It cost millions of dollars.
It was too much for me.
When viewing it, as gorgeous as it was, I’d wanted nothing to do with it.
But when I moved out of my father’s home, he would not hear of me living in one of the lovely high-rises that straddled the south side of the city that offered two- to three-bedroom condominiums.
A Shade lived like a Shade.
Not a real Shade, those being degenerate criminals, two of whom hid this behind Christian Louboutin shoes and Givenchy blouses.
But the Shades we showed the world. Those of us left who had not escaped my grandfather’s need to perpetuate a massive, grisly, scheming, brutal Fuck You! to those many who thought (rightly) they were better than him as well as to those who didn’t care either way.
Namely my father, because even if Georgia lived in a fabulous penthouse apartment, she thought her place was too much too.
Therefore, since my father wanted me to have that house, I had no choice but to have it.
Now, it wasn’t only too big for me—a single woman rambling around what could be described as nothing other than a mini-five-thousand-square-foot-mansion—we couldn’t afford it.
Dad’s rambling manse would never go. He’d die in there in a shootout rivaling the Alamo before he’d let anyone take it from him.
But I kept the books. I knew.
So my house was on the market and neither of them was stupid enough to say a word, because even if neither of them would admit it out loud, both of them knew why.
I walked the warm-colored wood floors of my hall, past the informal family room, the study, these separated by a powder room, both to my left. To my right was a series of arched windows and French doors that led to the deck and pool.
I arrived at the end of the hall where my bedroom suite was. This included a comfortable sitting room, his- and hers-walk-in closets and a colossal bathroom that had a dressing area at the back with a built-in dressing table that any fabulously wealthy housewife would give her eyeteeth for.
Alas, none of them were in the market for a house. I knew this since mine had been available for four months with only one second viewing that hadn’t even happened yet.
I sat on the side of my bed and was toeing off my pumps when my phone in my hand rang again.
I looked at the screen and wished I didn’t have to take the call.
But she’d called yesterday and I hadn’t called her back. I knew the headache I’d catch when I stopped avoiding her was not worth the peace of mind avoiding her afforded me.
So I took the call.
“Hello, Mom,” I greeted, leaning back into a hand in the bed.
“I called you yesterday, Olivia.”
More of someone telling me something I already knew.
“I’m sorry. Something came up and took my attention,” I lied.
She let my lie go and decreed, “We’re having dinner. I’ve had my assistant make a booking for us at Beatrice and Woodsley next Wednesday evening.”
Why my mother needed an assistant, I had no idea. She didn’t work. She’d never worked.
But why she called her assistant “my assistant” I did know. Because they were slaves to her.
Since slavery was abolished in the United States some time ago and most people didn’t like to be worked like one, they told my mother how they felt about it. Therefore she had on average six “assistants” each year. In other words, they weren’t around long enough so she didn’t bother with their names.
I wanted to go to Beatrice and Woodsley. It was a fabulous restaurant.
I did not want to spend two hours with my mother frowning at every morsel I put in my mouth (even though she’d dragged me out to dinner in the first place), nonverbally (and sometimes verbally) sharing she thought I needed to watch what I ate even if I was smack in the middle of the healthy weight range for my height.