I glance at the massive gray stone, built to look like an English manor house. My gaze tugs in the direction of the regal double doors, and at that moment, one of them swings open.
My muscles freeze as I wait for the familiar combed-over black hair, laughing blue eyes, hook nose, thin lips. Renault is the man who raised me, a Frenchman who introduced me to classic rock, bought me my first box of condoms, taught me how to puff on a cigar. He drove me to junior high school dances and showed me how to loop a tie. I feel breathless as I wait to see his face—and then the shadows flicker and instead there is a stern-looking woman with tightly up-swept gray hair and sharp blue eyes. It takes me a long, baffling second to realize it's my mother.
Well of course it is. Dark blue dress—Dior, her favorite—paired with silver heels and diamond-pearl earrings that sparkle in the porch light. But her face looks tired and her posture sucks, like she's forgotten how to play the part of Derinda Carlson, governor's wife.
I get off the bike as smoothly as I can, parking it in the flawlessly manicured lawn, and don't allow myself to look away from her as I step slowly up the porch stairs. I wonder briefly where Renault is, but once I’m close enough to take in the full context of my mother, the only thing I can think is why. I wasn't a model kid, never did great in school, but I don't think I was unusually difficult. For most of my childhood, I did whatever they asked, went wherever they went, usually decked out in a mini tux or a little suit, my hair clean cut, my mouth stretched into a big fake smile.
Even after I dropped out of school and opened my shop, I played the dutiful son, waving at campaign stops. Smiling at every camera. Giving perfect quotes to newspaper reporters.
My mother reaches out to…I don't know what—pat my shoulder or something?—and all I can think is: WHY? I know the answer: I found out about Missy King, the Vegas mistress my father had sold into sex slavery in Mexico, so my father gave the order to sever ties. But how could Mother follow it?
She tries to embrace me but I step aside. There's something on her face, and I think it's contrition but I just can't care.
When I fail to meet her eyes and accept her hug, she drops her arms down by her sides and wears her campaign face—phony, through and through. She smiles a little, tilts her head so those stupid earrings sparkle, and she sweeps her hand back toward the foyer.
“Cross. You're looking well.”
It's so ridiculous, so utterly crazy, I'm not sure what to say. But when has that stopped a Carlson? I nod. “Likewise.”
I walk through the door she holds and the foyer seems smaller than it did a year ago. The chandelier doesn't sparkle, just reflects the glow of gaslight; the floors don't gleam; the imported rugs look faded. As I follow my mother down the hallway, past the parlors and the library, I'm surprised to find it doesn't look like she's redecorated anything. When I lived here—even when I lived in the guest house, before I fled to Lizzy’s mother’s house—my mother changed the décor weekly. A new pillow here, a new rug there. Even when she and Dad were spending most of their time in the city house in Beverly Hills, there was always an event to host or a party to throw. The lack of change now gives me the impression that no one’s been here this last year.
I hear the clearing of a throat, and I notice the stiff set of my mother's shoulders just before she turns to look at me. She regards me like a stranger. “Delphina Fieldman told me your shop is still closed. How are you getting buy?”
I press my lips together. Not straying far from the script, of course. She’s always tried to buy my loyalty. “Fine,” I half-growl.
I rotate my left shoulder, digging my hand more deeply into my coat pocket, and I wonder why they invited me tonight. I assumed it was so Dad could get his ducks in a row. Mom’s involvement…it bothers me. Almost as much as her abandonment.
“I’m fine,” I lie more smoothly. “The shop will reopen soon.”
She smiles, and I can't read anything in it before she turns back toward the hallway, leading us past an alcove filled with bookshelves and leather couches, closer to the formal dining room. “I'm designing a restaurant in La Jolla.”
Just a few years ago, I would have asked questions and had an interest in her answers, but that was before my father kicked me out. Before I found out he let a p**n star—the infamous Priscilla Heat—talk him into selling his former mistress as a sex slave. When my mother chose to tow his line, she lost me.
We near the end of the hall, so I can see the candlelight flickering in the massive, formal dining room, and suddenly I just want to turn and run. Instead my temper flares, and I stop walking.
My mother turns, wide-eyed, and I relish the startled look on her face.
“What's the point of this, Mother? Why invite me into your house? Was it Drake's idea?”
Her brows narrow, and her face bends into a scolding look. “Don’t call your father by his first name. You’re not sixteen, Cross.”
I twist my face into something between a smirk and a scowl, and she folds her arms over her chest. “It was your father's idea. He'd like to make amends. And we want to...explain what happened while you were unconscious.”
“Explain what happened?” I cross my arms—another habit—and I notice my mother's eyes fly to my left hand. I drop both arms to my sides. My face feels hot. “Well I'm here right now. Why don't you tell me—what happened?”
She squares her shoulders, giving me a prissy, defensive kind of look. Then her eyes flicker to my hand again and I grit my teeth. “You better get on with it, or I'm leaving.”
“Your father has spent us dry, Cross. That's why we had you moved from the nicer facility at NVIR.”
I raise my brows. I'm surprised she even knows the name—Napa Valley Involved Rehab. After all, they never visited.
“Let me guess: too many hookers.”
As soon as I say the words, I want to take them back. My mother recoils as if I've slapped her, and I open my mouth to say something to appease her. But I can see in her eyes that she's still denying it. Pretending he's not a philandering dickhead who cheats from coast to coast. And that pisses me off.
“You know he has mistresses. Everybody does. You think because he's the governor that you can't leave him? Damnit, Mom. I don't know what he does to make you drink the Kool-Aid.” I shake my head. “Does he have something on you?” That's how things in this family seem to work.
My mother locks her jaw. She looks furious enough to hit me, and as I stand there with my heart pounding, I almost hope she does.