Page 64 of Beauty and the Beach
He nods, his normally neat hair a little ruffled. “Make yourself presentable; I’ll stall as long as I can.”
“Please do,” I say, rushing past him.
This is just like them—both my mother and my grandmother. My mother is afraid of Mavis, and when they’re together, she becomes a child—not ingratiating but pouty and entitled. She’s difficult to deal with at the best of times, but when she’s around her own mother, her inferiority complex shines glaring and bright.
This is the last thing I need today.
But, because no one asked my opinion, I take the fastest shower of my life—two minutes flat—and then dry off and get dressed. I almost line the buttons up wrong in my haste, realizing at the last minute.
Mavis is not a woman who can be easily stalled; if I can get out there before she has a chance to make it all the way in, Wyatt won’t have to do as much. He’s never said so, but being around her makes him uncomfortable.
But even though I rush, even though I set personal speed records for everything I do to get ready, it’s no use—by the time I reach my study, the leather seats are occupied by none other than Marshana Butterfield-Park and one very disapproving Mavis Butterfield.
“Thank you, Wyatt,” I say, watching as he passes a cup of tea to each of them.
He ducks his head, his expression as bland and passive as I’ve ever seen it, calm and unruffled. When our eyes meet, he raises his brows just slightly—asking if I want him to stay or go. I nod subtly to my desk, and he bobs his head again too.
I don’tneedhim to stay. But I want him here anyway.
“Please forgive my tardiness,” I say to my mother and Mavis, keeping my voice distant but polite. “If I had known you were coming, I would have been prepared.”
Mavis smirks her thin lips; she understands the censure for what it is, and she’s amused. She’s dressed impeccably, of course, in a tweed suit and blazer with a string of pearls. Her steel curls are set perfectly, and her painted-on brows have a little more arch to them than usual.
My mother, on the other hand, is flashier; she’s wealthy because of the family, but she doesn’t actively participate in the business, and I think it’s something she’s always been insecure about. She wears shinier jewelry than Mavis, brighter colors, thicker makeup. Her hair is much lighter than mine—I get my coloring from my father—and it’s curled neatly around her face, brushing her shoulders.
I don’t like seeing either of them in my home—my sanctuary. All I can do is try to get them to leave.
I straighten my suit coat and then round the desk; Wyatt follows me silently, standing behind my chair and off to one side.
“Do you want to sit?” I say, but he shakes his head, so I take a seat. Then I look at Mavis. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Can’t I check in on my grandson?” she says. “And his new wife?”
“Of course you can,” I say, offering up a prayer of thanks that Holland is still asleep. “But there’s not much to report.” I hesitate and then risk the question: “Unlike yourself, I hear?”
Mavis adjusts her pearls with bony fingers. “How do you feel, knowing I’ll be living for longer than expected?”
I want to tell her I’m frustrated and exhausted from allthe games she plays. I want to tell her that it’s cruel and petty to hold the company over our heads and make us dance like puppets.
I open my mouth to speak—I don’t know what I’m going to say—but in the end, I don’t get the chance anyway. Because at that exact moment, moving like a whirlwind of thunder and lightning, one very tense pajama-clad Holland comes bursting through my office door. She doesn’t knock; she just barges into the room, her eyes spitting fire, her cell phone thrust out in front of her with my earlier text displayed on the screen.
“What isthissupposed to mean?”
Holland
When I becamea victim of the human-sized dog bed internet scam last month, I experienced a brief moment of deepest shame and humiliation.
Realizing I’d been scammed was embarrassing enough, but it was the actual act of reporting it to Beau Palmer at the police station that made me feel like crawling under a rock. Every detail I gave him was excruciating; I wanted the floor to swallow me whole. I wanted to dive into the top of a volcano and never come out, as long as it meant I wouldn’t have to show my face again.
I didn’t expect to feel a similar level of embarrassment so soon afterward. But as I read the text message Phoenix sent me earlier—and then reread it, and reread it again just to make sure I’m not imagining things—an unpleasant heat creeps up my neck, and a little flame of humiliation starts to burn in my chest, growing larger and larger until it’s become an all-consuming bonfire.
I learned earlier this morning that Mavis’s condition is no longer believed to be terminal,the message says.She may in fact live much longer than initially expected. Since these are not the expectations that were in place when you agreed to marry me, I am willing to dissolve our arrangement. If that’s the course you choose, I will still provideMaggie’s tuition as well as any health care fees you need. Please consider the options and let me know of your decision by EOD today.
I sit on the edge of my comfortable, fake-wife bed for probably five full minutes, just staring at my phone, reading the message over and over and over. Then I get up and rush to the bathroom, because I really have to pee—but when I return to my room, I pick the phone back up and read the message once more.
Is he…breaking up with me?
That’s what it sounds like. Mavis isn’t dying after all, which means we could be married indefinitely, and he doesn’t want that.
