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“So find a different lifestyle,” I snapped as thoughts of walking through seedy neighborhoods to get to school and having no lights from time to time—sometimes no water—came rushing back to me. All the while, my mother had enjoyed her posh existence because of my father’s money.
“Do not be disrespectable, Aria Lynne.”
“Okay, so find a new husband. One who can afford you.”
She crossed her arms over her surgically enhanced chest, as she was prone to do when she wanted to tell me to watch my mouth. Maybe it was because I was older and disassociated from her that she didn’t press this time.
“Men don’t want women in their forties,” she informed me. “They want girls your age. A little tidbit you should tuck away.”
“Then I don’t know what to tell you.”
She gave me a contemplative look, studying me closely, which set me on edge. Finally, she said, “I just need a little supplement, Aria Lynne. Considering that wedding you recently pulled off, I wouldn’t think it’d be asking too much to help out your own mother. The woman who gave birth to you. If you understood the expense of Botox, chemical peels, eye lifts…” Her sudden disgruntlement actually brought out a few creases. I’d never seen her go that far.
A part of me wanted to assure her she had nothing to worry about—my mother was a very beautiful woman. But I’d witnessed this ploy before. It started out all woe is me and morphed into Bitchville in the blink of an eye.
I knew to tread lightly. “I really can’t help you, Mother. Money’s been tight for me as well.”
She had the audacity to scoff. “Please, you don’t attract the sort of media attention you’ve been receiving without the money to back it up.”
I didn’t feed into her theory. That didn’t stop her from expounding on it.
Dropping her arms, she gave me the real-deal Kathryn DeMille. “Do you know that I never once mentioned the names of the men I had affairs with while your father was on his tours?”
Unease flitted through me. “Meaning what, exactly?”
“Of course, I didn’t want to implicate anyone. They’d all been contenders in their time. Some more successful than others…” She slowly circled my living room, taking in the minuscule space as though to silently point out what a disappointment my townhome was—thereby emphasizing the opinion that I wasn’t on par with the men she’d slept with or the women she associated with. Like I fell short in her eyes the way my dad did.
My blood boiled. I didn’t mind that she judged me. But to be cruel toward my father when he’d been so in love with her, so supportive. And so devastated when he’d learned the truth about her … That irked the hell out of me.
“What does your past have to do with your present?” I asked, not sure I wanted to hear what she had to say.
“Simply that I never took the opportunity to share with the world some very burning questions about breakups in the pro golf community right around the time—”
“Oh, you have got to be kidding.” I glared at her, incredulous. “You feel it’s some sort of civic duty to set the tawdry record straight twenty-one or -two years after the fact?” The cheating had started before I was in kindergarten.
Not the least bit contrite, she said, “You don’t seem to understand the value of mainstream media, Aria Lynne. It’s all the rage to divulge secrets after the fact, as you put it. Look at Bobbi Brown’s book on all the rock stars and A-list actors she had sex with—I’m sure she made a lot of money with her tell-all.”
My stomach roiled. “Are you saying … You’d go public for cash? Knowing you’d crush Dad all over again?”
How on earth was I even related to this woman?
“I have a synopsis written. And I’ve already picked several agents to send the proposal to.” She gave me a reflective look I knew was feigned. “I just need a working title.”
“Oh, my God.” I felt sick. “You can’t do that to Dad. To me. Moth—”
“I just need a little money, darling,” she said. “It’ll be nothing to you, with all your grand success of late.”
I hated every word she said. Hated that I asked, “How much?” My insides twisted in knots, but all I wanted was to get rid of her. If only I could afford it.
Her expression turning shrewd, she said, “Five thousand isn’t too much for your own mother.”
I pulled in a deep breath. Shit. Five grand would drain half of my savings account. I had rent and a car payment. But I quickly deduced that I’d get my first paycheck from 10,000 Lux before they were due.
So I stalked into my pseudo-office and opened the drawer of my desk. I collected my checkbook, scribbled out the amount she wanted. Tore the paper loose. Then I marched into the living room and handed it over.
“Don’t come back,” I said, my heart breaking yet again. Because for just the briefest of moments, when she’d first arrived, I’d held the tiniest bit of hope that she’d been here to celebrate my business ventures. To say she was proud to see me in magazines and newspapers. And to actually be a mom.
I should have known better the second I’d seen her perfectly made-up face.
