Binding the Shadows (Arcadia Bell #3)(38)

She looked like a supermodel. A supermodel with a green halo crowning her head. A green halo flecked with gold.

Yvonne Giovanni.

No no no no no.

Her eyes found Lon’s. I saw it all unfold in slow motion, as if I’d used my moon magick to slow time. Shock stretched his facial features. With a shrill pop, the neck of the brown beer bottle shattered in his hands. He didn’t even notice. His nostrils flared as he pushed to his feet, and then—

And then his face just turned to putty. His eyes went all liquid and adoring. He looked as if he’d just seen the face of God. Rapturous.

My heart stuttered inside my chest, turned black, and shriveled.

If I hadn’t been consumed by a jealous rage, I might’ve realized that what I was seeing in Lon’s face was her knack being turned on full-blast. And if I realized that, I might’ve had sense enough not to look back up at her.

But I didn’t have sense, and I did look up. And my world tilted.

I was awestruck. Reeling. I knew how Cupid must’ve felt when he looked upon Psyche after pricking himself with his own arrow. The woman who’d strolled onto the restaurant patio moments before was beautiful, but this woman—this version of Yvonne—was brighter than a star. Ravishing, beautiful, perfect. I wanted to stare at her for hours.

How could one person be so . . . divine?

For a moment, just a moment, I heard a chorus of murmurs around the table, murmurs of awe confirming the same feelings I had. Then a single, sharp voice broke through the haze.

“Yvonne Grace Giovanni! Switch that off before I come over there and knock you into the middle of next week.”

All the shiny, shiny brilliance and the beauty and the overwhelming goodness just . . . dimmed. The goddess disappeared. And a retired forty-something supermodel stood in her place. Still stunning. Still regal. But just a person.

How had Rose resisted Yvonne’s knack? Was she immune, being her mother? Or just accustomed to it? Whatever it was, Yvonne didn’t seem surprised—she just took a deep breath and spoke to her.

“Hello, Mama.”

“What in blazes are you doing here?” her mother snapped.

“It’s Christmas. I came to see my child.”

“I told you not to come!” Jupe said in a desperate voice.

Lon stepped between Yvonne and the table, as if he meant to defend all of us from some fire-breathing dragon. “You’ve been talking to him?” His brows knitted. An angry, deep line creased the middle of his forehead as he got in her face. She moved her head to the side, trying to avoid his gaze, but he moved with her, not touching her, but close. She finally gave in and stared back at him, a little defiant, a little fearful.

“She called last week,” Jupe mumbled next to me. “I should’ve told you, Dad. I’m sorry. But I told her not to come—I swear! She was asking about dinner, and—”

Lon whipped around and stared daggers at Jupe. “And you told her?”

“He didn’t have to,” Yvonne said sourly. “You all eat at the same place every year.”

“I told her not to come,” Jupe repeated again, and started to offer some other protest, but Lon shot him a warning look that shut Jupe down—they’d definitely be discussing the kid’s secret-keeping later.

Lon swung back to Yvonne. “The court says you get to see him from noon until five, Christmas Day, as long as you notify me first. You’ve known this for years. Nothing’s changed.”

“Well, what if I have?”

“If I had a f*cking nickel every time I’ve heard that.”

She sniffled, affronted, then squared her shoulders. “That’s fair, I suppose.” Her eyes roamed over him, curious. Her shoulders dropped. She swallowed. “You look good, Lon.” She reached out to touch his hair, but he jerked his head back. Her arm fell against her hip. She blinked a few times and awkwardly tried to make light of the rebuff. “It’s not fair you aren’t going gray. I have a regular appointment at the stylist to keep mine covered.” She gave him a soft smile. When he didn’t return it, she stepped out of his path and glanced around the table.

“No hello from you?” she said to Adella. “I’ve left messages the last couple weeks.”

Adella stared her sister down for a few minutes, then simply said, “Been busy.”

Yvonne nervously rattled her clutch handbag against her thigh. She nodded at Mr. and Mrs. Holiday. “Good to see you, both.”

They didn’t answer.

Finally, Yvonne’s eyes flicked to mine. Then my halo. She flinched as some sort of recognition sparked. Oh, yes, she knew who I was. At least, she knew what I was: the girlfriend. A thousand expressions passed over her face. At first I thought she might laugh—some vaguely cruel, laughter-like sound got stuck in her throat. Then she looked confused. Or maybe it was disbelief. She slanted a glance at Lon, shook her head, and said, “I see.”

In my head, I’d imagined Yvonne as an evil villain. Someone who abandoned her son for parties and a cocaine addiction that survived five stints in some of the country’s most exclusive rehabilitation centers. Who unashamedly cheated on Lon with countless other men. Who slashed Lon with a knife in front of the county courthouse on the day of their divorce. Who the judge decreed wasn’t fit to see her own child without another adult present.