But Margot had a daughter, Brooke, and she was the one with the true “artistic vision.” I loved her artwork. In fact, I was collecting it. If I could have bought each piece, I would have done. I just needed a house big enough to display one on each wall.
Oh, and a credit card with no limit.
“Perhaps,” I finally replied, refraining from a deep yawn.
My mother, the social butterfly with a hidden agenda, was always dragging me and Daisy to art showings growing up. I vividly remember the first time I went—obviously, a traumatic experience for a thirteen-year-old who was forced to wear a sparkly monstrosity of a dress. It wasn’t until I saw the price tags attached to each piece of art that I truly understood the extent of my mother’s spending habits. The art reflected an impulse that was beyond her understanding. She spent money as if it were an unconscious decision, like breathing.
But I could understand that. Her mother was Esme Lauderdale, who spent much more, I was sure.
“Well, you should certainly make an effort to,” my mother continued. “Supporting local artists is important, and Margot would be thrilled to see you there.”
Thrilled. Right ...I just couldn’t wait to have a chat with her, the woman who thrived on attention. “Of course,” I mumbled, taking another sip.
“Excellent. Now, where were we? Ah yes, the new summer collection! Simply divine, don’t you think?” She continued to ramble on, giving me detailed descriptions of a sundress and how it was made of the best material.
The latest collections, the most fashionable designer clothes—my mother had to have it all. My entire childhood was basically a montage of shopping sprees and endless wardrobe changes, all fueled by Momma’s need for the latest labels. I’d spend hours in her closet pretending to be her. I admired her elegance. And her style. She was in love with herself—anyone could see it. She treated me like a mini version of herself, and I loved it. I wanted her clothes, her jewelry, and her shoes.Definitelythe shoes.
I wanted to end up just like her.
And I had. Her spending habits seemed to be hereditary.
“Let me see,” I said, reaching for the catalog with grabby fingers. Quickly, I looked. “Wow.”
“You’d look amazing in it. Lucas would agree,” she said bluntly.
I swallowed. “He’s going to be at the gallery?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so, but perhaps I could get your father to put together a dinner at the marina next Friday. We could invite Lucas. That would give you a chance to get to know him more.”
My stomach lurched. Here it came again, the Lucas Express, chugging full steam ahead toward a station I hadn’t even bought a ticket for. Every spare moment, it seemed, my mother’sinsufferable nagging came at me full force. The ring, the dress, the venue, the cake, theman. I couldn’t take it anymore. I was slowly starting to lose my mind.
“The engagement hasn’t even happened yet,” I argued.
“Lucas is a good man,” Momma mumbled through the magazine. She licked her finger to turn the page. “You should think about him more.”
No. I’d like to see her deal with the smell of cigarettes. I wouldneverkiss a man who smoked—I couldn’t stand it.
Jackson was the better of the two, but that didn’t make him that much better. Either way, deep down, I knew whichever one I ended up with would die the same tragic death as the last two.
My love life was starting to feel like a morbid game show.How Long Will This One Last?Maybe they should start taking bets in Vegas.
I wanted to roll my eyes but settled on a loud sigh. “Maybe,” I said, my words soaked in sarcasm.Maybe not ...I was already dreading the gallery; I didn’t want to worry about Lucas too. A dinner with him was enough to make me chug Pepto-Bismol by the gallon.
I gazed at the sun as it kissed the surface of my skin. The glimmer of the gold bracelet Mama got me a few years ago reflected the light with a glare that could blind me if I held it atjustthe right angle.
“Maybe,” Momma echoed, knowing I was full of it. “Maybe sooner rather than later, dear. There’s no need to be so picky.”
Here she was again, calling me picky.
“Why not? You were,” I bit back.
My mother was the living embodiment of “do as I say, not as I do.”
“Honey,” she began with a pause. “It’s not that I don’t understand the desire for independence. I had it too once.” She finally looked up from her magazine. “This isn’t about me. Thisis about your future, and Lucas seems like a perfectly decent man. Kind, successful?—”
“Arrogant, smelly . . .”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
