Page 99 of Beautiful Liar

Part Three

Quinn

27

THE MARISLASIS

The first time I heard the term I was twelve years old.

The Greater Good.

The definition seemed strange to me.

How could sacrificing what you want in favor of what someone else wanted be a good thing? It’s possible it was the first time I realized something was wrong with me.

I was a spoiled, pampered, only child. The male offspring of two powerhouse dynasties who could make grown men cower before me from the moment I realized what true power was. Sacrifice wasn’t in my vocabulary. Neither were words like reasonable or considerate.

One particular word that was totally alien to me was sharing.

I didn’t share. Period. The fact that I had to share my mother with my father was a huge problem for me from the day I was born. Learning to swallow that bitter pill on a daily basis was enough of a sacrifice in my opinion.

So imagine my surprise when I realized this sharing nonsense was truly a thing. That people actually participated in it. Of their own free will.

But even then, I was jarringly aware that what he was asking of her that night didn’t seem right.

Mothers and fathers were supposed to love each other. Only each other. Right?

So seeing him lead her down the hallway to the guest suite was disturbing enough. Odder still was the super skimpy nightie she wore. Mama’s nighties were always long and flowing, with a robe over it with a train that made her look like a queen.

Not tonight, though. Tonight she looked like one of those girls in the cheap magazines Wesley, my driver, hides beneath the car seat when he sees me coming. The idiot doesn’t know I have my own, superior, collection thanks to Armand, our gardener.

But I digress.

Mama. Looking un-queen like. In the part of the house that’s far away from the bedroom suite she shares with my father.

I should be in bed. But I’m rarely able to sleep when we have guests. For one thing, everyone wants a piece of Mama, and sometimes my annoyance at having to work for her attention keeps me up at night. She’s mine and mine alone.

Her sole attention is what makes my world turn.

Call it what you will…some fucked up Oedipal Complex? Yeah, I know what it means. I looked it up after I heard some asshole joke about it in reference to me and Mama when we were at the country club the other day. Maybe that’s what I have. There’s nothing remotely sexual about the connection I have with my mother, but who cares what other people think? All I know is that I’m never happier than when she’s smiling at me. Hugging me. Laughing at the jokes I meticulously scour books, TV shows and magazines to find and tell her. Watching her face blossom with happiness when she sees me is like seeing the sun come out after a horrible thunderstorm.

I hate those. Thunderstorms. I also hate it when she’s not smiling.

Tonight, she’s not smiling. She crying.

The sound triggers a series of memories. I frown when I realize I’ve heard it before. The sound of her crying. I never thought much about it because I always assumed it was Mrs. Harper, our overly emotional housekeeper who cries at the drop of a hat, especially when she’s with Mama. The few times I heard the crying, it would turn out to be Mrs. Harper, not Mama. Mama would always smile a happy smile when she saw me.

But tonight her cheeks are wet. Her shoulders are hunched over as Maxwell, my father, leads her down the hallway to the double doors of the guest suite.

Captain Harrington’s suite.

My concern for her makes me leave my hiding place behind the huge grandfather clock in the guest wing. I creep closer along the wall, making sure to stay in the shadows. My heart bangs against my ribs in fear and confusion as Mama holds her fist against her mouth.

“You agreed, Adele. You don’t want to let me down, do you?”

Mama shakes her head.

Maxwell nods in satisfaction and kisses her gently on the forehead. His gentleness with her makes my anger with him abate a touch. But my heart is still racing, my brain utterly perplexed at what is happening.

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