Page 81 of Making It Burn
I handed her the envelope.
“Carla, give me a moment.”Mom waved the manicurist away, then she opened the envelope, her lips pursing as she flipped through the options.“These are all terrible.Why is your father smiling like that?He looks deranged.”
“He’s smiling because it’s a Christmas card.”
“It’s forced.Unnatural.”She set the proofs aside with a dismissive flick.“We’ll have to reshoot.Gracie, make a note.Call the photographer.”Mom stuck her hand out for the manicurist.
Gracie, standing silently by the door, gave the smallest nod.Her face remained perfectly neutral, but I caught the microscopic eye roll that saidThis is the third reshoot.
“Marcus, no—” My mother’s attention snapped to the tree workers.“The tree goes by the window, not in front of it.And for God’s sake, make sure it’s straight this time.Use the level I provided.”
“Yes, Mrs.Thatcher.”
I stood there awkwardly, wondering if I’d been dismissed or if there was more suffering to endure, when my mother’s gaze landed on me.Really looked at me for the first time since I’d arrived.
“You look different,” she said.
“Different how?”
“I don’t know.Less...”She waved at me vaguely, careful not to disturb the drying polish.“Sulky.Today you almost look like a functional human being.”
Behind her, Gracie’s eyebrows shot up fractionally.
“Thanks, I think?”
“Don’t fish for compliments, Beau.It’s unbecoming.”She turned her attention back to her nails.“How is the apartment?”
“It’s good.Still unpacking.”
“I’m sure it’s very bohemian.Your father nearly had a stroke when you told him the neighborhood.”
“It’s close to the office.”
“Yes, well, convenience and property value are not the same thing.”She paused, tilting her head like an elegant bird examining something curious.“Are you eating properly?You look healthier.Less wan.”
“I eat fine, Mom.”
“Hmm.”She studied me with the intensity usually reserved for inspecting produce.“Something’s different.Your father won’t notice—he barely notices when I change my hair—but I can tell.You’re...”She searched for the word.“Lighter somehow.”
Gracie made a sound that could have been a cough or could have been the verbal equivalent ofOh, here we go.Her face remained perfectly neutral, but her eyes said she knew exactly what was different.
“I’m just...settling into work.The new cases are going well.”
“Ah yes, New Orleans.Your father mentioned something about that.”My mother examined her left hand, flexing her fingers.“You’re working with someone, aren’t you?A partner on the cases?”
“A colleague, yeah.Mason Price.”
“Price.”She rolled the name around like she was tasting wine.“Do we know any Prices?”
“You met Mason when he helped me move.”
“Well, working well with others is important.Partnership track and all that.”She waved her unpolished hand.“Though I hope you’re not depending on anyone else for your success.Relying on other people is how careers stall.”
“We’re a team.That’s how law firms work.”
“Mm.If you say so.”She finally looked directly at me, and for just a second, something almost warm flickered in her expression.“You seem happier, Beau.I’m not sure what’s changed, but whatever it is, it suits you.”
It was probably the closest thing to maternal affection I’d get from Catherine Thatcher, and honestly, it was more than I’d expected.
