Glancing at my wrist, I noted the time.
Five fifty-five p.m.
Scott had texted that they were eating at the club and would be late. Still, Julia Kate had school the next morning, so they would be back soon. Poor Julia Kate. I had been thinking only of myself for the past few hours, but how would our daughter deal with the knowledge her father had cheated? That our family would be no more. The image of her tear-streaked face flashed before me. Maybe I should stop what I was doing. Maybe I should forget about what I had heard and just go along to get along.
Or maybe I should find out the truth before I decided anything.
I ran a finger along the cut tape of the box, wondering what Scott had been hiding.
When I had left the store that afternoon, I had driven aimlessly for a good thirty minutes before stopping at the liquor store that carried my favorite wine and nabbing two bottles. I saw the treasurer of the Caddo Magnet PTA buying vodka, chatted with her like my whole world wasn’t imploding, grabbed a bottle of Grey Goose just in case, and then drove home only to find my mother pulling weeds in my front flower bed. It was nearly cocktail hour when I pulled into our drive, which was why it startled me to see my mother bent over, fanny wagging as she jerked stringy growth from my pine-strawed beds. My mother adored a martini or a stout whiskey each afternoon.
I didn’t bother pulling the van into the garage. Instead I stopped on the flagstone drive with the thyme crisscrossing it and lowered the window. “What are you doing, Mother?”
She tilted the brim of her big floppy hat with a gloved hand and glanced toward me. “Pulling up this nut grass. Your beds look unseemly. The way you keep your house is a reflection of who you are.”
My mother found fault with almost everything I did, wore, or said. Let’s not even get into my hairstyle. I had become mostly impervious to her passive-aggressive digs. After all, ignoring my mother was the only sport in which I had ever excelled. Gold medal worthy. “Well, I appreciate the free labor.”
Her downturned mouth reminded me of the grumpy jack-o’-lantern Julia Kate and I had carved the previous fall for the annual Shine on Line. Not that my mother was round or orange. No, quite the opposite. My mother was country club thin with creamy skin she slathered with Pond’s cold cream every night of her life. She lived to seek and destroy age spots, and Dr. Feliz Miranda, plastic surgeon to south Shreveport, had been receiving holiday cards from my mother for well over thirty years.
My mother rose and arched her back. With a wince, she removed her gloves and eyed the small clumps of weeds dotting my walkway. “Get Scott to put those in the trash. Not the compost heap. They’ll spring back up next year like a bad penny if you don’t.”
Of all the people in the world who could be at my house an hour or so after I’d found out Scott might be having an affair—and with an attractive, fit former tennis star at that—my mother was the absolute worst. I would welcome a terrorist over her. Come to think on it, my mother was a terrorist. She knew exactly how to get me to do what she wanted, utilizing a network of intimidation, propaganda, and guilt. I loved her. I did. But she was a piece of work, as most would say.
“Okay, Mother.” I shut my van door, opened the vintage Louis Vuitton bag I carried, and used the key fob to lock the vehicle. “Would you care for a cup of coffee? Or tea?”
“You know I require a vodka martini,” my mother said, folding her gardening gloves and placing them in the Chanel tote she always carried with her in lieu of a purse. Inside the expensive canvas, the woman had everything from Xanax to an extra pair of underwear. Marguerite Sutton Quinney was never unprepared.
Juggling the brown bag from the liquor store, I punched in the code for the front door. “I got liquor right here.”
Pippa, our energetic Italian greyhound, skidded into the foyer with a low growl. Upon recognizing me, she ran elegant little circles, her tail whipping in a frenzy as she gave me the greeting she thought I deserved. Of course, Pippa nearly knocked my mother down. Maybe if the woman ate a few carbs, she would be more stalwart against my affectionate canine.
“Really, Catherine, you should keep this animal in a crate. Dogs are not to have free rein of a house. Louie and Martine are always kenneled.”
I rolled my eyes and bent to receive the balm of true love from the only creature who loved me no matter what. Louie and Martine were ridiculous teacup poodles who my mother kept on pillows next to her velvet settee, where she plotted her Machiavellian takeover of my life. Being an only child wasn’t for the faint of heart. My friends used to be jealous. They hadn’t thought about what all that single-minded attention did to an awkward girl. My father had vamoosed with Crystalle, leaving me the sole target of Marguerite. Only my grandmother had been able to take my mother down a peg. She’d taught me some of her tricks （ignore her and do what you want）， but not enough to give me much peace.