to the label of ex-con. He was a good guy. A loving husband. A soon-to-be-father. A cool boss. An ex-pro surfer. A million wonderful things. And the most wonderful of all was the way he and Remy loved each other. Couple goals right there. Nothing like this sham of a marriage my parents had. Furthermore, Tristan Hart’s death had not been Shane’s fault. Tristan had deserved to be punched for what he did to Remy. It was horrible luck and, yeah okay, tragic that Tristan had fallen and hit his head on the rock fountain by the Harts’ swimming pool. But still, it was an accident.
And as for dressing like a hobo, well, you can’t please everyone. I’d given up trying years ago.
“I love my job and I’m happy.” I ripped off one of the silk tassels from the red velvet chair I was sitting on. Oops. I hid the evidence under my seat cushion. “Shouldn’t that count for something?”
My mother sniffed. I wanted her to be happy too. But to do that, she would have to leave my father and she wouldn’t. She was scared of being alone, of having to start over. She stayed for the money. She stayed because, for reasons I couldn’t fathom, she still loved him.
At fifty-four, my mother was still beautiful. Thanks to her plastic surgeon and Botox, she didn’t look a day over forty. Except for her hands. Hands don’t lie.
The diamond on her finger sparkled in the pool of light from the hideous dragon lamp as she took a sip of her chardonnay. Her nude nails matched the Louboutins on her feet and she wore winter white, not a strand of blonde hair out of place.
“I don’t understand why you have to take everything to the extreme.”
I really wish she’d find a new topic to discuss. My mother’s world had shrunk to the size of these four walls. She needed a job or a hobby, something to occupy her time other than obsessing over her looks, her wardrobe, and my father.
“Guess that’s how I roll.”
She sighed and checked her phone for about the hundredth time since I’d arrived bearing gifts, a silk scarf she’d never wear and a bouquet of flowers that didn’t match her new decor. My father had promised to take her for a birthday dinner tonight. The reservation was for seven. The clock on the mantel, guarded by two foo dogs, told me it was now seven-thirty. He was late, and I suspected he wouldn’t show up at all.
“Let’s order in,” I said, clapping my hands together. “Just the two of us. We can watch a movie.”
“He’ll be here. He probably got caught in traffic.” Always making excuses, not willing to acknowledge the real reason he wasn’t here. After twenty-eight years of marriage, she still had to put up with his bullshit. It killed me that she cared so much when he cared so little. I wanted to spend time with my mom. I wanted to give her some of my strength to stand up to him. But she was unwilling or unable to change her situation and it made me angry and sad.
“Why do you stay? He treats you like crap.”
She pursed her lips. “You know nothing about marriage or my relationship with your father. Marriage is about compromise.”
Compromise, my ass. More like roll over and die. “I know it’s killing you. I know that neither one of you is happy.”I know he’s cheating on you.Kick his ass to the curb. “What I don’t understand is why you stay together.”
No sooner were the words out of my mouth when I heard the door from the garage open and the sound of his footsteps crossing the kitchen tiles. My cue to leave.
“I need to go.” I jumped up from my seat and grabbed my bag, slinging it over my shoulder. There was nowhere I needed to be tonight, but I wanted to get out of here before I ran into my father. We were like oil and water and it never ended well.
“Happy Birthday, Mom. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Her words were punctuated with a long-suffering sigh.
I kissed the cheek she proffered and hightailed it out of the living room, catching my reflection in a gilt-framed mirror as I scurried away like a fugitive. If I didn’t cause drama, my father barely acknowledged my existence. Better to be the invisible daughter than draw attention to myself.
As I crossed the Italian marble floor of the cavernous foyer, I heard him making a bullshit excuse for his tardiness.
My hand reached for the brass knob of the heavy oak door when his voice halted me in my tracks.
“Scarlett,” he boomed without raising his voice. Quite a talent.
Without turning to look at him, I waved over my shoulder. “Hey Dad. Great seeing you. Gotta dash.”
Freedom beckoned. I slipped out the door and followed the circular drive to my silver Audi, when he called my name again. Resigned to my fate, I turned to face the man himself. He wore a charcoal gray Brioni suit and the scent of another woman’s perfume. It was so pungent I nearly choked on the betrayal. The bastard.
“I hope you haven’t been upsetting your mother. You know how delicate her health is.”
He was the reason she popped Xanax like it was candy and drank chardonnay to drown her sorrows. “I just stopped by to keep her company on her birthday.” I didn’t mention that I found her in the midst of a panic attack, on the floor of her walk-in closet, unable to function. “It’s nice of you to show up. Was your mistress upset you deserted her for your wife?”
I just couldn’t help myself, could I?
His eyes narrowed to slits. “Watch what you say in my house, young lady.”
