Page 35 of The Client
“You go to the gym too, Mom. Is that work?”
“I go to yoga! It’s different. But you need a real hobby. A diversion. Or…well, I don’t know. I think a bit of female company would do you a world of good.”
“Mom. Not this again. Please.”
“You’ve been alone, what, three or four years now? Ever since—”
“Nope. Done talking about this. And it’s only been two years and eleven months.”
“See? This is exactly what I’m saying. You’re still hung up on her. Why don’t you just put yourself out there and see what happens?” she says, her voice all sweet and innocent.
Inwardly, I cringe. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but I’m not dating right now.”
“Because you’re heartbroken, or because you’re a workaholic? Honestly, I—”
“Because I’m already seeing someone!” I blurt, in a desperate attempt to quiet her.
The line goes so silent that I have to check to see if the call dropped. It didn’t.
“Mom? You there?”
“Who is she? How long have you been dating? Why didn’t you tell me? What’s her name? Oh, Rhys, you’ll have to bring her for dinner on Sunday! You will, won’t you?”
I try to make up excuses for why Izabela can’t make it, but I already know I’ll have to bring her with me. Mom’s so excited, I can’t possibly disappoint her. And if I do leave Izabela at home, I know Mom will just keep on begging me to bring my new girlfriend around. Better to get it over with as quickly as possible.
Still, there is some good in this. I’ll get a break from the frequent, well-meaning nagging about dating, and my mom won’t be upset if news of my new relationship suddenly gets splashed across the front pages of the tabloids. Plus, Mom will be over the moon knowing that I’m not the perpetually lonely bachelor she thinks I am. Her peace of mind—even if it’s only temporary, since Izabela and I need to “break up” in six months—is worth a little discomfort on my end.
The truth is, Mom is my soft spot. I indulge her at every opportunity. My father treated her terribly during their five years of marriage (he cheated, he lied, he treated her more like his personal assistant than his partner), and since she’d signed a prenup, she walked away from a very ugly divorce with nothing but the clothes on her back and joint custody of me.
Dad tried to get full custody for no reason other than to make her life hell, but she’d fought him tooth and nail in court. I ended up getting shuffled back and forth between them for the next fifteen years. It didn’t matter that my father had money coming out of his ears, or a huge mansion, or that he let me run around unsupervised when I stayed with him. Mom was far and away the better parent. She worked her ass off as an international sales rep for a fragrance company to provide me with a stable, comfortable life, and we’ve always been close.
As soon as I started making real money at my grandpa’s company, it was Mom’s turn to be stable and comfortable. A lot more comfortable. I bought her a Victorian style beach house in Highland Park with a view of Lake Michigan in her own backyard, and I told her she could retire early, but so far she’s refused. Still, I’m proud that I’m able to help her. It’s the least I can do.
After I finish my workout and shower, I go home and eat dinner with Izabela.
As she’s squeezing lemon into her iced tea, I tell her, “Sunday night we have dinner plans.”
She looks up at me. “Where? What time? How should I dress?”
I hesitate, but there’s no sense in keeping it from her.
“My mother’s house. Six o’clock. Just wear whatever you’d wear to your own parents’ house for dinner.”
The way she flinches back for just a moment tells me I’ve hit a nerve.
“Are you not close?” I ask more gently, thinking of my dad. “There’s no shame in that.”
“It’s not that. They, um. Passed away almost ten years ago,” she says, dropping her eyes.
God, she was just a kid when it happened. How awful. Part of me wants to put an arm around her, offer some kind of comfort. But that’s not the relationship we have. Not the one I paid for and not the one I want. All I can offer is a sympathetic nod.
“Besides,” she goes on, “my parents weren’t wealthy like your family is. I’d probably just wear a sundress and sandals, but I’m sure you’d prefer something more formal.”
“No. Mom isn’t like that. She’s not into flashy, pretentious things like my father is. And she doesn’t judge. Wear the sundress.”
* * *
We arriveat Mom’s house at six sharp on Sunday. Izabela’s eyes are wide as she takes in the landscaped lawn that looks like a botanical garden, the stone fountain splashing merrily at the center of the circular driveway, the Queen Anne architecture with its domed turret, wraparound porch, and freshly painted wooden shingles. Mom must have been waiting for us in the entry hall, because the front door swings open before I’ve even finished knocking.
