Burned Deep (21 page)

Though I had another shocker waiting for me right around the corner …

 

chapter 11

Sunday morning at the driving range was followed by brunch at the golf club. My dad did that fatherly speculative-gazing thing from time to time but didn't bring up what he suspected might or might not be going on between me and Dane.

Relieved to have endured a few hours unscathed, I returned to my townhome to shower and change into jeans. I texted Grace to ask whether or not she was working. Since she was, I told her I'd stop in at the bar later in the evening.

In the meantime, I had résumés to look at for the staff I needed to hire. While in the midst of that, there was a knock on my door.

I didn't get many vistors, so I made a very quick guess as to who it might be—and leapt up from the kitchen table, rushing to the small foyer.

Yanking open the door, I said, “I thought you were at the Four Sea—”

My mouth snapped shut.

On the other side of the threshold stood Kathryn DeMille. My mother. As though I'd summoned her evil presence just by thinking of her yesterday. Though she'd been texting me of late, so maybe this face-off was destined to be. I hadn't texted her back, after all.

“Darling,” she said as she swept into the entryway, all but brushing me aside with the witchy wave of her manicured and bejeweled hand. “You've had me worried sick.”

“Oh?” I found that
very
hard to believe.

“Well, I haven't heard from you in so long, darling,” she said in her cultured tone that, at the moment, held the hint of a pout. “I was just so certain something horrible had happened to you that I had to drive
all
the way up here to see for myself that you're still alive.”

My gaze narrowed. “How'd you find me? You've never been to my house before.” Which left me with a sinking feeling in my gut. This would not be a pleasant visit.

“I had your address from the last birthday card you sent, along with the Dillard's gift certificate. I still have it in my wallet if you'd like to use it.”

“I bought that for you, Mother.” I resisted the urge to grind my teeth. “Something wrong with Dillard's?”

“Well, it's not Nordstrom, darling.”

I seethed inwardly. Showing any sort of outward emotion in my mother's presence was futile. She only saw what she wanted to see.

So I skipped over it and asked, “To what do I owe the honor?” My tone held a biting edge that I couldn't disguise. Perhaps it was her air of superiority that grated on my nerves, in addition to the way she'd treated both my dad and me.

My mother was a petite brunette with the right hair, the perfect pallor, the tiny frame suitable for all upscale fashions, and the richest fragrance to make one think she dipped herself in gold every morning. Her crocodile leather handbag—Prada would be my guess—dangled from her dainty forearm as she pointed a finger at me and said, “It's been much too long, Aria Lynne. You never come visit me.”

She always used my full name. As though that made us royalty or something. She'd truly missed her calling as a Southern belle or privileged debutante. I could see her delivering the most polished curtsey imaginable and then setting an entire room aglow with her UV-ray smile. Serious overkill on the bleach, but it was all part of the Kathryn DeMille Big Top circus.

“I've been a bit busy, Mother. Sorry.”

She surveyed my small space—the foyer that opened into a kitchen and the living room beyond. The corner of her mouth twitched, but of course she wouldn't give in to a frown for fear she'd wrinkle.

Setting her large tote on my table, she extracted two items. The first was today's
Arizona Republic,
the Phoenix paper. It was already opened and folded over to reveal pictures from Friday night's extravaganza at the Delfino estate.

“I had no idea you kept such prestigious company these days,” she cooed.

In the center of the page was a photo of me with a grinning Kyle, Meghan, and Sean. I bit back a grunt of
oh, shit, please don't let Dane see this
. But he would. Seeing me with Kyle would create a bit of friction. No need to delude myself.

“I planned Meghan Delfino's wedding,” I told my mother.

“And you're now BFFs? Darling, that's
fab-ulous
!” She drew out the last word as though I'd miraculously procured the Hope Diamond.

“Just friends,” I mumbled as I moved past her. “Do you want some water? There's no Evian, just tap, but—”

“You really should be more prepared for guests, Aria Lynne.”

“I don't get many, Mother. Why are you here?” And why did I feel as though a million tiny spiders had suddenly crawled under my skin?

She set out the other item she'd brought with her—another bridal magazine. “There's an article in here about all the preparations you made for the Delfinos. So impressive.” Her sculpted brows would have arched for emphasis if they weren't already at the perfectly elevated degree.

The creepy sensation grew. My mother was up to something. No doubt about it. I decided to cut to the chase.

“Again, is there a specific reason you're here?” I asked.

“Naturally, I've wanted to come see you. I've had so much on my plate, though.” She launched into the luncheons with the Junior League and Soroptimist and so on and so forth. There were fund-raising galas she simply
had
to attend—not volunteer for, mind you, but purchase an expensive seat in order to be “seen.”

I halfheartedly listened, still trying to pinpoint what it was she truly wanted from me. A good five minutes later, I started to piece it all together.

“Well, you of all people know how important it is to be appropriately attired for all of these functions, and to wear the same dress is absolutely
not
an option. Darling,” she said, “I'm sure that my attendance does so much good for the community but it's drained my finances completely.”

“You have alimony from Dad. And it's never been paltry,” I reminded her. I'd suffered the consequences of the payments he made. She had a lovely condo in Scottsdale. We'd lived in a run-down duplex in a not-so-great part of Phoenix.

“Times change, Aria Lynne,” she said in a dismissive tone. “Inflation and all that. I literally cannot be expected to—”

“Whoa, wait.” I raised a hand to cut her off. “Are you here for money?”

She didn't even bother looking taken aback. Rather, she appeared indignant as she said, “I can't be expected to live in squalor.”

“Squalor?” I nearly spat out the word. “Seriously, Mother?”

She moved past me and took the five-second tour of my living room. Staring out at the golf course, she said with disdain, “You just can't resist the fairways. Like your father.”

“You didn't come here to talk about golf. What's going on? Tell me straight, because you don't make house calls out of the kindness of your heart.”

Flashing me a stern expression I figured was meant to be maternal, though it came out more snide because I was onto her, she told me, “It's extremely expensive to maintain my lifestyle.”

“So find a different lifestyle,” I snapped as thoughts of walking through seedy neighborhoods to get to school and having no lights from time to time—sometimes no water—came rushing back to me. All the while, my mother had enjoyed her posh existence because of my father's money.

“Do not be disrespectable, Aria Lynne.”

“Okay, so find a new husband. One who can afford you.”

She crossed her arms over her surgically enhanced chest, as she was prone to do when she wanted to tell me to watch my mouth. Maybe it was because I was older and disassociated from her that she didn't press this time.

“Men don't want women in their forties,” she informed me. “They want girls your age. A little tidbit you should tuck away.”

“Then I don't know what to tell you.”

She gave me a contemplative look, studying me closely, which set me on edge. Finally, she said, “I just need a little supplement, Aria Lynne. Considering that wedding you recently pulled off, I wouldn't think it'd be asking too much to help out your own mother. The woman who gave birth to you. If you understood the expense of Botox, chemical peels, eye lifts…” Her sudden disgruntlement actually brought out a few creases. I'd never seen her go that far.

A part of me wanted to assure her she had nothing to worry about—my mother was a very beautiful woman. But I'd witnessed this ploy before. It started out all
woe is me
and morphed into Bitchville in the blink of an eye.

I knew to tread lightly. “I really can't help you, Mother. Money's been tight for me as well.”

She had the audacity to scoff. “Please, you don't attract the sort of media attention you've been receiving without the money to back it up.”

I didn't feed into her theory. That didn't stop her from expounding on it.

Dropping her arms, she gave me the real-deal Kathryn DeMille. “Do you know that I never once mentioned the names of the men I had affairs with while your father was on his tours?”

Unease flitted through me. “Meaning what, exactly?”

“Of course, I didn't want to implicate anyone. They'd all been contenders in their time. Some more successful than others…” She slowly circled my living room, taking in the minuscule space as though to silently point out what a disappointment my townhome was—thereby emphasizing the opinion that I wasn't on par with the men she'd slept with or the women she associated with. Like I fell short in her eyes the way my dad did.

My blood boiled. I didn't mind that she judged me. But to be cruel toward my father when he'd been so in love with her, so supportive. And so devastated when he'd learned the truth about her … That irked the hell out of me.

“What does your past have to do with your present?” I asked, not sure I wanted to hear what she had to say.

“Simply that I never took the opportunity to share with the world some very burning questions about breakups in the pro golf community right around the time—”

“Oh, you have got to be kidding.” I glared at her, incredulous. “You feel it's some sort of civic duty to set the tawdry record straight twenty-one or -two years after the fact?” The cheating had started before I was in kindergarten.

Not the least bit contrite, she said, “You don't seem to understand the value of mainstream media, Aria Lynne. It's all the rage to divulge secrets after the fact, as you put it. Look at Bobbi Brown's book on all the rock stars and A-list actors she had sex with—I'm sure she made a lot of money with her tell-all.”

My stomach roiled. “Are you saying … You'd go public for cash? Knowing you'd crush Dad all over again?”

How on earth was I even related to this woman?

“I have a synopsis written. And I've already picked several agents to send the proposal to.” She gave me a reflective look I knew was feigned. “I just need a working title.”

“Oh, my God.” I felt sick. “You can't do that to Dad. To me. Moth—”

“I just need a little money, darling,” she said. “It'll be nothing to you, with all your grand success of late.”

I hated every word she said. Hated that I asked, “How much?” My insides twisted in knots, but all I wanted was to get rid of her. If only I could afford it.

Her expression turning shrewd, she said, “Five thousand isn't too much for your own mother.”

I pulled in a deep breath.
Shit.
Five grand would drain half of my savings account. I had rent and a car payment. But I quickly deduced that I'd get my first paycheck from 10,000 Lux before they were due.

So I stalked into my pseudo-office and opened the drawer of my desk. I collected my checkbook, scribbled out the amount she wanted. Tore the paper loose. Then I marched into the living room and handed it over.

“Don't come back,” I said, my heart breaking yet again. Because for just the briefest of moments, when she'd first arrived, I'd held the tiniest bit of hope that she'd been here to celebrate my business ventures. To say she was proud to see me in magazines and newspapers. And to actually
be
a mom.

I should have known better the second I'd seen her perfectly made-up face.

Sure enough, the
pity me
facade she'd flaunted faded and I saw nothing but triumph. Which not only worried me but also made the tears trickle as she whirled around and disappeared out the door without so much as a thank-you or a good-bye.

Dread mixed with my dismay. The way she'd breezed out of here. I couldn't help but wonder if this was just the beginning of her torment.

*   *   *

I survived the weekend. That was the best summation I could provide.

Unfortunately, I'd spent two nights restlessly missing Dane and once again wondering if he was spending
his
nights alone.

He didn't call or text, and I had a very good sense of what that was all about. He was forcing my hand. It was a
commit along with me or walk away
kind of thing, I suspected. Which made me put serious thought into what I might actually be committing to and how fucked up I could be in the end.

The reality of the situation, however, was that every torturous minute that passed without him proved I'd be screwed either way. I couldn't stand not being with him. Especially knowing what he was willing to give in return by way of the hottest sex I'd ever known.

Thankfully, I had a ton of work on Monday that required my full attention. I met with Patricia to discuss all of the event staff applications Dane had approved for the posted positions.

We were in the middle of discussing interviewing schedules when I caught sight of him. He strutted toward us as we sat at one of the round glass-topped and black wrought-iron tables in the courtyard. His purposeful stride gave me pause.