Deconstructed(78)

“Well, first, having a tattoo doesn’t make you ‘trash.’ That’s a bit elitist, judgmental, and some other offensive thing I can’t think of right now. Besides, on some people tattoos are sexy.” My mind went immediately to Griffin and my inordinate interest in what other tattoos he might have on his body and the specific locations of imagined tattoos. Which was crazycakes.

“Piddle. Tattoos are for sailors and women of—”

“Watch it,” I interrupted, setting my big purse on the marble. “You are reverting to your roots.”

She looked at me, puzzled. “What does that mean?”

“Well, I’m just saying that your sassy open-mindedness from last week was appreciated. No, it was desirable. You actually seemed human, Marguerite. Please return to the previous version of yourself.” I made my request light because that’s how I got mileage out of my mother.

Marguerite made a face. “Just because I have a certain way of believing doesn’t make me a monster. I don’t like tattoos. Simple as that.”

“You don’t have to like tattoos. You just have to not cast aspersions on people who have them.” I walked to the cabinet and fetched a large glass, filled it with ice, and poured a sweet tea. Calories be damned. Sweet tea was the balm to the soul to southerners. And probably northerners, too. Everyone who appreciated the good things in life. “Plus, this was just a fun one Ruby and I were playing around with. It comes off with baby oil.”

My mother tilted her head. “Okay. Fine. I will try to quash my inner critic of others.”

I threw out my arms and spread my legs, pretending as if the earth were quaking, looking around in panic.

“Oh, cut it out,” my mother drawled, picking up her martini glass and taking a sip. “A leopard can change its spots. I’m trying to be hip. And woke. And all that other stuff young people are asking old birds like us to be. I even listen to NPR.”

I stopped my silly pantomiming, trying not to laugh. She could obviously see this and shot me a look. “Yeah, you’re so woke, I bet you don’t sleep.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, it’s hard sometimes when you were taught that being ladylike was desirable in a woman. I wore a girdle and slip for thirty years . . . to bed with your father.”

“Well, that explains Crystalle.” I tossed her a smile. “I know. You’re trying, Mama. And I’m proud of you. And look, you can even make your own martini. I thought you didn’t know how.”

She rolled her eyes again. “I’ve been making martinis since I was fifteen. Made them for your grandfather and all his old cronies. Now, how’s your Ruby? She progressing on her little fashion venture? Color me interested.”

“Really? Like in an investment?”

“Well, I’m damned sure not going to invest in whatever your husband is after me about. He called again today. It’s getting uncomfortable, sugar. Does the man not understand no means no?”

“Look. Don’t worry. He’s about to—”

“Mom!” the shout came from the back of the house.

“In the kitchen,” I called back, turning to the sink and applying some dish soap to the tattoo. No way Julia Kate would miss it.

“Oh my God. You forgot to sign the permission slip!” Julia Kate came stomping into the kitchen waving her phone. Her ponytail was lopsided, and a sleep line ran across one cheek.

“What permission slip?”

“Exactly,” she said, waving the phone again. “And now I can’t be in Kaitlyn’s group. It filled up. I mean, what is even wrong with you? You’re always gone, and you never forget this kind of stuff. I can’t believe that I have to be in stupid Geoffrey Mourad’s group. He picks his nose.”

My mother looked at me. I wasn’t sure if she was waiting for me to correct my daughter for yelling at me or if she, too, was wondering why I was not on the ball. God, if they only knew what I knew.

I pulled a paper towel from the holder and wiped my hands. Tattoo was staying for the time being. I watched Julia Kate’s eyes drop to the somewhat faded tat.

“First, don’t enter a room ranting at me. I’m your mother and deserve a modicum of respect. Second, I don’t know what you’re talking about, so slow down and walk me through it.”

“Wait. Why do you have a tattoo?” Julia Kate asked, sliding onto the stool next to my mother and setting the paper she’d been waving on the countertop.

I arched my brow.

She accepted her fate. “I’m sorry for yelling at you, Mama. Now, why do you have a tat on your arm? And of something so weird?”

Accepting her apology with a nod, I said, “Ruby and I were just playing around. She’s designing dresses—a really fun, gorgeous line of dresses—and we were goofing off.” I was amazed at how easily the lie slipped off my tongue. Wasn’t like I could tell her that I was spying on her cheating, no-good father. And that thought made my heart hurt.

I looked at my gangly, awkward Julia Kate with her colorful banded braces and just-budding womanhood and felt such sorrow. Poor child. Poor entitled, spoiled little girl who would soon learn the hard truths of the world. How could I save her from the hurt and shame? How could I fix this? I hadn’t a clue how to protect a girl whose world would turn upside down any more than I knew how to straighten out my own wrecked world. I only knew that I had to protect Julia Kate as much as I could while also letting the truth rise above the shame of having a father who did, well, what Scott was doing. My first inclination was always to cover up and present the best version of everything. But there was no best version of a man cheating on his family and possibly helping to hoodwink his community of friends and business associates into something that could force them to lose their life’s savings.