Page 4 of The Awful Truth

Xavier gave her a sheepish grin. “But I’m pretty sure if I could relax more, I’d get back in the groove.”

“What groove?” Antonia asked. “You’ve lost over thirty thousand dollars.”

“Mom, you know that wasn’t my fault. Even the biggest traders in the world got caught up in Volmageddon.”

Oh God, why had she said anything? The last thing she needed was to have her son launch into a twenty-minute tirade about the crazy dip in the market earlier that year.

“Your mother and I know that, champ. Besides, Rome wasn’t built in a day,” Ted said, strolling into the closet. He returned with his Briggs and Riley expandable suitcase and put it on the bench at the foot of the bed.

Ignoring him, Antonia gave her son a glare. “You’re not spending the winter surfing and smoking pot in Hawaii. If you’re not going back to school, it’s time you got a real job.”

“Toni, maybe now’s not the time for this discussion. We have to leave for the airport in a few minutes.” Ted lifted his thick-framed hipster glasses and casually rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

Antonia hated those glasses. The woman at the store told Ted they were for young men with strong personalities, and he ate it up, spending two thousand on frames that looked as if they cost seventy bucks.

“Ted, our entitled son is informing us he’s planning to spend yet another winter living off us in paradise. Do you seriously have nothing to say to that?”

Ted’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly at his wife, and in that moment, there was a truth they’d never spoken. They could barely stand each other anymore. It was as if all that love they used to have had slowly been turned into disdain, like a ripe peach that fell from the tree and proceeded to rot right there in the soft grass. “Priorities, Toni. We’re in a rush.”

“If we’re in such a hurry, perhaps you should start packing.”

Xavier and his father exchanged a ‘bitches be crazy’ look that made Antonia want to murder someone.

“That’s what the suitcase is for,” Ted answered, winking at their son.

Nope, do not do it, Antonia. Do not strangle him with your bare hands. Turning to her son, she spoke in a soft, yet firm voice—the one that indicated she was about to blow. “Xavier, no parties. And when we get back, be ready to give us your plan for the future.”

With that, she walked into the en suite and shut the door, so she could pack her toiletries in peace. Taking a moment to stare at herself in the mirror, she hated what she saw—a bitter, aging woman who let her children get away with murder, then snapped at them as punishment for her own failings. And if that weren’t bad enough, she was starting to look her age even though she’d spent a fortune on laser skin treatments and oxygen facials, and covered every white hair with blond. It was the heaps of stress that were aging her, and unlike her husband, whose fine lines and salt and pepper hair made him distinguished, she was just getting old. But maybe, someday, if she could free herself of the treadmill, eventually she’d recognize the woman in the mirror again.

Lifting her eyelids, she whispered, “Just get this over with. You don’t have a choice.”

SEVEN DAYS BEFORE THE INCIDENT

"A happy marriage is a long conversation which always seems too short." ~ André Maurois

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 6

LONDON, ENGLAND

MIGUEL RAMIREZ-TAGGART

“No. Nothing beige. Remove anything beige.” Miguel Ramirez-Taggart swept his hand at the racks of designer clothes lining the south wall of the reception room.

The racks had been brought in a few minutes earlier and were every bit out of place as Miguel himself was in the five-story mansion in London’s Mayfair neighborhood. Only two blocks from Hyde Park (the good side, close to the winter wonderland skating rink), and four blocks from Buckingham Palace (which is all good sides, of course). The home had been in his husband’s family for three generations, and Miguel was certain that none of Winslow Taggart V’s forefathers would’ve ever imagined that their future heir would not only marry a man, but an American.

A Cuban American, at that.

The mansion had a roof-top terrace, eight bedrooms—each with its own en suite—as well as powder rooms on the main, third, and fourth floors, for a grand total of eleven toilets. Every inch of the home was elegant, tasteful, and thoughtfully laid out. It was the definitive opposite of the home in which Miguel grew up.

The Ramirez family lived in a noisy three-bedroom bungalow with one toilet, on the street farthest from the ocean of any street within the Miami city limits. It was decorated with laundry baskets heaped full of either dirty clothes waiting their turn for the overworked washing machine or clean clothes that most likely would never be folded, but picked through instead until they eventually disappeared. He had three sisters and no brothers, despite his parents’ best efforts.

When he met Winslow, Miguel had nothing but his charm, good looks, and a great sense of style, which, it turns out, was the winning combination to snag a handsome older gent from across the pond with so much money, it would be nearly impossible to drain his bank accounts down to the last drop. If anyone could do it, however, it would be Miguel, which is why his darling husband continued to work twelve-hour days as a hedge fund manager, rather than retiring to enjoy the good life. Except today, Winslow had made an exception and came home in time to shop.

The clothes had been brought in by Byron Parker, the senior stylist of Harrods’ men’s department. Byron, a god of fashion in London, rarely made in-home appearances himself. He almost exclusively sent out one of his many minions to do this type of thing. But if the right person with the right address (on Charles Street) and the right budget called, Byron would drop everything to be there. This was a fact that thrilled Miguel to no end. The entire ritual was delicious. Walking into the reception room, his eyes greedy to devour all of the luxurious fabrics, patterns, and textures, knowing that whatever he wanted, he could have. Anything. Price was irrelevant. It would have been if he was paying for it himself. His earnings as an interior designer would come as a delightful shock to his parents, but if he were on his own, he would still be forced to pick and choose a few key pieces each season. And Byron would not be making house calls.

Winslow—who was seated on one of four olive-green structured sofas in the giant room—glanced up at Byron from above the rim of his reading glasses. “I’ll happily take all of his beige.”

Byron smiled at Winslow, but before he could say anything, Miguel said, “Nope. No beige for him either. Yachting is all about color and luxury and fun.”