Betrayal (Infidelity Book 1) - Aleatha Romig Page 0,12

We all know my momma doesn’t need a reason to shop.”

Jane winked at me. “Did I hear that you’re not Alexandria anymore?”

I nodded. “That’s right. I’m Alex.” Just saying the name gave me strength. “I’m Alex Collins.”

“Well, look at you, all-grown-up Alex Collins. I know you don’t need no nanny, but maybe for tonight, could you settle for an old friend? After your dinner, maybe I can come back up here and we can catch up. You can tell me all about California.”

The black hole of Montague Manor evaporated. In a room I hated, I remembered how I’d survived. “Under one condition,” I said with a grin.

“What would that be?” she asked with a wink.

“You sneak some mint chocolate chip ice cream up here and we find my old DVD of A Knight’s Tale.”

Jane walked to the bookcase and immediately pulled out the DVD. In a low voice she whispered, “I bought two pints! Now hurry up: the sooner that dinner’s over, the sooner we can eat that ice cream and ogle at Heath Ledger.”

“Thank you, Jane.”

“Really? A pretty woman like you willing to spend the night with an old lady like me? I should be thanking you.”

As she spoke I walked into the attached bathroom. All my toiletries from my suitcase were neatly arranged on the counter. When I looked into the mirror, the haunted girl who’d walked up the stairs was gone. In her place was Alex Collins. I splashed my face with water and let down my hair. It wasn’t as red as it’d been when I was ten, but it was long and flowed over my shoulders with waves that spilled down my back. After a few swipes with the brush I said, “Okay, I’m ready to get this dog and pony show going.”

Jane’s smile monopolized her entire face. It was a phrase she’d used for most of my youth. She’d remind me that the Montague way of life was nothing more than show, a display for the outside world. Whenever I’d be forced to attend a public function or do something I didn’t want to do, she’d make me feel better by reminding me that it was all a dog and pony show. It helped. I could do whatever I was supposed to do as long as I remembered who I really was. She’d tell me that pretty on the outside wasn’t as important as pretty on the inside. And she’d always remind me of how beautiful she thought I was.

Her smile dimmed. “You forgot to put on that dress your momma bought.”

“No,” I said with the confidence I’d almost forgotten I possessed. “I didn’t forget. Alexandria doesn’t live here anymore.”

“You’re even more beautiful than I remember.”

“Thank you, Jane. So are you.”

THE MURMURED CONVERSATION between Alton and my mother turned to silence as I stepped into the dining room. I watched with satisfaction as red crept from the starched collar of Alton’s shirt like a tide, making its way up his thick neck to the tips of his ears. Time had changed his once blonde hair to white. I fought back my smile as something about the contrast of the reddening of his skin and the white of his hair amused me. With the vein in his forehead popping to attention and his jaw clenched, he pushed back his chair. As he was about to stand, my mother reached for his hand and turned toward me. The eerie calmness of her voice threatened to transport me back in time.

Then I saw the glass of red liquid, a cabernet wine, and I gave myself permission to smile. As a child I never realized the depth of my mother’s self-medication. White wine during the day and red at night: Montague Manor didn’t need clocks. We could tell the time by the color of the drink in my mother’s glass. Occasionally, other names were used: mimosa or sangria. It was all the same. Adelaide Fitzgerald lived her life in a blissful state of serenity because without it, she would have had to face the gruesome reality. She wasn’t strong enough to do that ten years ago. She sure as hell wasn’t strong enough today.

But I was.

“Alexandria, dear…” Her words never slurred. “Didn’t you find the dresses I bought for you?”

“I did. Thank you.” The programmed words weren’t totally insincere. The dress Jane showed me was lovely—for a teenager. “It’s late and I had a few text messages to answer. I know how you like to eat at precisely