Page 65 of A Love Most Fatal
“I—”
“No,” Mom cuts me off. “Yell at each other later. Get out there. Now.”
She transforms her face into a syrupy sweet hostess smile before leaving us with all the dry goods. Her word is law, though, and I follow her out without question.
“Oh, it all makes sense,” Nate mutters near my ear. “I thought you must take after your dad, but I get it now. Yourmommade you scary.”
I elbow him in the side, and plaster on my own smile at his grunt before joining everyone outside.
“Forgive me,” I say. “Work doesn’t break, even for brioche.”
“And what a delicious looking brioche it is,” Nate says, sliding into the seat next to my mother. “Claire outdid herself with this batch.”
“You made this yourself?” Ronaldo’s wife (Lisa) says, wary.
Bitch.
To be certain, my mother did not make that bread, but Lisa is a guest in our home and should outwardly believe all self-aggrandizing lies.
“Of course she did,” I say.
“Well, then you’ll have to share the recipe at our next book club, Claire,” Lisa says.
“Alas,” I suck my teeth. “It’s the kind of recipe that isn’t written, more just felt. Muscle memory. Very difficult to recreate.”
I dip a slice of said bread into an oil vinegar mix. The bread and oil were most definitely made by Leo (his favorite hobby is baking artisan breads) but he’d let my mom take credit for anything if it was at the expense of Lisa Sinclair.
“Thank you for joining us,” I address the table before she can push more about the bread.
“Always a delight to have the Sinclairs for dinner,” Mom says. Bless her, she sounds genuine.
“Nathaniel here is a good addition to your team. He’s sharp,” Ronaldo says, crumbs hanging off his mustache.
Someone who sees sense, he means. A man who sees the worth of his idiot nephews. I turn to look at them instead of justifying that a response. James’s floral shirt is unbuttoned almost to his belly-button, a spare patch of chest hair poking out. I can smell his cologne all the way down the table. Ryan’s beard is too solid, I know he uses makeup to fill it in. I have no problem with men wearing makeup, but Ryan has annoyed me since eighth grade, he could be delivering aid to war-torn countries and I would still be annoyed.
“Long time no see, Mary,” James says. “You hit a growth spurt yet?”
Brave, considering Mary could kill either of them in more ways than any of us could fathom.
“Are you any less of a disappointment to your mother yet?” Mary shoots back and then, with as sweet of a smile as she’s able, she says, “I hear she’s quite enjoying hertravels.”
James and Ryan both scowl at this. Their mom and dad left the country to avoid arrest for tax evasion and the talk is that they’re enjoying their time and frequently visiting swinger resorts. The real pride of our community.
“Leo, Mary, why don’t you help me grab the food?” Mom says. Leo’s chair scratches against the floor as he rushes to vacate the table. Mary follows, her chunky high-heeled boots thumping against the concrete. I hope they know that 5’ 4” or not, she could (and would) crush their throats in those shoes.
A beat of silence hangs in the air while we wait, one that Willa would fill with ease if she was here. She’s with her walking group again, the new generation of Mothers much like our own mom and Lisa’s cohort.
“Ryan, how are you liking your new job?” I ask.
“It’s great,” he says. “NFTs are so much more than we thought at first, really the future of everything. Not just monkeyillustrations. Real ground level shit. You’ll see. Still waiting for you to come visit me.”
As if I have any need for dick head investments. Last thing I need.
“I’ll have my accountants look into it,” I lie. “Or, you know what, Nate’s background is in finance, maybe I’ll send him to talk shop.”
Nate shoots me a look like he would very muchnotlike to talk shop with him. He’s saved from this when Mom, Leo, and Mary exit holding platters of greens, seared chicken, and white wine pasta.
A meal this good should never be wasted on bad company.