Among the Heather (The Highlands, #2) (2)
Grabbing my purse, phone, and car keys, I tiptoed toward the front door so the sound of my heels wouldn’t echo upstairs.
“Buondì, coccolona.”
My mother’s husky voice stopped me in my tracks. I’d inherited that sultry huskiness, but not the sultry Italian accent that went with it. Taking a deep breath, I turned and watched Mamma descend the staircase like she was on a photo shoot. Her silk robe billowed open, flashing her long, perfect legs. Dark hair that she’d been dyeing since she was thirty to cover premature gray was tied up in an artfully messy bun as she frowned at me. Because of the fillers she had injected into her lips every few months, it seemed as if she was perpetually pouting. To be fair, she usually was.
“Morning, Mamma,” I answered, straightening instinctually. My entire life, my mother, the supermodel, had drilled it into me to keep my shoulders and spine straight.
“No daughter of mine will have a hunchback.”
“Coffee?” she asked as she stepped down into the hallway and crossed the distance between us.
“There’s some in the kitchen.”
Her dark eyes narrowed. “You’re leaving? Again?”
I sighed inwardly. “Mamma, you know I work here.”
“All you do is work. Do you not get a break?”
“Summer is our busiest time. You know that.”
“I’ve hardly seen you.”
Biting back a response, I took a second to control my irritation. Snapping at Mamma only led to days of drama. However, I found it ironic that my mother wanted to spend time with me only after I became an adult and no longer needed her in the way I used to. As a child, I spent a lot of time with nannies and overworked personal assistants. My dad was Wesley Howard, legendary movie director, and he spent a lot of time away from home when I was a kid. My mom, a famous Italian supermodel, was always off in some exotic location shooting for a magazine or an ad campaign.
When they were home, I wouldn’t say they weren’t involved because they were. My parents did their best to show that they loved me and my sister, despite how busy they were. But the truth of the matter was, they didn’t raise me. And when Allegra unexpectedly came along when I was ten years old, I—and not our absent parents—raised my younger sister.
I’d sacrificed going to the college of my dreams and stayed home in Malibu to commute to the University of California in LA so I could be there for my little sister. After my first two years at UCLA, my mother retired from modeling. With her home, I’d suggested I transfer and head to the East Coast. Mamma had such a dramatic meltdown at the thought of me leaving that I stayed for Allegra’s sake.
Our mother had never been more involved in our lives. I was grateful that Allegra got that time with her (even if it hadn’t stopped her from going off the rails), but it frustrated me to have to deal with Mamma’s constant calls and texts now, too many years after I actually needed her.
“I should get to work.” I finally settled on a calm reply.
Her eyes washed over my outfit. “Oh, darling, cover your arms. You haven’t used those weights I gave you at all, have you?”
For the whole twenty-eight years of my life, I’d put up with my mother picking apart my appearance. She thought it was her way of showing she cared. I was pretty sure she probably fretted over my cute baby-fat rolls when I was a newborn.
This morning, she was referring to the sleeveless silk blouse I wore tucked into my pencil skirt. “It’s hot out,” I said.
“The castle has air conditioning. Wait here and I’ll get you something to cover up, okay?” Mamma patted my shoulder with a loving smile. “You need to look your best if you are ever to catch a handsome man’s eye.”
“Mamma, please join the rest of us in the twenty-first century.”
“Oh, pfft.” She waved a manicured hand as she turned, her robe billowing behind her. “Just because a woman thinks romance and companionship are important does not mean she’s not a feminist.”
“Coming from the woman who sees her husband a few times a year.”
“Exaggeration,” my mother threw over her shoulder, “and distance does make the heart grow fonder. Your father and I still cannot keep our hands off each other.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I muttered under my breath. My parents’ passion for each other was not something I’d ever questioned. “I’m going!”
“No, coccolona, I’ll be just a minute!”
“And don’t call me that!” My patience ended, and I hurried out of the house before she could stop me.
Coccolona translated to cuddly. I was my mother’s cuddly one. It was her affectionate way of referring to the fact that I was a pudgy child. As a teenager, I’d eaten small meals and never snacked, so I could maintain an impossible weight for my bone structure. I spent most of my time in class holding my belly so people wouldn’t hear it rumbling. And even then, my mother still made comments about my weight. Finally exhausted by the constant dieting, I gave up and embraced the fact that I was born to be a little overweight. Maybe if Mamma wasn’t always pointing out the things I least liked about myself (like my arms!), I’d be more comfortable with my body. I’d be proud of my “tall voluptuousness,” as Allegra called it.
Catching sight of my arms in the reflection of my BMW’s window, I fought the urge to go back into the house to change. It was hot, goddamn it! So I didn’t have slender, toned arms like my mother and Allegra. So what? I’d inherited my figure from my father’s maternal side of the family and that was that.