Page 50 of Dirty Little Vow

If I’m looking for a shrine of hate owned by my father, there is only one person I’d call an expert. I dial my mother, who shockingly does not answer. Of course, not. I leave her a message. “Call me. It’s urgent.” I disconnect and my desk phone buzzes.

With a punch of a button, I say, “Yes?”

“The CBS studio head is on the line.”

From there, I’m locked down in back-to-back meetings and I know Bella is as well, confirmed when she calls me about a negotiation she’s in near noon. We debate the contract numbers which has me thinking about José again and his claim that she cried on the anniversary of her mother’s death and then spent the evening in debate with me.

“Also,” she adds, “my brother and father are all-in for this weekend. And I ordered us both lunch we probably can’t even eat together.”

“Bella,” I say, when she would hang up.

“Yes?”

“I hate I don’t know the answer to this question. What is the anniversary of your mother’s death?”

She’s silent a beat. “Why are you asking?”

“Because I should know things like this that impact my future wife.”

“November which makes it hard during the holidays.”

“We should go see your father that day, for the entire holiday, too.”

“Yes. Yes, I think we should.” Her voice cracks. “We’ll plan it this weekend. I have to go. You do, too.”

After a quick goodbye, we hang up and I decide I owe José more than I imagined possible. I just don’t know how to repay a man who wants what he cannot have back—his wife.

I don’t even have time to digest this thought before I’ve got a partner in my office with Allen gossip followed by another. At two, I’m shoving down my food, when my mother calls. “Tyler, honey, any luck weeding through your father’s bullshit?”

“Did my father keep a shrine to my failures?”

“I don’t know about a shrine. He talked about them though.” I can almost see her rolling her eyes. “We fought over you all the time.”

“You did?”

“God, yes. I protected you every chance I got, but I didn’t tell you because, well, I was afraid of weakening you in ways you needed to be strong to endure him.”

“That’s the closest to a motherly comment I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Yes, well, you just don’t remember the rest. You became cold and calculating at a young age and I had to celebrate even if it meant I lost my little boy. It was rough though. If you failed at something, I had to hear about it for years, even more so as those failures became few and far between and he grew competitive in ways that were unnatural. Example: that year in little league when you missed that ball—”

“Can we skip the grade school stories and move to more present day?”

“It’s more of the same. I mean I heard about your first lost rights trial for years.”

“What rights trial?”

“For some actress. All I remember is you lost the case and her. She left the firm.”

Ana Monroe, I think. I know the case well. There were things I should have done differently, mistakes I made that I never made again.

“What is this about?” she asks. “Really about?”

“I’m getting married this weekend in Dallas. And yes, I know you can’t be there. But we’re doing it right in about nine months, probably in Italy. Try to be there, Mom.”

“Why this weekend? That’s fast. Is this about the will?”

“No. More about how damn much she means to me.”

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