Page 78 of Dirty Grovel

As both women glare at me, I clear my throat and gesture towards the table. “Jesse’s slaving away in there. We should do her the courtesy of sitting down and enjoying her food.”

Silence.

It’s like a Western movie. Three gunslingers with fingers twitching toward their triggers.

Sutton is the first to sit.

Then Oksana, still clinging to her spot at the head of the table, does the same, her glare ping-ponging between Sutton and myself.

I can see the plethora of questions circling in her head. But I know my mother. She will believe that asking any of them will make her look uninformed, and by extension, weak.

And Oksana Pavlova never, ever looks weak.

“So, Sutton,” she says, making Sutton flinch violently. “How are you enjoying Nassau?”

She plays with her salad fork. “It’s lovely here. It’s great waking up every day to a view of the ocean.”

Oksana’s eyelid spasms. “I’m sure it is. You do have a talent for being in the right place at the right time.”

“Is that why you and I keep crossing paths like this?”

I have to give it to Sutton. She’s handling this like a pro, almost as though she knew that Oksana was going to appear suddenly in Nassau and shake up the fragile peace we’ve got going.

Again, Oksana’s eyes flutter down to Sutton’s t-shirt. “The Grateful Dead,” she reads with obvious disdain. “Some sort of cult?”

“A band,” Sutton responds calmly. “A really good one, actually.”

“I’ll have to take your word for it. I only listen to classical music.”

“How cultured. I’m afraid I wasn’t exposed to too much classical music growing up. My mother liked heavy metal. Or whatever music her flavor of the month boyfriend was into.”

Oksana’s eyebrows hit her hairline. “Oh my… Did you also get your mother’s fashion sense?”

It’s a little bit like watching a train hitting a volleyball match. I want to look away, I want to step in—but I can’t.

“No, this is all me,” Sutton says, gesturing to her body. “My mother was more of a sequins and tassels kind of gal.”

Oksana’s nose pinches in discomfort. “You make her sound like a stripper.”

Sutton fakes a surprised gasp. “How’d you know?”

“Isshe?” Oksana stutters, her well-honed composure fracturing in the wake of Sutton’s inexplicable decision to share her entire fucking life story with the most condescending woman in America.

“She is,” Sutton says with a bright smile. The minx—she knows exactly what she’s doing. “Or I should say, shewas. She was forced into retirement.”

“By who?”

I shut my eyes as Sutton delivers the final blow with gusto. “The authorities. They arrested her when my sister and I were teenagers. Last I heard, she was still incarcerated.”

With that, Sutton Palmer has succeeded in doing what few others have: rendered my mother speechless.

“You… you cannot be serious,” she says at last.

Sutton simply shrugs. “Of course I am,” she promises. “The Grateful Dead really are a good band.”

I have to bite my fist to stop from laughing.

Oksana’s fluster doesn’t last long. She’s back on her acidic interrogation in no time. “I suppose living in a house like this must be a huge departure for you, then, given your… rough upbringing.”

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