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It’s moving and I swallow down my emotion.
I’m definitely not in Kansas anymore.
The colored lights on the fir trees that Jak hung yesterday add to the atmosphere, as do the few children running and laughing in the yard, holding and waving Albanian flags.
People greet me with a handshake or kisses. Many of the men I met on our impromptu stag do address me as “Chelsea” after my football team. It’s a nickname I rather like—but I’m still finding it impossible to keep up with all their names.
A photographer is documenting our day with a Canon EOS. I think she’s one of Alessia’s cousins. But I’m not sure.
I’m a world away from home.
Maryanne and Caroline exit the house to make their way to the venue. They’re both in winter wedding finery. Maryanne’s in a navy trouser suit, and Caro, a navy velvet dress—and I know Joe has tipped them off as to what I’m wearing.
Maryanne hugs me. “Maxie, you look splendid. So does your bride.” She sniffs and walks hastily away before I have a chance to say anything.
Caro still can’t look me in the eye. “You’ve been avoiding me,” she says quietly.
“What did you expect? This isn’t the time, Caro. I’m still so fucking angry with you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not the one you need to apologize to.”
“I needed to tell you something.” And she peers at me, her blue eyes wide and a little teary. “And you’re going to be angry about this too, but I did it for you and her,” she whispers.
“What did you do?”
“I told your mother. She’ll be here shortly.”
“What?” The word is almost inaudible, and I can hardly breathe.
Fuck.
Chapter Seven
“Darling, I’m here already,” a clipped, mid-Atlantic voice drawls over the light breeze toward us. We whirl around as my heart sinks, and my mother is making her way down the drive through the crowd. She’s dressed in a heavy black coat—probably from Chanel’s upcoming collection for next winter—oversized Chanel sunglasses, a faux fur hat, and Louboutin boots.
Accompanying her is a young man about my age, dressed in black Moncler. He has model-good looks, American teeth, and I suspect he’s her latest fuck. Her hand rests in the crook of his arm.
“Mother, what a pleasant surprise,” I say, retreating into the detached persona I reserve exclusively for the woman who birthed me. “You should have told me you were coming.”
“Maxim.” She offers her cheek, and I give her a quick peck, inhaling the expensive scent of Creed, her perfume of choice.
“Joe and Tom, you know. And Judas Iscariot, my sister-in-law.” I take a small amount of pleasure in Caroline’s ashen face as she gives her mother-in-law a quick kiss.
“Thank you for letting me know, Caroline. Short notice, I know. But it looks like we made it here in time. This is my friend, Heath.” Rowena introduces the blond on her arm.
“How do you do?” I respond, plastering a smile on my face.
Before he can reply, she releases him. “Might I have a word, darling?”
“I’m afraid it’s not convenient at this time. I’m about to get married. Please make your way into the venue.” I wave her in the direction of the marquee. “Judas will find a seat for you.”
Caro flushes and stares down at her Manolos.
“I’m not here to prevent your wedding, Maxim. That would be a little vulgar, don’t you think? But we will talk afterwards. And you will explain to me why you are marrying the help and why the fuck you haven’t invited your grieving mother to this… event. Are you ashamed of your bride and her family? Because, frankly, that’s how this looks.”
I can’t see her eyes, but she purses her scarlet lips, and I know that beneath her cool disdain, she’s seething.
Well, that makes two of us.
No, I’m not seething. I’m apoplectic with rage.
But I hide it well. “I didn’t invite you, Rowena dearest”—I lean down and whisper in her ear—“because you’re doing exactly what I thought you’d do. Projecting your pretentious privileged shit onto my situation. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to marry the woman I love.”
She stiffens. “I know that marrying this girl is a way to get back at me, but let me warn you—”
“It’s not about you, for fuck’s sake,” I hiss. “Not everything is about you, Rowena. I fell in love. Deal with it.”
Tom clears his throat, a flush at his neck—did he hear us? Behind him, Jak and Shpresa have appeared at the front door. I turn to greet them. Shpresa is almost unrecognizable. She’s wearing a pale pink shift dress and a matching chiffon wrap. Her hair is coiffed and sleek and dark, like Alessia’s. And she’s wearing a little makeup.
She looks stunning.
“Mama Demachi, you look lovely,” I murmur, and she smiles, showing us where Alessia gets her looks.
Chin up, dude. Here goes.
I turn and make the introductions. “Jak, Shpresa, my mother has decided to grace us with her presence. May I present Rowena, Dowager Countess of Trevethick.” I stress the word dowager, and Rowena’s lips tighten—because it’s rude and also incorrect—but she doesn’t miss a beat, and graciously, she holds out her hand.
