Page 9 of Dagger in the Sea

In the fittingroom in the boys’ department, she pulled up the collar on the stiff white Polo dress shirt she’d chosen for me and ran a hand through my new haircut. “Very sharp. So handsome.” Her hands rested on my shoulders, our gazes locked, and that warmth raced through me. We were a perfect pair in style and look; same color and shape eyes, same color hair, too, although mine had gotten darker the past year, and I wasn’t sure I liked it.

Mom’s blonde hair was swept up today and she wore her favorite wrap dress along with perfect makeup and those big, sparkly diamond earrings Grandmother had given her last Christmas. We could be in a magazine spread together, thatTown & Country Magazinethat Grandmother subscribed to and they enjoyed pouring over together.

We got to the cashier, whose face reddened as she announced the total, over one thousand dollars. My mother took out one of her many credit cards from her Louis Vuitton wallet and paid the bill. Two other salesladies folded my new clothes, making neat piles and packing them carefully into great big shopping bags. I took two of the Nordstrom bags and she the other two.

My mom grinned at me. “Let’s go.”

“Let’s go!” I repeated.

“Erin! How are you?”

Mother stopped in her tracks, her face locking into a tight smile. “Paige, hello.”

“You didn’t come to the last Foundation tea and I’ve been meaning to call you to tell you the news.”

“News?”

“Oh yes, there’s this big controversy going on about — Oh.” The lady’s blue eyes blinked and honed right in on me. “And who’s this?”

“This is my godson. Arthur,” my mother replied smoothly.

I froze. My heart thudded dully in my chest. My skin suddenly heated.

Godson.

Godson.

“Such a handsome young man. Hello there, Arthur.”

“Hello,” I mumbled, my mouth suddenly very dry.

I’d never heard her say it before. “Godson.” I stole a glance up at her. Her skin was paler than usual. She listened to Paige’s flow of words about the meeting of the organizers of the Garden Show, the latest hot chef and could my mother introduce her, the fashion show she’d gone to in New York. My mother smiled, but I noticed the fine press of her lips. She wanted to escape and quickly.

“We really have to go, we have dinner reservations,” my mother finally interrupted her friend.

“Of course. Call me, won’t you?”

“Will do.”

“Goodbye, Arthur.”

“Goodbye, ma’am.”

I stumbled to keep up with my mother’s long stride, her quick pace. The big shopping bags I held kept bonking into my legs, slowing me down. “Mom, wait—”

She pivoted on her heels and leaned down into me, her blue eyes flaring. “Don’t call me that. Not here. Not now. Jesus.”

A painful rip tore through my insides. My breath caught in my chest and choked there. The full shopping bags grew as heavy as fifty pound weights strapped to my arms.

She spun once more and kept walking, charging out of the store until we got to the curb. Our driver pulled up within moments. We climbed into the Town Car quickly.

“Take us home, please,” she said.

“Very good.” The driver’s gaze flicked to mine, and I sank deeper in the leather seat and examined the throbbing red marks the shopping bag handles had left behind.

There was no excited chatter, there was no trip to Unabridged Books to explore new books—cooking, art and design for her and science fiction, fantasy, and historical adventure for me—and bring home shopping bags loaded with our treasure. There was only a young woman across the backseat from me with her hands folded rigidly in her lap as she stared out the window for the entire ride. My mom who wasn’t supposed to be my mom. Or something.

Once through the front door of the apartment, she handed off her shopping bags to the housekeeper.

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