I find this vaguely hilarious because while Mala is a wonderful mother, and an excellent support to the Chieftain, she is not remotely domestic. If you hand her a sniper rifle and ask her to take out a dozen enemies, she’d do it with no hesitation. But I'm pretty sure she hasn't ever baked a cake without murdering the oven. I recall at least one kitchen fire in the mansion where she might have been involved.
“We could make a couple of loaves of bread this afternoon,” I volunteer as I kiss Mom’s cheek. “Maybe those olive loaves you love so much?”
Mala smiles wistfully. “Those are so delicious.” And then she crushes my naïve hope that things will go back to normal. “We have a new cook starting this week,” she says, still smiling at my mom like they’re best buddies and that she's not taking away my mother's purpose in life. “His name is Gustav Warner, he graduated from the culinary Institute in Napa Valley, but he's not unreasonably high-strung, thank God. Martha, I was hoping you could take him through the kitchen and get him acquainted with all its complexities."
Oh, ouch,Jordan whispers.Poor Mom.
I'm watching the smile freeze on Mom's face. “Of course,” she nods firmly. "I'd be happy to."
"Thank you," Maia says. "Sophie, Happy Birthday, dear.”
I bare my teeth in what could be considered a polite, social smile but I don't think I'm selling it. “Thank you ma'am.”
The cottage garden is quiet after she leaves, just the low hum of the crickets until Mom clears her throat. "Come in!" she says cheerfully. “Your cake is cooling as we speak. You can help me frost it and put on the meringue."
“Well thank God you're still allowed to bake in yourownhouse.” My tone is waspish and I know I'm not making anything better with this comment, but I'm so pissed off at Mala right now.
Mom, being a much better person than I am, puts her arm around me. “They had to hire someone at some point,” she says. “The entire household has been getting pre-prepared meals delivered for over a month now. I do hope Gustav lasts longer than the last two chefs Mala attempted to hire.”
"This is ridiculous," I snap. "They have the perfect cook right here. How long is this going to last?" She gives me a sad smile, and I realize how much deeper the lines are around her mouth.
“Well, forever," she says. “What happened won’t magically disappear, sweetheart. I knew I'd pay a price.” She nods as if a positive attitude can make this all okay. “This is the best possible outcome. You're safe, you're married to a man who adores you and we’ll…” She squares her shoulders. “We’ll be just fine.”
Will we?
I bite back all the things I want to ask, like about money; now that Mom isn't allowed to work, what happens to her salary? Are Cormac and Mala just going to maintain her here, like a potted plant? I've got three years of law school before I can even start making a salary. The plan was to have her retire once I got hired at the MacTavish legal division. Do they really think Mom has no pride? That she'll sit and twiddle her thumbs in her cottage prison? I think about all the cruise brochures in her kitchen drawer, and I want to cry.
“I know that face,” she says sternly. “You always stick out your lower lip when you're worried. Everything is fine, now help me with your birthday cake.” She leads the way into the kitchen, fragrant with the smell of almonds and sugar. There’s four enormous layers cooling on racks on the table. “Maisie has calledme three times about the party tonight. I believe Arabella and Luna are hosting, they’re going to set up tables on that green space between the four houses.”
“That's so nice.” I press my hand to my chest, it’s feeling dangerously warm. “Maisie refuses to tell me anything, she said she wants it to be a surprise.”
Mom shakes her head with a chuckle, pulling the bowl of buttercream frosting from the fridge. “Doesn't she remember that…”
We say it together. “Wehatesurprises.”
Once all four layers of the cake are properly frosted and the coat of marzipan smoothed over it all, Mom supervises as a resigned Ian and Torin carry it to the Aston Martin. “This sucker is armor plated,” I tell Mom cheerfully. “You could hit it with an eighteen wheeler and that cake won’t move an inch.”
“Don’t joke about things like that!” Mom is appalled, and I force my dark humor back into the gutter from whence it came.
“Is that your birthday cake?” Angus, the front gate guard, is looking sadly as the hatchback door closes, cutting off his view of my glorious dessert.
“Oh, crap.” Now, I feel terrible. We always had my birthday cake here at the estate so that even the guards could have a slice. Mom would bake all day to create something massive enough to feed everyone.
“Don’t you worry,” she says, patting his shoulder. “I have another one in the pantry just waiting to be frosted.” Her smile fades. “I mean, if that’s all right with the Chieftain.”
Gary the Dickhead is leaning against the gate, watching my mother’s distress with a little smirk.
“Angus?” I lean in close.
“Aye?”
“Gary doesn’t get cake, you hear me? Not a forkful of my birthday cake. Do that for me and I’ll bring you three dozen muffins this weekend.”
I don’t think Angus likes Gary, either. Maybe he’s seen his faint sneers and contempt barely masked under civility when Mom or I are forced to deal with him. Angus nods with a conspiratorial grin. “Not a fecking bite. Ye have my word.”
Spite feels like a lovely present for my birthday.
Chapter Twenty-One
