Page 5 of The Price of Scandal
“I’m talking to your father about cutting off his credit cards,” Mom said, neatly carving off a microscopic sliver of chicken.
It was an empty threat, and everyone but she knew it.
“I’m sure he’ll settle down someday,” I placated.
I was sure of no such thing.
My brother made bad choices like it was a compulsion. And my parents bailed him out, unable to stomach the idea of their baby boy suffering the consequences.
“Even worse,” Mom continued. “He said he isn’t coming home for the gala later this month. What could be so important in the Mediterranean that he can’t come home for one little appearance?”
“I don’t know, Mom,” I said, wishing I would have at least ordered a glass of wine.
“So you’ll need to take his tickets,” she continued.
I put my fork down. “Mom, I am booked solid for the next two months. This IPO is—”
“Darling, I know it’s not fair that you have to keep making up for Trey’s messes, but that’s just the way it is,” she said, steamrolling me with a flick of her Tiffany tennis braceleted wrist. “We have a—”
“Responsibility,” I said for her. The word tasted more bitter on my tongue than the kale. “I don’t have the time in my calendar for more responsibilities.”
“Emily, I don’t ask for much from you,” she said.
Except to pick up Trey’s slack for his entire life. To never do anything fun or interesting that could cause you untoward attention at the club. To focus my entire life on finding the proper husband so you can play hostess at a multi-million-dollar wedding.
“We need to put on a united front. Your father’s ex-wife will be there,” she said as if that explained it all.
“Which one?” I asked, tossing my napkin on my plate. I’d find a protein bar at the office.
It had nothing to do with the cause. Rainforests or homelessness. There was nothing more important to my mother than showing up at Dad’s ex-wives’ functions and rubbing his checkbook in their faces.
I had nothing against the two women who’d tried to get the great Byron Stanton II to settle down before Venice. In fact, I was a fan of the second one. Unlike my mother, I didn’t have the luxury of time that a good vendetta required.
“So you’ll come? It’s only one night of your life. What could be more important?”
I gritted my teeth, mentally juggling my events, appearances, and meetings. If I said no, it would only lead to two straight weeks of guilt trip phone calls culminating in my father showing up in my office and demanding that I make an appearance to save my parents’ marriage. It was just easier to say yes. “Of course.”
Someday, I vowed, I would take a week off on a private island with no internet access, no cell service, and only a very attractive man to entertain me.
“Wonderful. I’ll have Esme send you a picture of my gown. We want to complement each other but not match. Oh, and you’ll need to bring a date. I’m happy to find one for you,” she offered innocently.
Glancing at my blank smart watch, I feigned a wince. “Uh-oh. There’s a crisis at the office,” I lied.
Mom was nonplussed. “There’s always a crisis,” she complained. “I never get any time with you.”
We had lunch every week. A shopping excursion once a month. And dinner every other Sunday at her house.
“I need to head back. I have a date tonight,” I said, pulling my phone out of my tote and texting Jane.
“A date?” Mom perked up. I could almost see the visions of golden-haired babies in Givenchy onesies that danced in her head.
“A first date,” I said. I felt the usual low-level guilt of cutting our lunch short—again—and wanted to leave her with something that would cheer her up.
“Text me his particulars,” Mom insisted as I signaled for the check. “Do I know him? I’m sure I know him.”
“It’s Merritt Van Winston,” I said, slipping my credit card in the leather book.
“Oh! He’s friends with your brother on Instagram,” she said brightly, scrolling through her phone.
