Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths, #4)(48)

“Paid?” I pause for effect and then wink. “They were a gift. There’s some homemade cooking here, too.”

That piques his interest. Jack’s a lot of things, but a good cook is not one of them. He frees a hand to reach in and pull out a jar. “What were you doing in the Indian River grove district today?” His brow furrows as he reads the label, adding, “At the Bernard Morris Grove.” By the suspicious look on his face, he’s already made the connection.

“Oh, you know . . . just helping out a friend.” I leave it at that, reaching for the chocolate milk jug in the fridge, feeling his inquisitive eyes boring into my back. “Are Mason and Lina here?”

With a sigh, he lets the question that I know is on the tip of his tongue go and answers mine. “They went out to dinner and a movie. They seem to get along well. She even took him shopping today for some new clothes and things.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. Lina will discover how weird your son is soon enough and run for the hills.”

He chuckles. “Well, she’s best friends with you, so she must be extremely tolerant.” Pausing to watch me fill a glass—I drink out of the jug only when Mason’s around nowadays—, he finally asks, “Have you spoken to your mother in a while?”

“No. Why?”

He pulls his glasses off. “She called the office this afternoon, looking for you. Asked that you call her back as soon as you got home.” He watches me carefully. “It sounded important.”

“Huh.” First my cell phone, now Jack? If this were a typical woman, there’d be cause for concern. But what is important in the world of Annabelle usually doesn’t translate to important. Though I have to admit that I’m intrigued.

“Yes . . . ‘huh.’ My thoughts exactly.” His mouth twists with distaste as he asks, “Please do call her back, sooner rather than later. I’d prefer not to get daily phone calls from my ex-wife.” Once Annabelle gets something in her head, she’s like a dog on a bone.

That’s why I immediately pull my phone out. “Well, let’s just see what Mommy Dearest wants, shall we?”

Her deceptively soft voice—still seductive at forty—fills my ear on the second ring. “Reese?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t you have your phone with you today?”

“I did.”

A pause. “So you screened me.”

“Nice to hear from you, too. It’s been a while. I just got home and Jack told me you called him.”

“I’m surprised he gave you the message.”

A sharp pain shoots up my jaw and I realize that I’m gnashing my teeth. That’s always been a problem for me around Annabelle. At one time, I even wore a mouth guard at night because I was grinding my teeth subconsciously. It wasn’t until I moved out that the constant throb abated. She’s probably into the martinis tonight. It’s sometimes hard to tell because she holds her alcohol so well. “What do you need?” That’s what this is about—let’s be honest.

She huffs a sigh. “Ian and I are holding a charity ball in November and we think it would look best if our entire family is in attendance.” So this is a political thing. I guess she’s found someone perfectly suited to her, as concerned about his appearance as she is about hers. “I’ll send a suitable dress for you to wear. Have you gained any weight? And I hope your hair isn’t still that hideous color. You’ll need to have that fixed, if it is.”

I roll my eyes but don’t respond.

“I have the perfect escort for you. He’s a—”

“No.” We’ve been down this road before. When I was sixteen, she made me go to a stuffy country-club Christmas party with one of Barry’s law firm partners’ sons. The guy was a twenty-four-year-old med student with aspirations of becoming a gynecologist. Call me sexist—I don’t really care—but in this day and age of equal rights and women becoming doctors, I wonder about men who choose to poke around in vaginas all day long as a career. Naturally, I spent the entire meal interrogating him on his intentions and his motivations.

Much to Annabelle’s horror.

“Well, I can hardly trust you to bring a suitable man with you. Look what you married.”

“I’m not going, Annabelle.”

“What do you mean you’re not going?” That slight, distinctive whine escapes now. She has definitely been drinking.

I’ve never said no to Annabelle, as much as I’ve always wanted to. Sure, I’ve put up a fuss, I’ve made myself out to be the spoiled little rich brat, I’ve usually made great strides to damage our relationship further by the end of the night, but I’ve never just given her a flat-out no. I’m not sure if I ever believed it was an option.

And now that I have said no, she has no idea how to handle it. “That’s impossible. There will be publicity behind this and eyes on us and on me, on our family values.”

Annabelle and family values? There’s an oxymoron.

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine without me there.”

“After all that I’ve done for you—”

“I’ll think about it and let you know.” There’s no way in hell I’m going, but I’ve picked a bad time to argue with her. The woman is the master at painting herself the wounded war hero. When she’s drunk, it’s tenfold. I can’t deal with it right now. I live four hours away from her now, anyway. Good luck, Annabelle. “I’ve gotta go.”