“Work,” I say. “Staying busy.”
She watches me for a long moment, her gaze shrewd. Anne Carrington is a lot of things, easily fooled is not one of them. She knows I’m not telling her something, and she knows I know she knows.
But she lets it go.
“How’s your father?”
And there it is. The shift I’ve been bracing for. The temperature at the table drops ten degrees, even though nothing visible has changed.
“He’s…the same. Taking classes. Reading a lot.” I reach into my coat, fingers brushing the envelope I’ve been carrying against my chest like a secret. “Actually, that’s why I wanted to meet.”
I pull out the envelope and slide it across the table. It’s thick—not as thick as I’d like, but thick enough. Five thousand dollars in hundreds, rubber-banded into a neat brick. I straighten my shoulders and add, “That’s all I have right now after Dad’s legal fees. It’s rightfully yours.”
Anne looks at the envelope but doesn’t touch it. “Taio…”
“I know it’s not much. Especially compared to what he took.” I have to force the words out past the knot in my throat. “But it’s a start. There’s more coming. I just need a little time.”
“Sweetheart.” She reaches across the table and covers my hand with hers. Her skin is cool, her rings catching the candlelight. “Where is this coming from?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
I pull my hand back gently, wrapping it around my water glass just for something to hold on to. “I’ve never lied to you, Mrs. Carrington. Not in the twenty years you’ve known me.” I meet her eyes. “I don’t want to start lying to you now. So please don’t ask me where the money comes from.”
Something flickers across her face—concern, maybe, or pity. I hate both options.
“Are you safe?” she asks quietly.
“Yes.”
“Are you doing anything that could get you hurt? Or arrested?”
Define hurt.“No, ma’am. Nothing illegal.”
Well,technically, not illegal. I’m legitimately employed through Rina’s very legal business. What we do off the books is borderline…questionable, but once I’ve paid back every penny Dad owes and get him out of prison, then I’ll properly admonish myself for my gigolo behavior. Until then, the hustle lives.
Anne holds my gaze for a long moment, searching for the lie. I keep my face neutral, my breathing even. I’ve gotten good at this—the performance of calm when everything inside me is screaming.
Finally, she nods. “Okay.”
That’s it. No interrogation, no lecture, no demands for details. Justokay. I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse.
The server returns with our champagne—two crystal flutes, each with a perfect spiral of orange peel curled against the side. Anne murmurs her thanks, waits for him to leave, and takes a slow sip.
“I spoke to your mother a few days ago,” she says.
The champagne I just swallowed turns to thick sludge in my stomach. “Oh?”
“She called to wish Joy a happy birthday. They talked for almost an hour.” Anne traces the rim of her glass with one finger. “She asked about you.”
“Oh? And what did you say?”
“I asked her why she was asking me how her son was doing.” Anne presses her lips together, and in a very un-Mrs. Carrington-like fashion, plants one elbow on the table. “Why aren’t you speaking to your mom?”
I shrug. “I’m not…not speaking to her. I just happen to be busy every time she calls.” I fight the urge to roll my eyes at my lame excuse. I’m busy. My phone is never charged. My service is crap. The time difference. I was at the gym. The endless excuses worked for about the first three months after Mom moved away. By now she knows what I’m full of.
“Well, I told her you invited me to this lunch.” She pauses and raises one eyebrow for dramatic effect. “I promised my best friend that when I saw her only, beloved son, I’d ensure he’d call. Don’t make a liar out of me, Taio.”
