Midnight Sommelier - Anne Malcom Page 0,35

artfully arranges cookies.

“Sit down,” I invited, gesturing to the armchairs surrounding our informal dining area in front of a window that had a view of the backyard.

The gardener had come by yesterday to save what could be saved and plant new flowers in place of the dead things. I’d just had the pool cleaned. It looked exactly like the house I’d dreamed of, resembled the photos that flooded my social media. But it was really just a wasteland of all the things I used to think were important.

Josephine looked at the chair for a second before she sat down, as if it were a dirty bus bench.

“I’ll just go and make the tea,” I said.

“No need for that,” Josephine replied. “A proper tea setting would take far too long and I have an appointment in” —she looked down at her diamond watch— “just under an hour. Being punctual is important.” She said the words with the familiar sharp edges, meant to cut away at my shortcomings.

I wasn’t a late person. I respected people’s time. But I was also a mother. Being punctual and raising boys wasn’t exactly two things that lived in harmony.

So sometimes I was five or ten minutes late to whatever luncheons, dinners, or parties that Josephine requested—read demanded—I attend. Of course, this gave her yet another reason to dislike me.

“Can I get you anything else, then?” I offered. “Water? Juice?” A functioning heart?

“No, I’ll just have you sit,” she replied.

I sighed inwardly and did as instructed.

“I had lunch with Andrea Larson yesterday,” she said after I reluctantly sat down.

I waited for more but she just looked at me like I was supposed to know who the fuck Andrea Larson was and what she had to do with this visit.

She sighed dramatically, like she was getting up at dawn and planning on carrying a pail of water on her head for five miles, not sitting across from her daughter-in-law wearing a ten thousand dollar watch and most likely fresh from her morning massage.

“Andrea Larson is married to the Mayor,” she clarified.

I nodded, like I knew why that was a big deal. Thinking on it, I’d met her before. She was another shorter, slightly younger and bitchier version of Josephine. We had been to a dinner party at their place, and I distinctly remembered the way she’d treated the caterers. It cemented my hatred for the bitch. The way you treated waitstaff said a lot about who you were as a person. Waitstaff worked harder and longer than most people for a lot less money. It cost nothing to treat them with respect and kindness, yet people with the most money seemed unwilling to pay that price.

“Yes, I remember how warm and welcoming she is,” I replied, thick with sarcasm.

Josephine’s eye twitched and I took that as a small reward.

“We have lunch once a week,” she continued, voice tight. “She keeps me up to date with things happening in town, things I might not have been aware of.”

I raised my brow. “She’s your snitch?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your snitch,” I repeated.

She pursed her lips. “I don’t have the time to do this back and forth with you right now, Bridget,” she snapped. “She informed me of something rather alarming. Something that you should’ve notified me about.”

God, I wished I had wine. Or a baseball bat. For her or me—I wasn’t picky.

“What’s that, Josephine?”

“My grandchild was pulled into the police station nearing midnight on Saturday,” she said.

Oh crap. “He wasn’t arrested,” I replied.

As much as I hated her, didn’t respect her, and generally thought she was Satan reincarnated, I still got a sharp jab whenever she looked at me like she was looking at me right now. Like I was failing as a mother.

“He was brought into a police station nearing midnight, Bridget,” she said. “What were you thinking? That boy has college to think about. A future. Your lax parenting is not going to jeopardize it.”

I took a breath. Then another one. Visualized what it might feel like slapping her in the face.

“Ryder doesn’t want to go to college,” I said, aiming my first weapon. It hit true. “He considers it to be an outdated, capitalist, elitist scheme that is designed to funnel money upward and put hardworking kids and families into unimaginable debt,” I added, using Ryder’s own words. David hadn’t exactly approved of his ‘fuck the man’ mentality, but he’d appreciated the original thought. As progressive as my husband had been, it was hard to hammer out some