Page 1 of Hat Trick

1

Gwen

Boston, Massachusetts

Like mother,likedaughter.

Is it wrong that I’m desperately hoping that the old adage doesn’t have a lick of truth toit?

My mother, Adaline James-Fuller-Benn-Corwin, thrusts one hand out from beneath her scarlet red sheets. “He’sgone.” Her palm claps down on the fluffy pillow, and I still haven’t had a peek of herface.

Might be for the best. From the streaks of black mascara painted across the pillow, I can’t imagine this morning has been theeasiest.

Unfortunately, we’ve been through this before. Four times and counting. And, considering my mother’s track record for picking husbands who exit stage right in favor of one of her friends . . . well, we’ll probably be here again soonenough.

I settle a hand on her shoulder. At least, Ithinkit’s her shoulder. She’s got so many duvets and pillows and sheets on the bed, it’s tough to tell. I give an experimental squeeze. “Mom, Ty Corwin was an asshole and he never deservedyou.”

“But I lovehim.”

Is love evenreal?

To many, I’m a coldheartedbitch.

I prefer to think of myself as a realist who sometimes likes to paint myself in happy delusions when the going gets tough. But to my mom . . . . I sigh and pull back, glancing over at the clock seated on the gold-leaf fireplacemantle.

After a lifetime of playing Adaline’s mini-me, I’ve slowly come to realize that women aren’t the enemy. Sure, my mother has a shitty friend-making track record. You’d think that after visiting the same country club where you meet both your friendsandyour husbands, it’d be time to fish in some other pond. Not for Adaline. I tend to think it’s the comfort zone factor. Ritzy, upper-class Bostonian gentry mingling with other ritzy, upper-class Bostoniangentry.

Is it any wonder that her relationships implode on theregular?

At this point, Adaline’s monthly sojourns with her friends is like Morse code for orgies. Okay, not quite orgies. But, still, we’re looking atJerry Springer-level stuff—the events aren’t even classy enough forMaury.

According to my mother’s peers, there’s nothing wrong with trading out husbands like a bad hand inpoker.

Personally, I think it’s safe to say that my mother’s opinions can’t betrusted.

At the knock on the door, my chin lifts and I meet the gaze of Manny, my mother’s longtime butler. “Your car is waiting downstairs, MissJames.”

Miss James—formalities aside, Manuel O’Carlo is the only father figure I’ve ever known. If it’d been up to Adaline, no doubt I would be dead from pure neglect. “I’vegot—”

Another hoarse cry rips through the room. “I can’tbelievethe snake bastard! Goddamn snake bastard, sleeping around on me. Can you fuckingbelieveit?”

Oh God, here itcomes.

Manny and I trade side-eye glances, neither of us particularly wanting to inch closer and ward off the impending storm. He makes a little sippy-cup motion with his fingers, squinting hiseyes.

I shake my head—I don’t want tea right now—and stepforward.

He retreats, miming taking bigger and bigger gulps, just before he whirls around and escapes down the hall for afternoon tea he’ll never deliver. No doubt he’ll park himself right by the front door and wait there until I’m ready toleave.

Damn you,Manuel.

As much as I want to escape right along with him, I know that I can’t leave Adaline like this. Even though I’m Zoe’s maid of honor, andeventhough the engagement party has started … my gaze flits to the clockagain.

Now.

The engagement party has startednow.

Crap, crap,crap.

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