Page 11 of His Cowboy Heart

My mother’s house smelled of roses.

“Darling,” my mother, Marjorie, breezed in. Her ice blonde hair cropped to her chin, and she wore a beaded tank that made me think of flappers. She kissed me on both cheeks. “When is your gorgeous bride arriving?”

“I thought she’d be here already,” I said.

Mother held me by both arms. “Have I told you how well I think you’ve done?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“She is smart, beautiful, from a . . .”

“Wonderful family,” we said, in unison.

“Well, I see I’ve told you then,” she said, slipping her arm in mine. We walked through the foyer to the back dining room. The staff was laying out a buffet of shellfish, smoked salmon, roast beef, and a sushi bar.

Mom bit her lip as she surveyed the food. “Do you think I got enough gluten free bread?”

“I have no idea.”

“People your age are so goddamn hard to feed,” she said, sighing. “Everyone is allergic to everything. I almost told Ramon to just put labels out that said, this food has been made by locally sourced angels and carried in on the backs of organic butterflies. It has no calories, no fat and it will make you live forever. Anyway, it’s exhausting,” she smiled. “I hope Abigail loves it.”

“She will.”

“Yes, I will,” Abigail said. I felt her slide next to me, her arm pushing my mother’s away. Her lips pressed against my cheek.

“Thank you, Marjorie,” Abigail said. She wore a little black dress with a plunging neckline and swirling skirt. She looked beautiful, athletic, picture perfect. “The house looks so lovely. And the flowers are magnificent. But do you think we should move the bouquet from the banquet to the entry way table perhaps?”

“Of course we should,” my mother said, her smile flickering for one teeny tiny moment. I knew for a fact that mother didn’t want to move the flowers. Events at the New York Mansion were executed per the blueprint of control operating in my mother’s mind. Marjorie Van Rossum knew exactly what she wanted and the fact she was bending her vision for Abigail was almost concerning. Mother claimed that she and Abigail were two peas in a pod, sometimes I wondered if that was a little too close to the truth.

Mother picked up the bouquet and moved it across the room, her coral lips drawn into a tight line.

“And you are a secret keeper,” Abigail said, as she busied herself with a flower arrangement beside the sushi bar. The white-coated staff discretely disappeared as we talked.

“What secret?” I said, helping myself to another whiskey.

“You never told me you summered in Salishan, Washington.”

I took a sip hoping my face stayed neutral, cursing Miguel and his meddling girlfriend.

“Salishan, Jesus Christ,” my mother said, exhaling. Her pearls stood out against her black cashmere sweater.

“I never told you because it’s never mattered,” I said, ignoring mother and taking another drink. Goddamn I never should have left the bar.

“Never mattered. It was just the worst decision of my life,” my mother said, brushing a stray hair off her face. “Vincent and I were divorcing and it was ugly, Abigail. What happened in Salishan is my fault. I sent Troy away with my sister.”

“Mother, let’s not get too dramatic,” I said, knowing that this would open a can of worms, an ugly, squirming, shit storm of worms.

“Your aunt Mayra?” Abigail said, her smile looked strained. I knew she was listening carefully. Maybe Miguel was right. My dream about Shea was a sign that my marriage was doomed. There was no way I was getting out of this by distracting Abigail with a quick fuck. Logistically there were challenges and she looked focused in a way that told me distraction was not an option.

“Oh yes, I guess I could blame my sister,” Mom said, sighing. “New York was just horrid and there was Mayra. She had this crazy idea she wanted to summer in the West, so there they were in Salishan with a big empty house, and Troy had that obsessive cowboy phase.”

“Cowboy?” Abigail looked at me, her expression frozen. “You never said . . .”

“It’s a small town, really boring,” I said. “I was just a kid.”

“It’s a God forsaken place with nothing but apple orchards for miles, I figured Troy couldn’t get into trouble there, boy was I wrong.”

“I think it sounds lovely,” Abigail said, squeezing my arm. “What kind of trouble did you get into?” She turned and smiled at me.

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