cares about her sons. Or maybe she just doesn’t like me.
“I need the bathroom,” I say, standing abruptly.
Mildred gestures at the French doors. “Take a left at the hallway. There’s a powder room two doors down.”
“Okay,” I say. But when I leave the room attached to the balcony, I turn right instead. To hell with Mildred’s directions. I’ve never been inside my mother’s house before, and I’m going to have a look around. I slip my sandals off and hold them in one hand, padding quietly through vast, beautifully furnished rooms that look like something out of a magazine. Art and fresh flowers are everywhere. When I peer into the kitchen, I marvel at the top-of-the-line appliances that sparkle as if they’ve never been used for anything as mundane as cooking. Then a soft voice catches my attention, and I follow it back into the hallway.
“I think it was excessive,” Theresa Ryan is saying. She’s in a room adjacent to the kitchen, and from my spot in the hallway I can see an entire wall of built-in bookshelves. “We’ve been down this road before. You think you’re getting rid of one problem, but all you’re doing is creating a dozen more.”
She sounds angry, which isn’t an emotion I associate with my grandmother’s placid assistant. I edge closer.
“They’re here now,” she says. “I’m trying to keep things short, but I’m not sure how soon I can pry her away. She has an almost—morbid curiosity, I suppose.” There’s a long pause, and then Theresa adds, “Well, what do you think? The same old obsession. And now is not the time for her to be distracted like this.” Another pause. “It would be best for everyone, I agree. All right. Let’s touch base later this afternoon.”
I hear the click of footsteps and quickly backtrack into the kitchen so I can duck behind the island. Theresa makes her way down the hallway without pausing, humming to herself. When I can’t hear her any longer, I ease out of the kitchen and peer into the room she exited. It’s an office, filled with books, filing cabinets, and an enormous carved wooden desk. I’m dying to look around, but I’ve already been here too long. I have just enough time to check something.
There’s a landline phone on the desk, the kind with a screen on the handset. My mother has something similar in her office; she can’t seem to let go of outdated technology. I press Menu on the handset, then Last Call.
A name pops up on the screen: Donald Camden.
Milly is a dream client for Kayla’s Boutique. “Everything looks so good on you!” the owner exclaims, hands clasped in front of her, as Milly steps out of the dressing room and onto a dais in front of a large mirror. “But I do believe we’ve found it. This is the dress.”
I think she’s right. Milly is wearing a stunning sleeveless gown with a plunging yet still tasteful black top and a billowing white skirt. At least a foot of fabric pools around her feet, which are encased in black high heels, but other than that she looks Oscar-ready.
Except for her face, which is closed off and remote. She’s been like that ever since our weird brunch at Gran’s two days ago, which ended abruptly when Gran declared a sudden headache. I thought shopping would for sure cheer Milly up, but she looks like she’s just going through the motions. Polite, but not really interested.
“We’ll need to take up the hemline, of course, but the rest fits perfectly,” the owner says. She’s an attractive woman in her late thirties with dark hair and olive skin, wearing a simple tan sheath that’s dressed up with layers of necklaces. She closed the shop when we came in, and she and the saleswoman on duty have been giving us the royal treatment for almost an hour.
I’ve never been in a store like this before. The interior practically glows with flattering white light that makes everyone’s skin flawless. The chairs are cream leather, the mirrors are antique silver, and the floor looks like luminous mother-of-pearl. Red roses are everywhere, filling the air with their soft, heady fragrance. The overall effect is like being inside a comfortable, expensive jewelry box.
“You look incredible,” I tell Milly from my chair beside the mirror. I’ve been sitting here half curled into the fetal position ever since trying on a single, horrifically unflattering dress.