But the half of her who’d been the natural prey of women like Tonya Sinclair raised its hackles. Yes, Aidan was a womanizing asshole most of the time. But this time? He was the victim here. The one who’d been used. It served him right; she didn’t wish he hadn’t had the lesson. But she wished she wasn’t about to plead a case for possession of her niece or nephew.
“Mom.”
Maggie paused in the act of gathering her purse.
“Just for the record,” Ava said, tasting bile at the back of her throat, “I’m not someone who wants to be in other people’s baby business. If you know what I mean.”
Maggie stared at her with mixed attention and sympathy. “I do.”
“But I know what it did to Mercy, having a mother who didn’t want him.” An image of Dee Lécuyer filled her mind, the withered prostitute leaned back on her pillows, mocking her son with her dying breath. “If neither of his parents had held on to him…” She shook her head and pushed back the sudden spurt of anger, the tears that wanted to come. “I just think that if Tonya’s going to bring this baby to term, and then give it away – I think the baby deserves to be with blood family. And I think Aidan deserves a chance to figure out what kind of father he can be.”
Her mother kept staring, unnerving a little.
Ava took a deep breath. “Mercy and I talked last night. If Aidan can’t just yet–”
“Oh, baby,” Maggie murmured, reaching to cup the side of her face.
“ – we’ll take the baby. Boy or girl. And raise it as ours, if that turns out to be what’s best.”
Maggie’s smile trembled, then firmed, her eyes suspiciously shiny. Her thumb stroked Ava’s cheek. “You don’t have to, you know.”
“Yes we do.”
“God love you. You two just can’t lay off with the babies, can you?” But her smile widened.
Ava breathed a laugh, tears threatening again. “My man likes kids. What can I say?”
Maggie pulled back and sighed, one of those dreamy grandmother sighs. Then shrugged and steeled her expression, everything about her tightening. She slid her sunglasses into place and sent Ava a smile. “Into battle we go, then. You ready?”
“Armed and dangerous,” Ava assured, and they climbed out of the car.
The front doors swung open before they reached them, revealing a tidy, round man in a sweater-vest and tie, bald head tilted back at an imperious angle.
“Do people still have butlers?” Maggie whispered.
“Apparently they do,” Ava whispered back.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he greeted them in what was decidedly not a welcoming tone. He stepped back and motioned them into a cathedral-ceilinged foyer floored with terrazzo. Ava had an overwhelming impression of sideboards, mirrors in heavy frames, and the light scent of real orchids. “If you’ll wait here” – he motioned to an elaborate wooden bench along one wall – “I’ll inform Miss and Missus Sinclair of your arrival.”
He left them without a sound, non-slip shoes silent on the tiles. His disapproval was plain, though, in the set of his shoulders and the parting sniff of derision.
“Don’t think Jeeves likes us much,” Maggie said, dropping down onto the bench, purse laid across her knees. For some reason, the simple bag took on the air of a weapon, a club ready to be wielded.
Ava snorted and stayed on her feet, arms folding. She caught a glimpse of herself in one of the mirrors, in her fitted leather jacket, black skinnies and heavy, buckle-festooned boots. She looked like a delinquent, and was glad for it.
The butler was back a moment later. “Follow me, please.”
It might have been influenced by classic design elements, but the house was fairly new, and the layout, as they passed through it, proved the point. The foyer fed into a hall that seemed to run the length of the first floor, open concept to various sitting rooms and sun porches. The butler led them to a room full of windows, soft autumn light pouring across a set of white sofas and chaises, a gas fire hissing on the grate. It was a sumptuous room, muted, but full of expensive touches. Touches like, say, the two women seated on either end of one long couch, cozied up with magazines and steaming mugs.
It struck Ava as quietly hilarious and grave all at once. Two mothers, and two daughters, a whole world gaping between them.
Tonya she remembered, coldly beautiful, elegant, with a bitch face to rival Scarlett O’Hara. She was just as beautiful now, but had lost some of her imperious aura, what with the sweatpants and the throw wrapped around her shoulders. Ava recognized all too well the green-around-the-gills look of the first trimester. There was no faking that.
Tonya’s mother was an older mirror image. Her beauty had been weathered, lined, and fleshed out with a little extra mom-weight, but still there, beneath the layers of makeup and hairspray. She wore a stylish yoga getup and loose cowl-neck hoodie, diamonds at her ears and throat, each hair coiffed neatly into place.
Ava jammed her hands in her pockets and rocked back on her heels, curious to see which tack her mother would take.
Maggie decided to go with cheerful. “Well.” She pasted a wide smile on her face, cocked one hip to the side and folded her arms. “I’ve heard so much about you, Tonya, and I’ve seen you across a smoky room. But at last I finally get to meet you.”
