“’Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…Except Santa was there! He spread gifts everywhere for all the good little boys and girls, and when he left he said, ‘Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!’” Val snapped the book shut.
Lydia frowned. “That’s not what it said.”
“That’s the abridged version. And since when do you know how to read?”
“I’ve always known how to read.”
“Jesus Christ,” Val muttered to herself. To Lydia: “Don’t tell anyone else that.” She clapped her hands. “Time for bed. Chop, chop.”
Lydia scrambled off Simon’s bed and slipped into her own, kitty-cornered to Simon’s in the same room. Val tucked them in with hugs and kisses.
“I love you, my beautiful babies,” she said as she held Simon’s tiny body against hers, then Lydia’s. “Love, love, love you.”
“We love you, too, Mommy,” Simon said as Val walked to the doorway. “And Nana.”
She froze. “Who?”
“Nana,” Lydia answered. “She’s the best grandma ever.”
They didn’t have a Nana…Well, technically they did, but she might as well be dead. Val hadn’t seen or heard from her mother in almost thirty years—until recently, that was. To choose not to have contact with your own children for decades, even after one of them took her own life…she was certainly not the best Nana ever. The kids must be referring to someone else. Maybe one of their friend’s grandmothers. That must be it.
Val flipped off the light, a constellation of blue stars from a nightlight making slow circles across the ceiling as she shut the door. It was nothing. She didn’t want to see her mother again, anyway. She couldn’t even remember what the woman looked like. All she could recall was red hair like Val’s—probably gray now—and the acrid odor of the menthol cigarettes her mother liked to smoke. And her mom’s eyes, a paler blue like Val’s sister, that crinkled at the edges every time she laughed. And her mom’s voice, shrill and frantic as she screamed about the injustice of the Gulf War. And she remembered the feel of cold hardwood on her knees as she knelt at the foot of her bed, praying for her mother to return. What kind of person abandons their own children? How could she—
Val leaned against the hallway’s wall and blinked back tears. She was working herself up over nothing. Who knew what the twins really saw? They didn’t know themselves half the time—a blessing for their poor four-year-old minds. Her own children would grow up with a loving mother and father, and that was all that mattered.
Nana wasn’t real. Her mother was dead to her. Or might as well have been.
Val pushed herself off the wall, took a deep breath, and fought the urge to walk straight to her bedroom and read the letter, again. No, she wouldn’t let it distract her. She had more important things to do, good-mother things. Instead she made her nightly round through the condo: first the kitchen, then the indoor pool and surrounding patio, then the living room, the study, the den, each bathroom, and ending at the guest room—checking all the guns she’d hidden out of the children’s reach but within her own. For when they came. They’d had a crazy-conspiracy dry spell since the twins had been born, but it couldn’t last forever. With all the effort Max and Val’s tormentors had put into bringing the two of them together, it was only a matter of time until they resurfaced to resume their torture. This time, she’d be prepared.
Rounds completed, she considered watching some TV, maybe the Real Housewives of Something, to numb her mind up. But if she stumbled on a news report about Delilah Barrister, Seattle’s ex-mayor and Washington State’s newest Congresswoman, she might punch the television. It’d taken a massive amount of willpower to resist going after the woman who’d murdered Val’s fiancé and manipulated Val into killing her husband—the late, terrible Norman Barrister—in order to fuel her political ambitions and assist Northwalk in forcing Val and Max together to create their special children. But Val had left her alone. Delilah had proven she was capable of killing anyone to get what she wanted—the fate of poor Zach, the teenage hacker who’d helped Val almost nail Delilah and had “committed suicide” for his trouble—still gave her nightmares. She wouldn’t put her family in danger of a similar situation, even if it meant backing off her enemy—for now. Delilah would get hers someday. Val fucking swore it.
Yep, no TV tonight. She went to the laundry room and collected warm clothes from the dryer, carried the load to her bedroom, and dumped it on the mattress. She stared at the pile for a moment. Goddamn laundry. There were many techniques a person could use to fold a four-year-old’s underwear, though she’d been told by another stay-at-home-mom only one was correct. She’d love to get a second opinion from someone else, a real friend maybe, but the last one she had took off after Val imploded a few years ago. She hadn’t connected with any of the other rich, stuck-up moms in her kid’s play group, and they weren’t interested in connecting with her. She and Max were tabloid fodder with a salacious history, after all, though they’d kept a fairly low profile since the Lucien Christophe nightmare. Maybe she should put out a personal ad: Looking for a no-frills, down-to-earth, big-hearted bestie with a bohemian streak who likes to watch bad movies, solve mysteries, and can keep a secret. Yeah, right. There was no replacing Stacey.
If she didn’t fold the clothes now they’d wrinkle, and she’d get disapproving looks from the other mothers in her kids’ playgroup. What a tragedy. Her hands balled into and out of fists. Dammit. Of all the ways she could be torturing herself at that moment, she could think of at least one better than laundry. Turning her back on the pile, she made a beeline to her nightstand, yanked open its drawer, and took out a worn envelope.
Val stared hard at the letter gripped between her fingers, an unassuming piece of mail holding only one piece of paper and sliced open along the top. It was just a rectangle of white with her address scrawled on the front in loopy cursive, ordinary to anyone but Val. What normal person sent personal letters via snail mail these days? Her eyes traced the path of those handwritten letters and cut between her name in the center and the sender’s in the corner—Danielle Shepherd.
She’d read the short letter dozens of times.
Sorry I haven’t kept in touch, it’s a long story, I’d love to tell you all about it, can I come visit?
Could her long-lost mother come visit? Was she serious? Silence for over thirty years and now she wanted to reconnect? Did Danielle’s sudden interest in Val’s life have something to do with her new, rich husband? Or the conspiracy that surrounded their lives, lurking out of sight, haunting her dreams and her visions, waiting for the right moment to close in on them? Be nice if she could ask Stacey what she thought. Val would never let a stranger into their home, because that’s what Danielle was…but the twins had seen her, knew her—
Val froze when she realized someone was standing right behind her.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to everyone who made this book possible! That list includes: my husband, Chris, as all the sex scenes in this book are based on our love life (just kidding…or am I? Since he’ll never read this, he can’t get mad!); my mom, Sandy, for standing up in the “notable events” part of her weekly office meeting to tell her coworkers that her daughter wrote a risqué romance novel and they should read it; my stepdad, Tim, for his unwavering support since the day he married my mother, even during those rough teenage years; my valley-girl West Coast sister, Nicole, for moving across the country to provide my daughters with some fabulous female influence as I hang out in the desert for six months; my gruff Bostonian East Coast father-in-law, David, for letting my sister live with him, Odd Couple–style; my best friend, Kendall, for buying my books and swearing she’s going to read them any day now, they’re at the top of her TBR pile!; my agent, Carrie, for responding to my e-mails in a timely manner, always being positive, and having a cute bunny icon as her profile pic that I always get excited to see in my in-box; my editor, Made
leine, for gracefully telling me things I don’t want to hear; my boss, Chad, for talking up my books and encouraging people to read them, even though they’re not, shall we say, safe for work; my old pugs, Zeus and Roxy, for letting me stroke them, Dr. Evil–style, as I pondered narrative arcs; and finally, my daughters, Clementine and Violet, for being the wildest, loudest, most perfect little balls of energy any mother could hope for.
About the Author
Shana Figueroa is a published author who specializes in romance and humor, with occasional sojourns into horror, sci-fi, and literary fiction.
She lives in Massachusetts with her husband, two young daughters, and two old pugs. She enjoys reading, writing (obviously), martial arts, video games, and SCIENCE—it’s poetry in motion! By day, she serves her country in the U.S. Air Force as an aerospace engineer. By night, she hunkers down in a corner and cranks out the crazy stories lurking in her head.
She took Toni Morrison’s advice and started writing the books she wanted to read. Hopefully you’ll want to read them, too!
Learn more at:
ShanaFigueroa.com
Twitter @Shana_Figueroa
Facebook.com/Shana.Figueroa.9
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