“The icewoman cometh,” Violet muttered loud enough for all of us to hear. Nobody responded.
A few seconds later, my parents made their grand entrance. My father had thick, salt-and-pepper hair, thanks to some expensive hair plugs. He was in a suit with a blue tie and made his way over to Gilbert’s side, presumably to talk business. Although I wondered how something so one sided would actually go.
If Frederica’s signature color was red, my mother’s was pink. She wore a tight baby-pink sheath that she offset with a large diamond necklace and matching earrings. Her icy-blonde hair was in her signature updo. I couldn’t recall ever seeing her with her hair down.
She headed straight for me and I squared my shoulders, lifting my chin. I could do this.
“Madison.”
Uh-oh. I wasn’t going to even get the barest veneer of civility? “Nice to see you, Mother.” Or, more accurately, it was nice to see the latest version of her face.
I knew I shouldn’t judge her. I had either inherited or absorbed her vanity, despite trying to not be so shallow. I’d probably wind up getting work done on my face when I was her age, too. Well, I would if I could afford it, which was looking very questionable.
“Do you know what I had to do today?” she demanded, and I drew in a large breath, discarding all my initial responses.
Overreact to a perceived slight?
Make a list of all the ways I’ve failed and disappointed you?
Be offended when someone failed to recognize you and how important you are?
Start a new diet?
I settled on, “What?” That seemed safe-ish.
My father joined us. “What did I miss?”
That was followed by an awkward silence—my mother annoyed at being interrupted, me not knowing what to say next, him not having anything else to add to the discussion beyond that question. As far back as I could remember, I’d never had an actual conversation with my father. Nothing beyond him asking me a single question. I could never understand how a man who could so easily schmooze the media and wealthy donors was so bad at interacting with his own family.
Coughlin then appeared in the doorway to announce that dinner was served. I wanted to kiss him again for saving me from temporarily having to find out what my mother had to do that day.
Everybody went into the dining room two by two with me acting like the caboose, bringing up the rear solo.
I pulled my own chair out and scooted it back in as two servers brought out the first course. I smoothed my linen napkin onto my lap before anyone could do it for me. My mother’s eyes were on me, glaring.
My father was telling a tale of a particularly grueling round of golf he’d played that day and in the middle of it my mother interrupted him to say, “You were playing with Randall Ducksworth? I was at lunch with his wife Laura today. We were at Le Chateau and then to our surprise we found the Horvath sisters and . . .”
She continued talking but I tuned her out. My mother hated when the spotlight was off her for even a second and would often use someone else’s story to turn it into something about her. During my twenty-first birthday celebration a couple of years ago, I’d decided to do a shot every time my mom made the conversation about her, but five minutes into it I had to stop because I was going to wind up in the hospital with an exploded liver.
And instead of my father being upset about getting cut off, he just sat there and calmly ate his soup. While my mother had never had a formal diagnosis (and never would, as she was never wrong for any reason ever), I’d come to suspect she did suffer from a narcissistic personality disorder. People liked to throw around that term a lot, but I was pretty sure she actually had it. I had read multiple diagnostic lists where the instructions would say something like a person is a narcissist if they meet six of these twelve requirements, and my mom would meet all twelve. Everything in our lives was about her, her feelings and wants; nobody else mattered. My parents had fought for my entire childhood. They had come close to divorce on several occasions. But in the end my father gave in and had learned to get along by going along. For the sake of their relationship, he deferred to my mom on everything. He was always on her side, no matter how wrong she might have been.
She’d also been careful in grooming my two older sisters. If she told them to jump, they would always ask how high and what else she wanted them to do right after. I was the only one who had ever defied her.
It had always seemed odd to me that the world regarded my father as a powerful and successful businessman and politician, because he had no control over his personal life. He always did whatever she wanted. She ruled our home with an iron fist.
To make sure that her children and grandchildren stayed in line, she had constructed a will with multiple conditions concerning levels of success and what behaviors were appropriate and not appropriate. Like we had to have a college degree to inherit, and my parents would contact their attorneys on a yearly basis to assess whether or not we had a “good” relationship. Church attendance and volunteering hours were mandatory. Inheriting would happen only if we met every single one of their conditions. It struck me as immeasurably sad that my mother was so desperate to control us that she planned on doing it from beyond the grave.
It made me slightly more sympathetic to think that she behaved the way she did because she was ill, even if she wouldn’t acknowledge it. But it also infuriated me that I’d grown up the way I had, thinking it was normal for your parents to say things like my love has to be earned.
Mom’s story about her shopping excursion with her boring friends continued on through the appetizers and on to our main meal. The vein in the top left of my forehead had started to throb and I wondered how much longer I was going to be subjected to this before somebody explained what I was doing there.
Because I hated sitting there all nervous, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Despite her talking about something inane, I could still feel her disapproval radiating toward me. It was agony. I would have preferred the lions being set loose into the arena at the beginning of dinner instead of anxiously anticipating their release.
Then, as if in direct response to my anxiety, Vanessa said, “So are we not going to talk about the black sheep in the room?”
I knew what the “right” thing to do here was. I was supposed to hang my head and feel ashamed of my choices. I wasn’t supposed to respond and should just let them humiliate me for blemishing the precious Huntington name.
That didn’t really work for me anymore. “Here we go. I don’t know how I’ve managed to survive the last few months without your constant criticism.”
Vanessa narrowed her eyes at me. “Criticism is just an unpleasant way of telling the truth. Something nobody else at this table seems to want to do.”
“Whatever. Being a teacher doesn’t qualify me for black-sheep status.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Violet agreed. Part of me wanted to believe that she was sticking up for me, but I knew it was because she wanted to get the upper hand in an argument she and Vanessa had been having since, I suspected, they were forced to share a womb.
“Right.” Vanessa nodded, her attention now focused on her twin. “I suppose that’s reserved for someone who just got out of rehab for the fifth time.”
“Or maybe it’s for someone who has a husband with so many mistresses they could populate their own small country,” Violet hissed back. Believe it or not, this was what passed for mostly civil in our family. I wondered whether I should go over and take away their knives.
“Helping people is not a bad thing.” I wanted to stand up for myself and I wasn’t going to let my sister belittle my career choice.
Vanessa decided to turn her venomous wrath on me. “You could take over the philanthropy division at Daddy’s company. You could help a lot more people than you ever will in your little job.”
I was about to explain the numerous issues with her suggestion when my mother imperiously told us to be quiet. While my father and brother-in-la
w were ignoring all of us and focusing on their steaks, Violet’s date looked both horrified and concerned. I wanted to tell him to run far and run fast.
Coughlin appeared with an extra place setting and put it on the table next to me. What was happening?
“You’re about to be really sad that you put that cheap garbage on your hair,” Vanessa whispered at me, and I wondered what she knew that I didn’t.
“What’s wrong with my hair?”
“If your sister doesn’t want to pay for life’s necessities, it’s not something we need to concern ourselves with,” my mother sniffed. I decided not to tell her that visiting her hairstylist once a week was not an actual necessity.
Instead I was too caught up as to who would be joining us. A reporter? Was that why I was here? To sell my father’s image as a loving family man? Or were Frederica and my mother back on good terms? Some new business partner who needed to be impressed?
“Constance! So good to see you. Ronald, how are you, sir?”
As my mother stood up to greet her guest, I realized that it was so much worse than anything else I had considered.
It was Brad. Here. Kissing my mother hello.
I only barely registered Vanessa smirking at me as blood rushed through my ears, making it impossible to hear.
What was happening?
My mother told Brad to have a seat. Next to me. And she was smiling.
Suddenly, I knew. I knew what was going on.
I saw him reach inside his coat pocket as he approached me, confirming my worst fear. The lion had finally been set loose.
Bradford Beauregard Branson IV was going to propose to me.
CHAPTER SIX
How had I not recognized that this was a trap? That my mother had lured me here so that Brad could ask me to marry him in front of my family? The two of them had put me in a position where I couldn’t say no. Frederica had said they were all expecting an announcement any day now. Was it because she knew something I didn’t?
Something that felt akin to hate bubbled up inside my chest, pouring into the rest of my body like angry molten lava. I was so furious with them both that I didn’t know how to calm myself down.
Instead, I did the unthinkable. I was rude to a guest.
I stood up without excusing myself, throwing my napkin on the table. I headed toward the kitchen, the anger nipping at my heels with each step I took. How could they?
“Madison!” Brad calling my name only made me walk faster. I’d get someone on the staff to call Julio or I’d eat the cost of an Uber back to my apartment.
“Wait.” His voice was right behind me and then his hand was on my arm. I jerked it away.
“What do you want?” I growled.
“Just to talk to you for a minute. Please.”
My initial inclination was to tell him to go screw himself and walk away. But it warred with that teenage part of myself that had adored him. He stood there with that self-deprecating grin that I’d always loved and it was even harder to tell him no. It was like he knew exactly what to do to get me to agree.
I gave a curt nod and we walked into my father’s study. Brad closed the door behind us and I folded my arms across my chest. He stood there a minute, flustered, as if he didn’t know what to say. It was very unlike him.
Because Brad was his family’s metaphorical and literal golden boy. Tall, blond, soft-brown eyes. Toothpaste-commercial smile. Girls had fallen all over themselves for years.
It had always made me feel special that I was the one he chose. I got the title of girlfriend. I was the one on his arm. I had loved all the envious stares.
What I hadn’t loved was his inability to be faithful to me.
“So, uh, hi.”
Really? We hadn’t spoken in three months and he resorted to hi? I started for the door and he put both of his hands out.
“Wait. That was stupid. I’m sorry. It’s just . . . we haven’t talked in a while and I wasn’t sure what to say.”
When he stopped answering my texts, I had been so hurt and angry. I had wanted to pretend he didn’t exist. To just . . . forget about him.
Which was harder to do than I thought it would be. He was my first boyfriend. My first kiss. My first everything. Some part of me wanted so badly to believe that he had loved me the way that I had loved him. It was what made me give him chance after chance. Like I believed that if I were just patient and waited for him to stop being a moron, we really could end up happily ever after.
He rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand, giving me a wry look. “I’m really messing this all up, aren’t I?”
If he expected me to respond, or to make things better, he was mistaken.
I stayed silent.
“I guess it’s just Brad timing,” he said, probably thinking that his making puns of his name was adorable. It was actually one of the things about him that annoyed the living daylights out of me. To be fair, it was partly my fault for never telling him just how obnoxious it was.
“Uh-oh. You’re not smiling. I guess you aren’t Brad I came.”
“Enough.” I ground the word out. “What do you want?”
He looked taken aback, which wasn’t too surprising given that I’d never snapped at him before. I was always so busy trying to make sure that he liked me that I never got angry at him.
Something else that needed to change.
“Okay . . . so I was in New York last night.”
It probably didn’t say much about the status of our relationship if my first thought after hearing those words was to think of Tyler. Who would soon be in New York.
“And I was thinking about you,” Brad continued. “Thinking how much I’ve taken you for granted. How much I’ve missed you. You’ve always been the best thing that ever happened to me, Madison.”
I blinked, slowly. There was a time when I would have done anything to hear him say these words.
But now? They were just that. Words. Empty, meaningless words.
When my parents kicked me out and cut me off, he was the person I’d reached out to. He had been my boyfriend and I expected his support. His love. But he never responded to my texts, never picked up my phone calls. Until I finally understood that in addition to losing my family I’d also lost the one person who was always supposed to be on my side.
I never knew if his silence meant that he agreed with my parents. Or if he just wasn’t mature enough to be there for me. He hadn’t even had the decency to break up with me. He just . . . disappeared.
Whatever his reasons were, his actions had been terrible.
Something on my face must have tipped him off as to how I was feeling because he rushed on. “And when I started thinking about my future, about what I want and who I want standing by my side, that person is always you. You’re my girl.”
I had to admit, a bit of me melted. I didn’t want it to, but it still happened.
Then he reached into his pocket again, as if he sensed his small victory. He pulled out something that was from Tiffany’s, but was most definitely not a ring box. The relief I felt was immediate and overwhelming.
He handed it to me and against my better judgment I took it. “It made me think of you,” he said.
I opened it to find a diamond tennis bracelet. I caught my breath for a second because of the vast number of carats sitting in front of me. It was gorgeous.
“Do you like it?” he asked. He’d already known how much I would. I had such a weakness for big and sparkly gems. My parents had confiscated my jewelry, which was easy to do since most of it was in my mother’s safe.
It was like the shiny diamonds were mesmerizing me, and it took a second to collect myself. To remember who I was and who I was talking to. “What do you think this earns you?”
“Nothing!” He held up both of his hands, as if surrendering. “I know how badly I’ve messed up. I know we have a lot to work through and talk about. So I wanted to ask you a favor. Don’t close the door on us. Not permanently, anyway. I think w
e have a future. I want to show you how I’ve changed.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He let out a sigh. “That’s fair, I guess. I haven’t really given you a reason to.”
Some part of me wanted to believe so badly. That our time apart had changed Brad and he was going to be a totally different person. That things could work out.
The other part of me wanted to waltz back into the dining room and announce that there was not going to be a Branson/Huntington wedding. Not now, not ever. My mother would lose her ever-loving mind.
I regretfully ran my fingers across the bracelet one last time before I closed the box and tried handing it back to him. He refused.
“That’s yours. No matter what happens. No strings attached.”
It didn’t feel string-free. There was a definite Pinocchio vibe going on here.
He pushed the box back toward me, and I wasn’t sure what to do. If I just left it here, someone would find it, and that would open up a whole barrel of drama with my mother that I wasn’t currently prepared for.
Or my great-aunt Ida might make a visit, and nobody would ever see the bracelet ever again.
I sighed. “I’ll take it now, but only with the understanding that I will be giving it back to you when you realize that we are over. There’s nothing for me to think about because that door is closed. I think we’ve run our course and it’s time for both of us to move on. Find the person we’re really meant to be with.”
Why was Tyler’s face flashing in my mind? So random. And ridiculous.
I knew I couldn’t be with Tyler. But I deserved to find someone like him.
Brad frowned. “I don’t know if I can accept that. I don’t want to move on. I want us to be together. You should know that I’m committed to you. To us. Keep the bracelet. Even if the answer is no.”
Unfortunately, it didn’t take much to convince me to hang on to it.
He said, “I’ll keep hoping that you’ll change your mind and that your answer will be yes. If nothing else, think about how much emergency Botox our mothers would have to schedule to erase their laugh lines from all the grinning they’d be doing. Maybe you should say yes for the economy’s sake.”
Roommaid Page 6