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The sharp enunciationof my name in my mother's cold voice sucks the air out of my lungs like a quickly deflating balloon. Every last ounce of amusement sinks to the ground beneath my feet, shriveling into itself until nothing remains. I turn toward my left and subconsciously smooth my hand down the silky fabric of my skirt. The need to be presentable drilled into me for so long that it's become almost a reflex when I see her.
“Auntie Ginny,” Cora replies.
I rush out my own greeting, talking over Cora. “Hello, Mother.”
My shoulders hitch toward my ear. My motherhatesto be called by her adolescent nickname. It's probably why Aunt Hazel, Cora’s mom, still uses it.
And Cora, apparently. Though I think she did it to get under my mom's skin more than any sort of childhood fondness like Aunt Hazel.
Virginia Carter is a commanding presence regardless of her stage. A boardroom, a black-tie party, a fundraising gala.
The cracked sidewalk of her hometown.
Semi-sheer white blouse with bishop sleeves, gathered on her right shoulder and draped across the front. A dark gray belt through the loops on her cream-colored pleated slacks.
And of course, her signature four-inch heels. Soft white with red soles.
With her hair smoothed back into a tight chignon, she looks like she's heading into stakeholders' meetings in a big city and not the only lawyer's office in town.
“Well?” She barks the word out quickly, tilting her head toward us. “Please, enlighten me on what could possibly bring such joy to you both on such a dreadful day. And for goodness' sake, stop fidgeting like a child.” She cuts me a sharp look, somehow packing in enough derision to send me right back to those days of childhood.
I slide my hand into my pocket to resist the urge to do something really childish like flip her off. “Just reminiscing with Cora.” I don't bother replying to her childish comment. Maybe it's just her nerves getting the best of her. I can't imagine it's been easy for her since we lost Nana Jo.
I force a smile to my face, but it feels all wrong and stiff. My mother stares at me for a long moment. And I swear I can feel the way her eyes scan me from head to toe behind her big black-framed sunglasses.
She exhales an impatient sigh. “Well, reminisce elsewhere, Evangeline. Your father is on an important call with a client, and I'm about to walk into my meeting with Robert.”
I glance from her to the sleek black town car idling at the curb, the windows tinted too dark to see inside. Cohen, their longtime driver, stands stoically by the rear passenger, hands clasped together in front of him.
I often wondered what exactly Cohen's job entails, if he was more than just their driver. I wouldn't be surprised if he was really some sort of security detail too, a bodyguard of sorts.
As though on cue, Cohen steps forward and opens the rear passenger door, and my father steps out.
Edward Remington III doesn't look a day over forty. He murmurs his thanks to Cohen and ambles down the sidewalk, willfully oblivious to my mother's heated gaze.
Her arms are folded tight across her chest, her coral-painted lips pressed into a tight line of disapproval.
I track the tension quickly filling the air between them, sticky and thick like sap. And I grind out my knee-jerk inclination to fill the silence beneath my favorite pair of vintage peep-toe wedges. I'm well versed in the artful dance of avoidance when it comes to my parents and the way they communicate.
But that doesn't mean I'm immune to the anxiety that builds in my chest when I'm in the thick of it. It feels like a weighted vest wrapped around me, tick-tick-ticking higher and quicker with each moment.
My father pauses next to her, head bent low and attention pinned on his phone. “Ready, Virginia?”
When she doesn't respond, he finally clues in. He raises his head slowly, no doubt accustomed to her behavior after all these years. Not that he has a leg to stand on.
He turns to face us, pocketing his phone with a wide grin. “Oh, girls. What a pleasant surprise. What are you doing here?”
I do my best to hold in my wince, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. I avoid my mother's gaze, not that she's peeled it from my father. Anger radiates off of her like a cloud of icy fog. I already know I'll be the one to bear the brunt of Dad's brushoff later.
“Dad, hi.” I offer him a little wave, not daring to cross the frosty valley of tension that separates us. My mother.
“We're here for our meetings about Nana Jo's will,” Cora offers, not skipping a beat at the swelling awkwardness.
God, I love her. I make a mental note to buy her another sundae just for this.
“Nana Jo.” Mom sneers under her breath. “Why she ever allowed her beautiful name to be butchered like that is beyond me.” She rests her fingertips against the hollow of her throat and gazes away from us.
“You girls enjoying your coffee?” he asks, tipping his head toward us.
