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“Does Spencer know his mother is here?” I questioned, knowing he’d hung up on her the night before.
“Nat?” I heard Bree say in confusion. “Is everything okay?”
“Um, I’m going to have to call you back,” I said flatly. “Spencer’s mother has made a rather surprising appearance at the beach house, and since he hung up on her last night, I’m more than a little surprised she’s here now because she didn’t take the hint. Or maybe I’m completely in the dark here.”
“Spencer is not expecting me,” Heidi said coldly.
“So, he doesn’t know you’re here?” I couldn’t imagine how angry I’d be if someone let themselves into my house without asking my permission, so I could only guess how furious Spencer would be, especially when that someone was your evil mother.
“Bree, I’m sorry, but I need to call you back,” I said before ending the call.
I didn’t hesitate to call Spencer while standing off with this bitch.
“Lovely. Straight to fucking voicemail,” I said.
Heidi smiled. “Well, I didn’t expect the honeymoon phase to last long for you two, and I was right. Perhaps you can call one of those brokers you just spoke of—”
“Listen to me,” I said lethally, taking control of this chaotic situation. “I’m not here for you to toy with, lady. I could easily see from the moment I met you that you find no worth in your children or anyone else. Well, I will not have that shit in my home,” I said, falling into my fake wife mode. I truly hated that we started this relationship with a lie for this vile woman. Either way, she was in my country now, and my city, and in my fake fucking married home. “And since you have zero respect for your children and see no value in them or their time, you wouldn’t understand why your son’s phone went straight to voicemail.”
“And you would?” She arched her eyebrow at me with her slippery, red-lipped smirk. “Do tell me, how exactly do you know about my son’s worth?”
“I’m his goddamn wife, for starters,” I said.
“Ah, and in this little open marriage of yours, do you have sexual relations with all of these other men for services you need to be rendered, or is it confined only to—”
“I’m not listening to this shit,” I interrupted her. “You will leave my home right the fuck now if you continue insulting my husband or me. But if you can manage to mind your manners, you can sit your insane ass on my sofa and wait for my husband to get home.” Her beady little dead eyes were chilling, but not as much as her expression. She looked at me like she was imagining eating my liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti. That probably would’ve bothered me the last time I saw her, but this time, I wanted to slap the taste out of her mouth. I chose diplomacy instead. For now. “I swear to Christ, if another negative, shitty, passive-aggressive, snide, nasty, spiteful, or malicious remark comes out of your mouth, you will be walking to the next fucking hotel.”
“Don’t you think we should let Spencer decide if his severely jetlagged mother gets thrown out of his home after her long flight from Milan?”
“I don’t give a fuck how jet lagged you are, Heidi,” I said, surprised that was her only response. “It makes no difference to me if you wait on the fucking front porch for Spencer to get home. The point I’m making is that I didn’t dare to insult you in your home, so I expect you to dig up some of your proper English manners, and if you can behave like a human being, you may sit on that sofa and wait for Spencer.”
“My son would not approve of this hospitality,” she said, walking toward the sofa.
“Oh,” I said, walking over to the liquor buffet in the living room, pulling out the scotch without a single fuck to give, “I’m sure Spencer and I share the same opinions of rude behavior in our home.”
“Scotch?” she said with an arch of her eyebrow. “A pretty strong liquor for a woman who demands she is treated like a lady.”
I arched my eyebrow at her, wondering if she even knew when she was being passive-aggressive after so many years of spewing bile. But then, I decided to let her remark slide because I wanted to get to the bottom of why she was here, and I would.
“It’s a shame you don’t have what it takes to appreciate whiskey,” I said, sipping my eighteen-year-old Macallan. “Can I offer you something to drink after your long flight? Perhaps a glass of wine?”
“Oh, thank you, dear,” she answered, looking almost pleased suddenly. “I adore a good Spanish red.”
I turned around and opened a bottle of Rioja, wondering if this woman legitimately had multiple personalities, changing them situationally with whatever point she was trying to make.
I handed her the glass and took a seat from across her, along with another much-needed pull of dark liquor.
“You know,” she started, looking through the floor-to-ceiling windows toward the gorgeous ocean view, “so many people prefer hard liquor due to guilt.” Then, she looked back at me, where I stared at her deadpan, “It seems that might be an affliction for you as well.”
Her tone made me wonder if she’d uncovered the lie about Spencer and me. Personally, I would give the secret up without shame, but this was his story, and he’d be the one who dictated how it went. I didn’t care either way.
“Your silence tells me I’m correct in that assumption,” she said.
“What assumption?”
“That you’re nervous in my presence. You know, guilty.” She nodded toward my glass, “That’s why you’re drinking the liquid courage.”
I took another sip boldly and without diverting my eyes from her. “Well, no,” I said, swallowing the warmth of the soothing liquid, “I’ve had a bit of a long day, and I certainly didn’t expect you to be here when I walked into the doors.”
