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“It is just nice to offer something for her unsettled first twenty-four hours here,” I mumble, pretending to check the emails on my cell as my eyes flick up to the hamper. Chocolates, artisan biscuits, olives, pesto, nuts, cheeses, and a whole assortment of other things. I will admit, my mind is still in a jumble from her.
“Can you do a final check and then lock up? She won’t be back until later, but make sure everything is all okay,” I ask him before I shake his hand and strut out of her apartment. A new nervous energy makes my steps quick and my heart thud. Racing to the building office downstairs, I quickly change back into my suit, ready for the corporate workday. I look at myself in the mirror, sharp in my standard uniform of a tailored suit, black shoes, and now slick hair, in complete contrast to my messy, unshaven appearance of yesterday and my casual look of only moments ago. Katie has no idea who I am. Which is great, because I get to see the real her.
She is in total contrast to the usual women I meet who know me as Edward Rothschild, the last billionaire bachelor in Baltimore. They flirt, play seductress, gloss their lips and pout, flutter their lashes, all in the hopes they look appetizing enough for me to choose them. But they don’t. I’ve never been more attracted to a woman than I am now. Pink hair, a small scattering of tattoos, and a body tiny enough for me to grab and throw onto my bed and…
My cell phone shrills in my hand, breaking me from my thoughts. I clear my throat and pause for a moment, not only to get my bearings, because apparently, I have turned into a daydreaming asshole, but also because my mother’s name lights up the screen, reminding me yet again why I can’t meet a nice woman. After what my brothers went through, it will be a cold day in hell before I have a woman in my life for Mom to get near.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, taking a big breath, steeling myself for this conversation.
“Where are you?” she demands. NoHi, sweetheart, how are you? What are you up to today?falls from her lips. Not once has she ever asked how I am. Not in my adult years, anyway. No kind, soft words a mom is meant to use. The soft mannerisms, caring nature. The nurturing side of a female I crave. None of that comes from Diane Rothschild. Ever.
“I am checking on some maintenance at the building in Harborside, about to go into the office,” I tell her, as I’m walking across the lobby to get back in my waiting town car.
“Edward. You are meant to be meeting me for brunch. I am waiting.” I imagine her gritting her teeth behind her public smile as I pace out of the building foyer and to my car. I totally forgot about brunch. Now my anxiety swirls in my stomach.
“Sorry, Mom, I completely forgot,” is all I get out before her wrath takes over.
“Forgot?! How can you forget? That stupid girl you have as an assistant is obviously not doing her job very well. I will wait five more minutes, Edward, and not a minute longer,” she hisses in a whisper before the line goes dead. I wonder for a minute what would happen if I just left her there. But I am not that kind of a person. I am the only son left who speaks with her and the only one who meets her for brunch, and even then, it is only monthly. Having her in my life any more than that would be too much.
I have no idea what made my mother into the horrible, angry woman she is. But she has been this way for years. My father’s death amplified it, but her nastiness has always been there. It wasn’t until us boys were adults ourselves that we really saw what she’s capable of. As the youngest, it is something that took me a lot longer to understand. I focused on school, then went backpacking, so I spent little time around her. It is why I enjoyed my gap year in Asia so much. My mother was horrified I went backpacking instead of getting straight to work in the family business after college, but it was by far the most fun I have ever had.
My brothers took most of the brunt over the years. But I feel it now. The weight of her. The negativity. The lack of love and emotion other than anger and spite. She hates most women who are around us. My three brothers have found their life partners and not one of them spends any time with her. The relationship you think a woman would have with her mother-in-law is not one any of them have with her.
“To the office, sir?” my driver, Tony, asks as I get to the car. I stand on the sidewalk and suck in another deep breath of the clean, crisp air, hearing the water lapping at the boardwalk. There are some beautiful yachts docked today, bobbing up and down calmly. I envision how great it would be to get on one of them and slowly sail around the warm waters of the Caribbean, away from my mother and everyone else.
“The Charleston restaurant, please, Tony.” I get into the back seat, and as he drives, I text Tennyson, canceling our meeting, then speak to my assistant to reshuffle some things.
“Shall I wait, sir?” Tony asks as the car pulls up outside the restaurant, and I step out, buttoning my suit jacket. He rushes out of the car to my door.
“Probably a good idea. We both know how this is going to go,” I murmur to him, slapping him on the arm in thanks as I strut into the fancy restaurant my mother has chosen. As I walk inside, the low hum of conversation hits my ears, soft music from a live piano playing in the corner. I ignore the looks I get, the room full of mostly women, all wearing designer clothes, their hair perfectly coiffed and nails freshly manicured. I see my mother across the room, a few women chatting to her, all of whom look up as I approach.
“Good morning,” I say, my smile as fake as their lips. I lean over to peck my mother on the cheek. A standard public greeting that always has my shoulders up near my ears.
“Edward,so gladyou could make it,” she says with a smile, sitting in her chair like the Queen of England. Only the two of us know how barbed her words are. I smile politely at the nearby women as they take their leave, and I sit opposite my mother, wondering if I should bother ordering.
“Sir?” The waiter offers me a menu and pours a glass of water. My eyes flick to meet Mother’s, her stare drilling into me. We both remain silent until the waiter leaves.
“I don’t like waiting, Edward. What had you so consumed this morning that you forgot about your own mother?”
“Just some maintenance needing oversight at the Harborside building.” I offer her just enough and nothing more.
She scoffs at me like I am utterly ridiculous. As the youngest, I am used to people not taking me seriously. I fly under the radar, for the most part, even though I am a successful businessman in my own right. After my time backpacking, I came home to help my older brother Harrison with his campaign for governor. Once he won, I slotted right into managing the family business real estate portfolio, simply because there was no other box that I fit in. I have spent the last few years focused on that job, and I have provided year on year growth. I am not merely born from money, but I make it. A lot of it.
“Maintenance? Really, Edward? Have you no shame,” she seethes, and I swear I see smoke coming from her ears.
“Shame?” I tilt my head in question, knowing what is about to come. My chest tightens, and I clench my fists under the table.
“It is about time you stopped playing around like Bob the Builder and focused on your future. You don’t think I know about you working on the weekends, fixing things and cleaning up. Seriously, Edward, what in the world would possess you to do that? To look after people like that. It is beneath you. It is not what we do,” she says, taking a sip of her wine, her glass nearly empty. I can tell by the smell of her breath that it isn’t her first one. As suspected, she waves her hand at the nearby waitress, who walks over and tops her up, the bottle now two-thirds empty.
“What future are you talking about?” I ask her once the waitress has gone, and I am relieved that all the tables surrounding us are empty. No one needs to overhear this conversation.
“You need to stop using your free time playing around in this pretend life of being a maintenance man and start spending your weekends finding yourself a respectable wife. You are a goddamn Rothschild. You need to start acting like it. You are nearly thirty; you can’t be single forever. The other three may have totally thrown my feelings in my face with their chosen partners, but you, Edward,youneed to choose wisely.”
I would like to think she is saying this because she cares. That she cares about my heart, my feelings, and what’s best for me. But she doesn’t. No doubt, she has some young socialite in mind for me. Someone whose family is just as wealthy as our own, so her place in society can be further cemented. I can already see the wheels in her head turning at the thought while my jaw hurts from clenching it so hard. This is the last thing that I want. I don’t want a socialite wife, and I don’t want my mom meddling in my affairs. I thought she might have learned from my brothers that it never ends well.
“Mom, I am entirely capable of making my own life decisions.” It’s the same thing I tell her every month. While I don’t elaborate with her, I do want the whole deal. Wife, kids, the large house behind the white picket fence. My older brother Ben has that, and I am very jealous. But I haven’t met anyone in Baltimore who seems genuine and likes me for me and not my money, connections, and name.
“I will give you a month. If you haven’t found anyone by then, I will be finding someone for you. It is not leeway I gave to the other boys, so appreciate the small amount of grace I am giving you,” she tells me, as if what she says is gospel, and I sigh. She is so deluded. The fact that she thinks I would even entertain a woman she suggests is not only amusing, but infuriating.
