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“Yeah, I just don’t know what you mean,” I say.
“It means Laryce just called and told me that David Lister sold his bookstore to a woman who ruined more marriages in this community than I can count.” She nods her head in the direction of the Lister Estate next door. I shake my head. Laryce Quincy is the biggest gossip on this side of the Rio Gra
nde. She and my mother are thick as thieves.
“She’s living with Lister?” Tyson asks in surprise. His wife and son died in a car accident last year and he’s become something of a recluse.
“God forbid, no. She’s in the little apartment above the bookstore, but they are living in our community.” She says it like it’s a crime.
“Rivers Wilde is everyone’s community,” Regan recites our pitch line sarcastically.
My mother glares at her. “That’s right, Ms. Regan. And I’d like to keep it that way. We’ve taken painstaking care in making sure that the people who live here are going to be upstanding members of our community.” She shakes her head in disgust. “She was in that foster home because her mother went to jail for identity theft and credit card fraud. Now, they’re here to sully our pristine community with the scandal she’s sure to bring along with her. According to Laryce, she’s trying to make a fresh start.” She puts the last two words in air quotes and makes it sound like that’s a crime, too.
“What’s wrong with that?” Regan asks.
My mother slams her hand down so hard that the coffee in her mug splashes onto the table. She leans forward and glares at Regan. “What’s wrong with it is that this is supposed to a safe, family-friendly community. Not a place for criminals on the run to come. I don’t know what is wrong with Lister, selling to a Greer of all people.”
“I wonder why he sold it. It’s been vacant since Jill died.” I’m thinking aloud, but my mother is ready with an answer.
“Because she used to be the most notorious gold digger in Houston. She probably slept with him even though he’s old enough to be her grandfather. Doesn’t matter. Now they’re both here. We all know the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. So, there goes the neighborhood.”
I exchange a glance with Regan. We’ve both already decided that these apples have fallen very, very far from the trees we sprung from.
“How old is she?” Regan asks.
“Your age, so, eighteen or so…” My mother waves a dismissive hand in the air.
“Is she gonna go to Lamar?” Tyson sounds excited.
My mother fixes me with one of her eagle-eyed stares. “You’re in charge of delivering catering orders from Eat!, right? What’s on your roster for tomorrow?”
“I won’t know until I go in this afternoon,” I tell her.
“Laryce told me she placed a huge order for morning delivery from our bakery yesterday. Obviously, we can’t refuse their business. That would be too public of a snub. I don’t want people to think I’m unkind.”
“Yes, it’s much more your style to talk about them in back rooms than to be upfront about how you feel,” Regan mutters and then grins at me. I don’t grin back. I don’t think it’s funny. Because it’s true. My mother is the queen of the whisper campaign and honestly, on the list of things that bothers me about her, it’s very close to the top.
My mother glares at her until Regan’s eyes drop to her coffee and her grin disappears. Then she turns to face me.
“Remington, when you make your delivery, you are not to linger. And you are in charge of making sure your brother doesn’t end up over there, too.”
“Why would I end up there?” Ty whines.
“Because, you’re girl crazy, and everyone knows it,” my mother retorts.
“True facts,” Regan chimes in. Tyson throws his toast at her.
“Please don’t behave like you were raised in a barn,” my mother snaps. “I have to get to the office. I want you both to please heed my warning.” She stands up and takes her mug over to the sink.
“You didn’t give me one,” Regan says dryly.
“You’re not good at making friends. You’ll be fine,” my mother says without even looking up from where she’s washing her hands.
Tyson sticks his tongue out and Regan gives him the middle finger.
“Please be productive today.” My mother dries her hands and leans back against the counter to survey us. She’s in one of what she calls her “nutcracker” pantsuits that she has a seemingly infinite supply of in her closet. Her hair is pulled back into a chignon, that streak of gray she refuses to color to match the raven-black curls she tames with her blow dryer and half a bottle of pomade every day. She looks like an army general and she runs this house like one.
“I know summer is just beginning and that you’ll all be tempted to come home and do nothing after you get off work, but I expect that list I gave you to be complete when I get back. And, Remi, no basketball until you’re done.”
