The Monster (Boston Belles #3) - L.J. Shen Page 0,67
trying their hardest to restore something resembling normalcy to our household.
They visited after work a few times a week to check in on Da, convinced the poisoning was either Mother’s doing or Gerald’s unspoken mistake.
I played along, showering Mother with attention, watching her with hawk eyes to ensure she didn’t try to harm herself, but the truth was, something had shifted within me, rearranging itself into a different shape. I was beginning to change, and I didn’t know how or why but the past few weeks had a lot to do with it.
Outwardly, I went through the usual motions. I caught up with Persy, Belle, and Sailor at an up-and-coming Indian restaurant downtown. I even pretended to muster an amused chuckle when Sailor frowned at her phone with a long-suffering sigh and showed us a picture of Cillian. “This is his version of sending me dick pics.”
“But it’s not a dick.” Persy had blinked, not getting it.
“Not an anatomical one, anyway,” Belle had murmured, tearing a piece of naan bread and dunking it into a mint and mango dip. Persy had protested us calling her husband a dick, but of course we all knew that he was—to everyone but her.
Mother continued moaning about how horrible my father had been to her, yet every time she ventured out of her den and he had tried to speak to her, she would make a sharp U-turn and dart back to the master bedroom, leaving a trail of tearful accusations echoing over the opulent hallway walls in her wake.
Da was still sleeping in one of the guest rooms, floating in and out of it like a ghost, his disheveled white hair sticking out in every direction, unshaven and haunted by the state of his marriage.
It didn’t help that he started getting mysterious, cryptic messages threatening to drain his secret bank accounts in Switzerland—accounts that according to Da no one knew about.
The first couple days after the messages started pouring in, my father had made it a point to shower, get dressed, and go into his office. He had left his door ajar and sat there, motionless and quiet, waiting to hear my mother’s door flinging open so he could talk to her.
Once he’d realized Mother was truly uninterested in talking things through, he had retreated to his current state of shambles, hardly leaving his own room.
And that, I realized, was the difference between this time and all the others. Normally, my parents entered this tango, a dance of sorts; it was difficult to follow and only they knew all the moves to it.
My father would screw up, my mother would get mad, and he would win her back. Snatch her into alcoves in the house or steal her away to the butterfly garden, whispering sweet nothings into her ear. He would court her. Make her feel desirable. Shower her with gifts and compliments. Send heated looks from across the table at dinnertime. Watch as she chipped before breaking completely and taking him back. Then he’d whisk her off on a lengthy vacation, make all these promises they both knew he couldn’t keep, and superglue their relationship back together, even though it had chunks missing and was hollow from within.
Only this time, it hadn’t worked. Da had been poisoned. He blamed my mother. My brothers suspected her, too. I guess Mother had decided she’d had enough and cut them out of her life. She refused to see Cillian and Hunter whenever they visited.
Which brought us to where we were now.
To the annual charity event my mother hosted.
“Aisling, could you be a darling and ask your brothers to go say hi to Mr. Arlington? He made such a substantial donation to our charity tonight, and I know he’s been vying for Cillian’s attention for a long time. He needs advice about his new offshore company.” Mother elbowed me sharply as we stood in the ballroom of the Bellmoor, a boutique hotel in the West End.
The room glimmered in French neoclassical style—all cream, gold and ornate chandeliers, and an Instagrammable stairway with golden railings.
Guests trickled in and out, drinking champagne and laughing loudly as they looked for their designated tables. Businesspeople mingled with each other, the men in tuxedoes, the women in elaborate ball gowns. Jane Fitzpatrick had an impeccable track record of throwing lavish parties, from debutante balls to charity events, and this one was no different, even if she knew her peers never quite recovered from the last headline her husband was responsible for.