The Art of Scandal(59)
He had to change the subject before his desire to defend Rachel overrode his common sense. Beto could be ruthless, but that was all-business. When it came to her sons, Sofia had a vicious streak that was extremely personal.
Nathan never brought anyone home, so his dates were spared Sofia’s venom. Joe always looked like a soldier recounting war stories whenever the subject of Mia meeting Sofia came up. “Mom hates the Williams family. And me loving Mia made her hate them even more.”
Zara hadn’t fared any better, though she definitely tried harder to win Sofia over. She always arrived with a gift, something expensive and handcrafted that she’d picked up while she was filming. Nathan remembered the year she’d invited them all to Brooklyn for New Year’s and served six courses on an elaborately decorated table that was supposed to represent tranquility and rebirth. As soon as she left the room, Sofia righted a crooked candle and told Joe that his wife was trying too hard. “It’s supposed to look effortless, but we can all see the seams.”
Nathan wasn’t interested in hearing his mother go in on Rachel, so he quickly changed the subject. “How’s Beto doing?”
She pulled out her makeup compact again. He was starting to understand its function better now: a fancy fidget spinner. “Your father is your father. He works. I never see him.”
“Have you talked to him about it? Asked him to spend more time with you? Or to—”
“To what? Become the sort of dying man who counts his blessings? I’m not a magician, Nathaniel. Just the wife.” She ran a hand up and down his arm. “I’d rather focus on my boys.”
Abuelita used to tell Nathan not to believe his own eyes when it came to his mother. “I told your father not to trust a novela actress. Only a fool marries a woman who pretends to fall in love for a living.” She would grab her crucifix and rub it, like she was warding off the memory. “He didn’t listen. And he chose her, over me, every time.”
Sometimes, Nathan thought that was what his mother feared most: that stealing someone’s son created a debt you eventually repaid by losing your own.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Before Matt was launched into the public eye, the average person had probably never heard of the Abbotts, despite being on a Forbes list of America’s Richest Families. If it was up to Matt’s parents, things probably would have stayed that way. People with generational wealth understood the power of anonymity. They knew that shady offshore accounts and tax loopholes only mattered to anyone if you mattered to anyone. There were levels of invisibility: ignored and undetected. The Abbotts preferred being the latter.
Matt, as the spoiled first son, tended to flail when he wasn’t the center of attention. Rachel had seen that side of him when they were dating, when he’d grow irritable around her café friends, who were never as impressed with him as he needed them to be. But back then, she didn’t consider it a red flag. She thought he wasn’t loved enough. But as the years wore on, she realized that it was entitlement. It was living in a world that was constantly rearranged to accommodate your seat at the table.
If Rachel was given anything resembling a seat by the Abbotts, it was an uncomfortable stool, wedged in a dark corner with a wobbly leg that constantly threatened to throw her off-balance. But Faith was different. She had come into the Abbotts’ lives still young and impressionable. Maybe they liked the idea of molding her into the perfect Black Abbott since Rachel had too much baggage to be comfortably claimed. Or maybe they wanted a parenting do-over—to feel like they could love a child without ruining them. They doted on her in ways that, according to Matt, they never extended to their own children. They showed up at boring dance recitals and bought cookies they wouldn’t eat to support her fundraisers. They threw elaborate birthday parties with Disney characters in the middle of their formal dining room. For Faith, they didn’t just offer a chair at the Abbott table, they threw the whole dining set out and built a new one.
During Faith’s weekend visit, Rachel and Matt had executed a carefully choreographed avoidance routine in which they were never together in the same room with her for long. By Sunday they’d run out of excuses, and Faith wouldn’t accept the campaign or the gala as a reason for skipping an Abbott family dinner. The fifteen-minute drive was torture. Matt announced that he was in the mood for car karaoke, something they hadn’t done since Faith was twelve. He cranked up Billy Joel to earsplitting levels and warbled “Piano Man” while Faith lip-synched along out of pity.
All of the Abbotts had dressed in their usual uniforms to attend the dinner in Faith’s honor. Matilda was the unimpressed academic matriarch, dressed in beige layers from head to toe, as though her massive brain couldn’t be bothered to deal with color coordination. She never wore jewelry or accessories because, like everything else, they made her bored and impatient. She greeted Matt and Rachel with a half-hearted gesture that could have been either a wave or dismissal. Faith, however, was given eye contact and asked whether she was old enough for a cocktail.
Ben was the emo poet who was too busy pondering the mortal coil to greet anyone. He stood in a dark corner, wearing a dark suit, and watched them all through dark eyes and an even darker expression. His glass was filled with whiskey that he sipped slowly while glowering at his older brother. He tried to catch Rachel’s eye, but she avoided his gaze, and was relieved when Faith finally coaxed him into playing a game of chess.