Page 26 of False God

“Just pick,” Hugo says. “I’m good with whatever.” He passes his menu to the waitress. “You all set, Lili?”

I hand the waitress my menu. “Yep. I’m good with whatever too.”

7

I’m standing on the patio beside an oversize potted plant, talking to John Cushing, when I see her.

Despite his tendency to use phrases likequantum mechanicsand discuss properties of matter, I enjoy speaking with John. Respect his dedication to learning about the industry he’s involved in rather than just signing checks. And when I reintroduced myself, I was also impressed he’d remembered our conversation last summer.

But focusing on understanding the jargon John is using becomes impossible once the Kensingtons arrive.

They’re part of a large group, eleven in total. Hanson Ellsworth walks in front, conversing with a dark-haired, middle-aged man. Two women—one who appears close to Hanson’s age (his wife, I assume) and the other a blonde who looks a couple of decades younger—are behind them. Scarlett and Lili are next, followed by another man who bears a striking resemblance to the adult Hanson is conversing with. A younger generation trails last, their ages ranging from teenager to early twenties and their expressions varying from resigned to polite.

Lili’s wearing sunglasses and a hat today, so I can’t tell where the woman who took three tries to remember me is looking as she talks to her mother.

Georgia guilted me into coming today, complaining we hadn’t gotten to spend enough time together during my short visit. Tomorrow is the Fourth of July, and I’m flying back to London the following day.

Since my mother is the least maternal woman I’ve ever met, I’m suspicious her insistence on my attendance had more to do with how she wanted to show me off at Derek’s country club than any quality time.

Unlike my sister, I’ve rarely held our mother’s lack of affection against her. She was barely older than Blythe when she married our father—a cold man ten years her senior. And Georgia thrives under attention. She needs to be flattered and admired and coddled to keep from wilting like a neglected flower. She married my father for his title and his money and couldn’t have been more miserable.

I have sympathy for her. More since my father died and I learned how privilege could double as a prison. She kept up appearances for twelve years, trying to supplement the lack of praise from my father with parties and maybe even motherhood. We moved from a London flat to Newcastle Hall—my family’s ancestral seat—just before my tenth birthday. A grand manor, surrounded by twenty thousand acres of gardens, farmland, and woodland.

After we moved, my mother locked herself in her wing of the house for two months. One day, she left and never looked back.

Watching her smile and laugh, flitting between the groups clustered on the patio like a true social butterfly, I’m glad she escaped. But I understand Blythe’s resentment, too, better than anyone. Blythe was only five when our mom fled. Her strongest memory is of Georgia’s absence.

John excuses himself to grab a fresh drink, and my mother seizes the opportunity to call me over to where she’s standing.

“This is my son, Charles,” my mom explains to yet another female friend, gesturing in my direction as I approach. Beaming at me like we’re best friends or two members of one big, happy family.

I’m sympathetic, but I share Blythe’s resentment toward Georgia too. Today especially, when it feels like she’s taking advantage of my presence and using it as a prop. I had to make this trip to New York, and seeing my mother while I was here felt … necessary. A way to prove I was unaffected by her abandonment or that I was different from my unforgiving father. Coming to the city and avoiding her felt juvenile. Right now, I can’t decide if that was the correct decision.

“Pleasure to meet you,” I say politely.

The woman fans a hand toward her face, which is mostly blocked by the broad brim of her hat. “My goodness. What a lovely accent!”

I force my friendly expression to remain fixed in place, relieved when their conversation moves on from me to discussing a party tomorrow.

I tune out their chatter as they talk animatedly, surveying the crowd on the patio instead. My wandering gaze lands on Lili. She’s seated at one of the circular glass tables toward the opposite end of the patio, talking to a blond man. His back is to me, one of his shoulders and the umbrella stand blocking Lili’s face.

“Charles.Charles.”

My mom’s bright smile has dimmed. It’s drawn tighter, webs of wrinkles no injection could combat cracking her enthusiastic expression.

“Yes?” I keep my tone pleasant, but there are traces of exasperation close to the surface.

I’m awfully tired of playing parts. Since I inherited the title, I’ve been the impervious duke. Now, I’m also stuck with acting like the dutiful son.

“Katherine was asking if you’ve enjoyed your visit?—”

A loud shout of “Hannah!” cuts Georgia off.

The blonde woman who arrived with the Kensingtons pauses a couple of feet away, aiming a polite smile at my mother’s friend.

“Hello, Katherine,” the woman—Hannah—greets.

“I didn’t know you would be here this weekend.”

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