Page 34 of Hat Trick Holidate

Since I can smell myself, I decide to shower and change before they return. While washing my hair and scrubbing my face, I find myself smiling, thinking about Jolie and Emmaline walking hand in hand down the street.

I wrap a white towel around my hips and shave. My phone vibrates against the marble counter, and I see an image of Jolie on the swings. She’s wearing a dress, but she has on a pair of miniature Nike Dunks. Her feet are high in the air, and she’s leaning back with her golden hairstreaking through the air with exhilaration painted on her face.

And I want to spend my life making my little girl smile.

It reminds me to call Francesca. Her phone rings several times as I walk downstairs to grab a bottle of water. Just when I think I’m going to voicemail, she answers, “What? Is Jolie okay?” she asks, screaming above the techno music thumping in the background.

“We need to talk.”

“What?”

I shout, “Go somewhere you can hear me, now. We need to talk.”

She huffs and puffs into the phone, but the background music is waning. “I’m in the bathroom. What do you want?”

What do I want? Is she kidding?

“I’ve called twice and left messages, and you can’t find a half hour to return my calls about your daughter.”

“Get to the point.” Her voice is full of irritation. I can almost envision her wearing a tight spandex dress that hugs her slender frame, made up like a Barbie, rolling her eyes and jutting her hip out like I’m a pesky fly she’s trying to get rid of.

I let out a heavy breath. “Jolie hasn’t spoken a word since you dropped her off. Did she talk at home with you?”

“Of course. She must be uncomfortable with you.”

“You think? Damn it, Francesca, you just left her and didn’t let her ease into it. You didn’t stay for a couple of weeks and let her get to know me a little at a time. No, you snuck out of my house and left her. How could you leave this precious girl? She’s your daughter,” I say. I started out like a freight train, but now my voice is losing steam.

“Did you call to tell me what a bad mother I am?”

Maybe.

I grab the bottle of water and a protein bar from the iron basket on the counter and walk into the den. Frustrated, I run my fingers over my jaw and demand, “Just tell me about her speaking.”

“She’s a brat. Whenever she doesn’t get her way, she decides not to speak. Jolie is stubborn. But yes, she can and does speak.”

“What can I do to get her to speak to me? All she does is nod or blink.”

“I don’t know. Lukas knew something was wrong with her and said she couldn’t possibly be his.”

I mumble, “Yeah, cause he’s so fucking perfect.” I clear my throat. “So, there’s nothing to make her want to talk?”

“No, we just ignored it.”

What a piece of work.

“Why did you only pack dresses and dress shoes for her? She doesn’t have any pants or sweaters. It’s almost winter. And did she go to school before she came to live with me?”

“She needs to look like a little lady,” she says nonchalantly, as if she’s talking about a doll and not her daughter.

I took a deep breath, attempting to calm down, but I’m so angry that she would do this to her own flesh and blood. Just up and left her. “And why didn’t Lukas teach her to ice skate?”

“Because it’s not fucking lady like. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my husband and friends.”

“You do that.” I press my thumb on the end call button and throw the phone onto the couch. Thank God I didn’t throw itagainst the wall because I don’t have time to get another one. My feet feel like they’re stuck in mud, and I’m sinking with no way to get through to Jolie because her mother is trash.

I turn and find Emmaline staring at me, and I’m not sure why. Closing the distance between the girls and me, I say, “I love your shoes. Are those Nike Dunks?”

Jolie shakes her head in excitement.

---