A flash of an earlier Thanksgiving pops into my head. It’s the memory of the two of us eating at a diner out by the highway. The waitress gave me an extra piece of pie when my mom vanished after dinner into the cab of a truck in the parking lot.
This show has all the trappings—everything she could never give me.
“Your hair looks so pretty today,” she gushes, fingering a tendril as she passes me. “Did you spend all morning pinning that up? You look so tired.”
I glance at my reflection in the large gold-framed mirror over the sideboard. The truth doesn’t seem as humble as it’s meant to be, which is that I threw it up on the way out of my room to avoid doing anything elaborate. “Yes,” I say instead. “It took a little while.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Keep it long while you can. Men like it. It makes you look more youthful.” The glance she gives me is pointed. “Much like getting enough sleep.”
“I am youthful,” I reply, following her back to the kitchen. “And I don’t care what men think.”
“Is that why you told Daniel you didn’t want him covering your tuition?” she asks, her harried expression adopting an undercurrent of tension that takes me off guard. The Lords and Daniel are in the living room, standing rigidly around the big screen and acting as if they’re talking about football. Killian’s game isn’t until Saturday, and although he isn’t playing because of his injury, he’ll travel with the team for the game this weekend. “Is it?” mom repeats, giving a cucumber a pointed chop. “You’re too good for our money all of a sudden?”
I work my way through a series of fast blinks, uncertain what to say. Uncertain of what he’s told her. Stammering, I lie, “I-I just didn’t want to bother him anymore.”
“That’s what family is for, Story.” The way her mouth pinches into an unhappy moue makes her feelings on the matter clear. As far as she’s concerned, everything is normal. I should be happy—no, grateful—to take my stepfather’s money to pay for college and anything else he wants to give me. Even if his plan is to exploit me like every other woman that crosses his path.
“Mom,” I start, shifting uncomfortably. It’s a risk to bring this out in the open, but it seems like more of a risk not to. “Do you know anything about…er, the Velvet Hideaway?”
The knife hits the counter with a sharp clatter. “Honestly, Story.” She levels with me a fiery gaze. “Who do you think you’re talking to? Do I know about the Velvet Hideaway?” She scoffs, swiping her hands against her crisp, new apron. “I know everything about the Hideaway. I’m the one who named it!”
My head snaps back in shock. “What?”
She props a hand against the counter, looking deceptively casual. “You’re old enough that I don’t need to tiptoe around these matters anymore. You know what I used to do.”
“Yeah, but…” Staggered, I struggle to regain my footing. “You’re not…I mean, not anymore. Right?”
Perhaps it’s the wariness in my voice that makes her spine snap straight. “Of course not! Don’t be absurd!” She reaches for the knife, eyes focused on its blade as she chops. “I’m a wife now, entirely faithful to my husband. I don’t need to do those things anymore. But I also have experience and wisdom. If I were buying property, don’t you think I’d ask Daniel for advice? I know you probably don’t understand this yet,” she says, sliding me a significant look, “but a marriage is a partnership. I took one look at that rotten hovel down on the Avenue and told him in no uncertain terms that he could do better. That he should do better—by his girls, and by the clients. I don’t know how this may seem to you, but I make my contributions, missy.”
My face screws up in distaste. “So you…helped him open that place?”
Her gaze sharpens. “Don’t give me that look. I saw an opportunity to better the situation of other women who were struggling. Women whose positions I used to be in. Women who might raise children like you. Don’t you dare turn your nose up at that.” Beneath the anger, I can see it. The flash of hurt.
It makes my stomach sink. “Mom, I didn’t mean—”
With a clipped voice, she cuts me off. “Especially considering it was good enough for you.”
My blood turns to ice, pulse stampeding in my ears. It takes me three tries to eke out a response. “What are you talking about?”