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“Yeah, that’s me with my mother and Amalia. That shot was taken on my fifth birthday.”
“Amalia, as in, your housekeeper, Amalia?” Georgina says in surprise. “I didn’t realize you’ve known Amalia your entire life.”
I gaze at the photo in Georgina’s hand. “Amalia was already working for my family when I was born. She only stopped when my father went to prison, when I was thirteen.”
For a split-second, the chaos of that time flickers through my mind. I remember the shock of it all. The early morning raid by the FBI that took my father away from me forever. The shock I felt at being ripped away from Amalia and sent to live with some distant relative I’d never met before, since Mom was already living in a facility by then, thanks to the stress of the custody battle a few years earlier.
“And when did Amalia come back into your life?” Georgina asks, still looking at the photo.
I clear my throat. “About ten years later. The minute I could afford to pay Amalia a salary, she was my first ‘purchase.’ Long before my first sports car. I think I hired Amalia right after I’d turned twenty-four?”
“Aw, that’s so sweet, Reed. That makes my heart go pitter-pat.” She returns the photo to its spot on my desk, her face aglow. “What a lucky little boy you were to have not one, but two, mothers growing up.”
I try to return Georgina’s easy smile, but I can’t. The little boy in that photo wasn’t lucky. Far from it. And he didn’t have two mothers. He barely had one. But only because two halves make a whole. In truth, my mother has never been fully functional. Not like other kids’ mothers. And nothing like the kickass, nurturing mothers I’ve observed as an adult, like Henn’s mother and my sister’s mother-in-law. Hence, the reason my father hired Amalia in the first place: to help my woefully ill-equipped mother with Oliver when he was born. And, as much as I love and appreciate Amalia, and can’t imagine life without her, I can’t honestly say she’s a “whole” mother to me, either, simply because she’s my employee. In reality, I pay her to mother me. I pay her to love me. I’m literally the woman’s job. What would it be like to have a mother like Amalia who’s not on my payroll? I can’t even imagine it.
“You and your mother aren’t close?” Georgina asks tentatively, apparently reacting to something she’s seeing on my face.
Shit. Is this woman a mind reader? “No, we’re close,” I say. It’s a knee-jerk reaction. I don’t talk about my mother. She’s an aspect of my life I don’t share with anyone, other than the staff at her facility. But Georgina’s looking at me like she’s unconvinced. Like she saw something on my face that doesn’t jibe with my words. My cheeks flush. “It’s just that my mother lives on the East Coast, so I don’t get to see her as much as I’d like.”
“Oh,” Georgina says. “That’s too bad.”
“Yeah, I visit her whenever I get to New York on business, though. Which I do about once or twice a month.”
Georgina looks thrilled by that response. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re able to visit your mother so much, Reed. Both for your benefit, and hers. What do you do with your mom when you visit her?”
Fucking hell. Seriously? How did our conversation about my music memorabilia and the Forbes “30 Under 30” list wind up here—with talking about my mother? And, more importantly, how do I steer it back to the stuff I actually want her to write about?
“Um... well. My mother and I do all sorts of things when I visit her. We play Scrabble. We watch Jeopardy and eat chicken pot pies. We do yoga.”
“Yoga? You do yoga with your mom? Oh my gosh, Reed. Swoon.”
I bite my lower lip. She’s swooning over that? I can’t help returning her beaming smile. Actually, she looks so damned cute right now, so over-the-top adorable, I’m momentarily forgetting to be annoyed by this topic. “Yeah. We do yoga. Play ping pong and gin rummy. My mom loves to paint, so she’s always got her latest masterpiece to show me, too. Whatever Mom wants to do, I’m always there for it.”
Georgina puts her hand on her heart and sighs like a Disney princess looking into a wishing well. “That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. I love that you’re so close to your mother. It makes my heart hurt, it’s so sweet.” Georgina flashes me another beaming smile that makes my heart physically palpitate before she says, “My father always told me, ‘If you want to know the measure of a man, look no further than the way he treats his mother.’”
I nod vaguely, not sure how to respond to that. If you ask me, the measure of a man is the empire he’s built from dirt, with nothing but his blood, sweat, and tears. But okay. Tomato. Tomahto.
