Page 134 of Loving Whiskey

Chapter 56

Grace

Thisiseitherthegreatest idea I’ve ever had or the worst. I pull the strap to my jacket tight around my belly. I’m actually amazed the trench coat still fits. Well, barely. Honestly, I think it gives me a little street cred, like I’m a spy rather than a pregnant woman dabbling in an activity she has no business entertaining.

Because that’s what I’m doing right now. Spying on my mother. Trying to figure out why it matters to her who Cash is and what she plans on doing with that information. And then I’m going to go home and beg my boyfriend to forgive me and come up with a plan to save his company if, God forbid, I’m right about my mother.

What is she doing in Boston?

It’s what was most surprising when I had her cellphone pinged.

Even I was impressed that I’d figured out how to have that done. But one of Rachel’s friends is a computer whiz, and she was able to do it with little effort.

I stare up at the apartment that my mother apparently occupies. She hasn’t left this location for the last few hours. Rachel is keeping tabs.What are you up to, Mom?

Guess it’s time to find out. I thank the Uber driver and head up the steps of the brownstone, finding a listing on the front door with four different families’ names on it. My heart hammers in my chest as I read the one at the top.Edward James.

James.

Edward James.

Oh, Mom, what did you do?

Out of ideas and aware that it’s time to face the music, I hit the buzzer and pray this is all a mistake. “Please let my mother not be here. Please let this be a strange coincidence,” I mumble breathlessly, my hands twitching by my side.

“Hello,” my mother’s voice croons over the intercom system. My breath stops. I turn back around to look for the Uber which is long gone, and my mother’s voice echoes again, “Hello, is anyone there? If this is—” she starts, and I slam my finger on the button again to talk.

“Mom, it’s me, Grace.”

I’m met by silence. Clearly, she was as unprepared for this reunion as I am.

My lips twist together as I try to figure out what to say. Before I have the chance to backtrack, or demand answers, she interrupts me. “Come on up.” Her tone is resigned, as if she knew this conversation was inevitable.

I just wish I knew what the conversation was going to be. The ideas that are floating in my head are crazy. This can’t possibly betheEdward James. Cash’s dad. That’s…insanity. Freaking crazy. Not possible.

And yet…when it comes to my mother, I’m not sure I’m even that surprised.

I take the stairs slowly, annoyed that on top of being confused, I’m now going to be out of breath when I reach the door. If this istheEdward James,he’s really slumming it in comparison to his children. I doubt any one of them would live somewhere without an elevator. And with only four floors. Oh, the humanity.

As I reach the top step and round the corner, I see my mother standing outside the door, her fingers wringing together in nervousness. Her hair is layered stylishly like always, and she wears a pair of cream slacks with a gold belt, a cream top, and a frown. Always beautiful, always miserable, Lily Winter in the flesh.

“I take it you know,” she says simply.

No. I know very little. I suspect many things but have very little concrete knowledge. However, seeing as how I’m still huffing from my trek to the top, and I’m curious how much information she’ll spill, I nod.

“Come in then.” She motions for me to follow as if it’s not odd at all that I’m finding her at a random apartment on a Thursday evening with the name James on it.

Inside, the apartment is all light colors—beiges, rich blues, and honeys. The couch is pretty but doesn’t look comfortable, there are no candles or decorative pillows, but there are a few pictures lining the shelves, and I feel the nausea roll through my stomach.

A man who looks decidedly a lot like Carter with whiskey eyes taunts me with his arm wrapped around my mother in picture after picture. Photographs that span years.Decades.

My mother in a red dress I remember her wearing to drop me off to Marion’s house before my first day of school in eighth grade. Her hair past her shoulders, her eyes absent of wrinkles, and a smile I can’t remember my mother ever sporting. She was always put together, always smiling outwardly when we were around people, but she was never genuinely happy. Not the kind of happy she appears to be in this picture.

Absently, I pick it up and groan.

“Don’t be dramatic, Grace,” my mother reprimands, as if she can hear my thoughts.

I replace it on the shelf and pick up the next photo. She has her hair cut into a bob, more blonde, and a few more wrinkles. This must have been when I was about eighteen, because the following Christmas she had a new set of breasts and her laugh lines had disappeared. They haven’t made an appearance since that year.

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