by Scott, D. D.
“You know me, Mom. Nothing but sweet talk.”
If his wily smile didn’t give him away, Zayne thought, then his full-of-shit tone probably did.
“Oh I know you, son. That’s why I’m warning you. Think before you do something you’re not proud of later.”
She got into her truck and started the engine. Lowering her window, she said, “And don’t forget our priorities. Roxy first. Then the Baudlins. Try to fit the tomatoes in there somewhere.”
“Our priorities…that was real subtle, Mom.”
“I thought so,” she said followed by a yeah-whatever you-know-I-got-ya laugh. “I love that girl too, you know.”
His mom rolled up her window and drove away, leaving Zayne in a cloud of dust and pent up frustration. Thank God he had her straightforward shooting and insatiable curiosity. He’d spent so much time with his nose buried in his tomatoes, the rest of his world was growing without him and not in the direction he hoped.
He kicked his boots against the ground, his gut about to bust at the seams like an overripe tomato.
It would be most interesting to see how the Baudlins handled losing. And they were going to lose. Zayne might not know enough to beat them at tomatoes, but he knew exactly what he had to do to make sure they didn’t win Roxy.
Just like they’d more than likely learned from his father’s errors how to score big with the Brandywines, the Baudlins were about to learn the errors they’d made by stepping-in on what was Zayne’s.
Maybe Zayne hadn’t lost that blasted tomato card. Maybe it had been taken from him. Realization kicked Zayne hard. Anger coursed through his veins.
His mom was right. He could kill with kindness. But at times, he preferred his dad’s method of calculated, strategic force.
Roxy was worth the risks.
Chapter Twenty-One
Who the hell would be ringing her doorbell at this hour? In the middle of the work week?
Roxy sat up in her bed. Using the back of her hands, she shielded her eyes from the way-too-cheery sunlight streaming through the French doors of her balcony.
She rubbed away the fog of her dreams. Damn if it wasn’t a good one too, cut short at a point where Zayne was about to show her an alternative use for a hayloft.
She reached for her clock. Holding its cool crystal edges against the tip of her nose, she tried to read the numbers without her glasses. Finally able to match the short hand with the long one, she blinked back disbelief. Seven A.M.
Where were Jules and Audrey when she needed them most? Oh, yeah. Somewhere in their late twenties, they’d jumped on the cardio bandwagon and started jogging four mornings a week.
Despite the insane reality she’d be turning thirty-five the end of October, Roxy, on the other hand, wasn’t too worried about cardio fitness. To remain healthy, she stayed covered-up under her down comforter the entire hour it took Jules and Audrey to run three miles. Taking occasional sips from the water bottle on her nightstand, Roxy also stayed well-hydrated during her work-in.
Besides, her heart had been pumping at full capacity for years, pushed to its max to find its own self-worth. Instead of her parents showing her the ropes and being her anchor, she’d relied on her nannies as personal life trainers. She’d never had a high enough priority code to make it into her parent’s day-planners, except for show and tell at their high-society soirees.
Hearing the doorbell chime again, Roxy pushed back her covers, shoved her feet into her slippers and reached for her robe draped across the end of the bed.
Dipstick and Darling were at her heels, yawning and stretching their pudgy bodies, still too relaxed to bark. They trotted behind her, pawing at her feet then rolling over begging her to rub their bellies. Stopping twice to give-in to their requests, she made her way across the room to the intercom.
“Good morning,” she spoke into the speaker, deciding to be polite, despite her guttural desire to snap at the idiot pushing the bell. It had to be someone she didn’t know. Anyone she cared about knew her current schedule and wouldn’t dare wake her after she’d been in bed a measly three hours.
“Roxy? Is that you, darling?”
It couldn’t be. No. Roxy had to be dreaming. Talk about recurring nightmares. Mom? Surely not. Had she mistaken Roxy’s townhouse for a day-spa?
“Mom?”
Roxy knew she should have gotten the total home security package with the video monitors as well as the intercom and keyless entry features. Not that she’d have believed the picture screen if it showed her Bergdorf-blonde mother’s silicone silhouette.
“Could you come down right away, Sweetie? The driver’s ready to bring-in my luggage.”
Her luggage? How much luggage? Although Roxy wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer. Her mother never traveled light. Even if she had fifteen bags, probably the new Hermes line since it was the most recent out, the number of pieces wouldn’t tell Roxy the duration of her mother’s stay.
“I’ll be there in a minute.” Breathe, Roxy coaxed herself. It’s easy. You can do it. Inhale. That’s it. Nice and easy. Count to three. Slowly. Ahhh. Now exhale. You got it. Let it all out. Feel the stress leaving your body.
She snagged a quick peak at herself in her wardrobe mirror. Ouch. The stress was still there. To push that much anxiety out of her system, she’d have to hyperventilate.
This See Jane Stressed look wasn’t working for Roxy at all. Puffy eyes, accented by bags the size of Bloomingdale’s large brown shopping sacks, squinted back at her. She’d been too tired after closing the saloon and finishing her sketches to figure out where she’d left her cucumber sleep mask. Since she couldn’t afford the peels her mother de-toxed with as a professional vocation, an uneven skin tone complimented the dark circles. To accessorize the ensemble, Roxy had hair in desperate need of a color and cut.
The intercom’s insistent buzz sounded again. “Honey, I hope you’re not wearing that hideous pink robe. It’s sooo not becoming on you.”
Roxy wasn’t. But rebellion wouldn’t take a full thirty seconds. She grabbed the fuzzy, pilled beast out of her closet and exchanged it for the lilac satin one she’d had on.
“C’mere, Babies. I know you’re frightened of the Wicked Witch of the West.” Taking her time, Roxy loved on Dipstick and Darling, petting their wiggling fannies. She pitied them for the trauma they were about to endure for God knew how many days. “Mommy’s so sorry to have to do this to you. Maybe I can find a good pet therapist when the witch is gone, one that treats owners too.”
On their way down the stairs, the intercom went off two additional times. Knowing that no matter what she said it wouldn’t be right, Roxy ignored the calls, slowing her pace with each obnoxious buzz.
She prayed Jules and Audrey wouldn’t be back from their run until after she got her mother and half her closet into the townhouse. If her friends saw Lily Vaughn on the front porch, they’d keep running, pulling their ball caps low over their foreheads to keep from being recognized. Then they’d book a hotel and hire Roxy’s mom’s driver to go back to fetch their clothes.
Taking one more deep breath, Roxy smoothed her bed-head locks into a casually screwed-up up-do. She dug around in the pockets of her robe until she found a clip to secure the tangles to her head. Maybe with her hair up, her mom wouldn’t notice the split ends and fading color.
Who was she kidding? Her mother would instantaneously spot her external travesties. It was her daughter’s life struggles Lily Vaughn missed. Roxy had never been important enough to warrant internal scrutiny.
Why me? Why now?
Dipping from the bottom of her well of tolerance, Roxy stood tall and opened the door. She wasn’t sure if the sun or the canary yellow jewels dripping from her mother’s neck blinded her.
“Mom. What a surprise.”
She couldn’t get a good look at her because of the glare. Shit. She’d forgotten to grab a pair of sunglasses.
“You should have told me you were fixin’ to visit.”
“I knew it.” Her mother fanned herself with a Chanel scarf. “I told the girls Monday at Tavern on the Green I’d be mortified if you had so much as a hint of a southern drawl. And I am, darling, mortified.”
She placed one, high-carat clad hand across her forehead as if she were about to faint. “Just give me a second to release these negative feelings.”
Oh. There’d be plenty of time for negative feelings release, Roxy thought. She could bet her uptight Yankee ass on it.
“All right. I think I’ve reached a happier place now. Shall we have the driver get my things? Just show him to my suite, please. You’ve exhausted me.” With a tsk tsk of her hands, her mother excused herself past Roxy and into her home.
The driver, surrounded by piles of bags, looked at Roxy, waiting for direction. He had more empathy etched into the age lines of his face than Roxy had money in her wallet for the tip he deserved.
“I’ll help you,” Roxy said, taking a large, white, ostrich leather duffel and matching garment bag.
Why in the hell would you buy white luggage? Only if you had more money than God and nobody to spend it on but yourself, Roxy reasoned.
She set the bags she’d grabbed in the entryway hall, then motioned the driver to do the same with the rest of the collection. “Thank you. I’m sure that was a long trip.”
Thinking he’d be on his way after depositing the last bag at her feet, probably running instead of walking back to his limousine, Roxy found herself in an awkward silence as they each looked at the other for guidance.
“Let me guess. She didn’t pay you.”
“No, Ma’am. I’m afraid not.” The driver took off his hat, removed a pressed white hankie from his pants pocket and wiped his forehead.
Bitch. Well, she was going to this time. Roxy didn’t have the extra cash, and even if she were loaded she wouldn’t have paid a penny to move her mother into her home. “I’ll be right back.”
She marched through the foyer, setting her face to match the ferocious grimace of her Louisiana gator, and went straight for the guest bedrooms.
“You need to pay your driver,” she commanded as she pushed the door open, not bothering to knock first.
“Can’t you take care of that darling? I’m unpacking. It’d be a shame for my new Armani pantsuit to wrinkle anymore than it already has.” She continued unzipping bags without even looking at Roxy.
“Sure, I’ll take care of it.” Roxy grabbed her mother’s Louis off the guest bed and left the room.
She handed all five of the hundred dollar bills she found in her mother’s billfold to the driver. Feeling fairly certain even that wasn’t fair compensation for his toils. Although the crisp Franklins had him smiling for the first time since Roxy had opened the door and found him on the stoop with her mother.
Seeing him off, Roxy stepped out the door, breathing in the heavy morning air. Even in early summer, Tennessee humidity was better than having to go back inside and face the Empress of Entitlement.
Roxy searched the sidewalks on both sides of her home, hoping she’d find Jules and Audrey returning from their run. Seeing nothing but her neighbor’s bulldog marking his family’s mailbox, she went back inside and closed the door.
Figuring she could avoid her mother for at least another hour while she finished unpacking, Roxy stepped into her office.
Picking up the bright red stress ball on her desk, she squeezed then re-squeezed the tough rubber beanbag. They didn’t make the things big enough to manage her stress. She’d rather wing it across the room than squeeze the crap out of it, but she couldn’t afford to repair the dents in her dry-wall.
What could possibly have caused her mother to land on her doorstep? And what was she supposed to do with her? She didn’t have time to play tour director, arrange personal shopping days, or host cocktail parties. And she certainly didn’t have a housekeeper slash personal assistant to do those things for her.
Something was up in Manhattan, Roxy thought, as she picked up her sketchpad, reached for a colored pencil and drew shadow marks into her latest belt buckle design. She always worked well under pressure and felt an archaic urge to transfer her anxious energy onto her paper.
With each line of detail she added to the design, the same lines she’d later hammer into the silver buckles, Roxy felt a sliver of disillusionment thaw.
Choosing a deep blue, the color of the coldest depths of the arctic, she filled in the shapes of the stones she’d embed into the prototype piece. Alternating each stone sequence with silver metallic stars that shimmered like icebergs on the page, she finished the sketch with ease, never once reaching for the myriad of pulverized erasers cluttering her drawing table.
She rubbed her eyes, pushing out the sleepy haze starting to settle in. Because of the nightmare that had taken residence in her house, she was way too afraid to take a catnap. Removing a scrap piece of material from the top of her desk clock so she could read the numbers, she couldn’t believe it was already eight thirty. The tension she’d worked out in her sketchbook crept back into her body, feeding on her sleep deprivation. She tried to relax the kinks out of her neck then circled her shoulders forward and back.
She needed to be dressed and to the boutique by ten. She’d promised Kat they’d go over last month’s books. And for the first time since she’d opened Raeve, she was hopeful she might actually show a small profit. ‘Course anything in black was okay with her no matter how minute the number.
Thinking she must have been too focused on her designs to have heard Jules and Audrey return, she left her office and went upstairs to the kitchen. Hoping to meet up with them for a quick bite to eat and to warn them about their unwanted guest, she took two steps at a time.
Reaching the landing, she welcomed the smell of coffee. Hell. That was part of the reason she couldn’t stay awake. She had yet to have her first cup of caffeine. Instead, she’d been dealing with her mother’s arrival by subconsciously relying on escape tactics in the form of retreating to her office. Her psyche, smarter than she sometimes gave it credit for, knew better than to face Lily Vaughn without caffeine. Once she’d had a java fix, Roxy could sort of handle her mother.
Jules and Audrey were seated at the table in the breakfast nook, but not with the bottled water, juice and bananas of their normal post-run routine. Not today. If the sugar-overload cereal boxes, bottle of vodka, highball glasses, and cutting board piled with mint sprigs and lime wedges were a clue, they already knew about her mom’s impromptu arrival.
“I hope you’re fixing me one of those.” Roxy padded across the kitchen floor and plopped into a chair. Burying her head in her hands, she pressed her forehead against the bistro table, letting the cool marble soak into her aching temples.
“Coming right up,” Jules said, going to get another glass while Audrey poured Roxy a bowl of Lucky Charms. “I think we’re low on club soda though.”
“I don’t care. Just add more rum,” Roxy said then groaned as she reached for the gallon of milk in the center of the table. “What have I done to deserve my mother and mojitos before noon?”
“Well now. I’m just guessing here,” Jules said, setting the glass in front of her. “But I’d say it’s more a matter of what your dad hasn’t done that brings your mother to our door.”
“Huh? Wait till I get a sip of this first. Then run that by me again.” Roxy downed her mojito, shivering at the hard reality of early morning vodka.
“I think what Jules is getting at is that there must be trouble in the penthouse.” Audrey stirred her mojito with the plastic stick Jules had stuck in her glass.
“Like that’s anything new.” Roxy shook her head and speared a lime wedge with her stir stick. “But enough turmoil to bring her and her wardrobe ringing my doorbell? What could make her that desperate?”
“I’ll tell you what.”
Jules and Audrey jumped at hearing Lily’s voice. Roxy’s hand jerked back sending her stir stick and its impaled lime flying across the table. The cocktail garnishme
nts ricocheted off Lily Vaughn’s new nose and onto the floor.
“Mom. You should have said something. We didn’t know you were there.” Roxy could feel her face go from the white of her mojito to Bloody Mary red, the heat turning her empty stomach into a rolling boil of chaos.
“Why should I have announced myself? Then you would have quit talking about me.” Her mother moved across the kitchen with the pomp and pride of Queen Elizabeth, her head so high one would think she had a nosebleed.
She confiscated the last empty chair at the table using it as her throne.
For the first time since she’d arrived, Roxy got a good look at her. For the first time in her life, Roxy saw a woman she didn’t recognize as her mother. But for more than the first time, Roxy just didn’t care.
The person across from her certainly didn’t have the life of privilege, no-worries attitude of the mother who had paid other women to raise her only child. Gone was the only-problem-I-have-is-how-to-score-an-invitation-to-that-event. In its place was a defeated shell of a socialite. The only strings holding her mother together had been sewn in by Manhattan’s best cosmetic surgeons.
Maybe she should care this time, Roxy thought. Just a little bit.
“Got another one of those?” Her mother pulled at the corners of her eyes as if to tuck back tears.
“I think we’re out of club soda,” Audrey said, looking at Jules for confirmation.
“She could probably handle the no club soda version,” Jules offered, then mixed Lily a drink.
“Thank you, darling.” Lily folded her hands on top of the table, her left hand covering her right.
Roxy damn near spit the last of her drink through her nose.
Where was her mother’s wedding ring? She never took it off. Never. No matter what treatment she indulged in at what spa, the ring stayed put. Perhaps wrapped in all sorts of paraphernalia to keep the anti-aging masks and peels from damaging it, but on her finger all the same.
“You just noticed it was gone?” Her mother raised and rotated her hand so all of them could pay homage to the six-carat, diamond and platinum ring that no longer decorated her finger.