“Jesus, Char.” The words croak out of me.
She squeezes my hand. “It’s very easy to fool men into thinking women are simple creatures. Like I said, he’ll be happy to leave you alone if you just follow the rules.”
“I get it,” I say, tracing the pattern of the lace on my skirt. The panic is gone. Now I’m just depressed. “You’re telling me to play dumb and be compliant so I can live a relatively peaceful life. A life where Imightbe able to do the things I want, as long as I give my husband lots of sex, keep my mouth shut, and look pretty. I amso excitedto say I do right now.”
Charlie sighs. “Hey. You’re saving Livvie. You know that, right?” She leans over and presses her forehead to mine. “You’re not committing yourself to the Bellantis, you’re committing yourself to saving this family. To keeping it safe. We’re the last of the Abbotts. We gotta stick together.”
The change of tactics hits me in the gut, and I can’t sit still any longer. Standing, I smooth my skirt and return to the mirror. The image in the glass is a lie: I look calm, poised, flawless. I never considered myself much of an actress, but maybe I can pull this off after all.
A knock on the door makes my heart leap into my throat. Oh God, it can’t possibly be time yet, can it? I’m not ready!
“Just a minute!” I call out.
The door opens. My eyes track the movement as if I’m watching a movie in slow motion. Not ready, not ready, not—
“Francesca, oh, how lovely.”
A middle-aged woman in a stylish navy dress strides in. She’s wearing an outrageous hat with tulle and pheasant feathers spraying from the top and a brim wide enough to cover her face. She quietly closes the door and lifts her head, deep magenta lipstick making her smile glow.
Charlie and I glance at each other before looking back at her, our voices equal in timing and exasperation.
“Hello, Mom.”
7
Frankie
Honestly,I’d forgotten all about my mother—because I figured she’d never show. Yet here she is, dressed like she’s headed to the Kentucky Derby instead of her daughter’s wedding.
She gives Charlie a sweet look which we both know is laced with poison.
“I’d like to speak with my daughter on her wedding day, if you don’t mind. Alone?”
Charlie doesn’t budge and for a split second, I’m glad. Knowing our mother, she won’t back down until she gets her way, and I don’t need a scene before my nuptials. Still, I give my sister a nod of reassurance, and after a long look at our mom, she leaves.
Mom sighs happily and takes a seat in a plush chair next to the mirror, angled just enough that she can catch her reflection. She holds her hands out to me, her gaze so intense that I nearly squirm. But then I remember who she really is and the discomfort is replaced by stubborn indifference.
“Come, now.” She motions with her fingers that I step forward and take her hands. Reluctantly, I do. The feel of her hands squeezing mine fills me with distaste. “You look very beautiful today, Francesca.”
Besides strangers or new acquaintances, only my mother calls me that to my face. Using my full name when she knows I prefer Frankie is just one more way for her to willfully misunderstand me. To make a point out of having things doneherway—as always.
“I remember being where you are,” she croons. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
I pull free of her grip, Livvie’s face flashing in my mind. “Yes, I do.”
“Francesca—”
No, she’s not going to do this to me. Not today and not anytime soon. It took me a long time and a lot of energy to work through the wounds she caused. The last thing I need before I walk down the aisle is the pain of them all over again, fresh and smarting.
“You don’t know me, Mom,” I tell her. “You have no idea what’s going on or what my life is like, because you decided not to be a part of it when you left. So why don’t you go sit down and enjoy the free wine?”
Hurt flickers across her face. I don’t believe it, but it’s there. She whisks it away with another smile but not fast enough. Why does it make me satisfied that I hurt her for once? Jesus, I don’t need this right now.
She stands with a small sniffle—to make me feel guilty, probably.
“You really do look beautiful, darling.”
She pauses for my response but I don’t give her one, and she leaves. The door clicks shut, closing the rest of the world out so I can sink onto the settee in front of the mirror and gather myself. Who cares what I look like? What good is it to be beautiful when you’re being forced to marry a criminal, a controlling asshole who’s screwing his assistant.
