Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Bridger
She hasn’t changed at all.
Still well-preserved. Still sporting just the right clothes and accessories.
Her jet-black bun is scraped back tight.
One stripe of white hair stretches from her right temple up and over her skull.
I swear, she asked her hairdresser to dye that thing in.
Like an ageless bride of Frankenstein. Which, I guess, makes my dad the monster. Kind of perfect, actually.
Either way, it’s a horror show.
“How did you get in?”
“Oh, come now, Bridger. Don’t be droll.”
She doesn’t clarify. This is her way of asserting power. She wants me to be unsettled, to push for answers. So I meet her gaze, chin ticking an inch. Standoff time.
I refuse to give her the satisfaction.
“I had a locksmith meet me here,” she says, even though I didn’t ask. “Convincing him that I needed to be let in was such fun. The car I arrived in helped. Most men would have trouble saying no to a woman being delivered by a driver in a Bentley.”
She nods toward the Louis Vuitton luggage in the corner, and my mouth twitches. A twinge of victory in this moment. I didn’t pursue the subject, but she felt compelled to explain herself anyway. And that flex. Bentley. Right.
Who’s off balance now, Mom?
She rises from the chair, her gaze sweeping the room. “Care to give me a tour of your lovely home?”
I offer her a stiff smile to stall. Loren and I have our stuff in two separate rooms. On two separate floors. So showing my mom around won’t help our cause. What’s the opposite of helping?
A big old torpedo.
“According to the note you sent—the one with the flowers—you’ve already seen the place, though, right?” I nod to indicate the tapestry over the stairs. “A virtual tour? On some website your team found?”
She presses her lips together primly. “I did notice you have plenty of guest rooms.”
“We do.”
“So I assume your bride won’t mind that I came for a visit, then?” She takes a small step toward me. “You and I haven’t spent time together in so long. And your birthday is coming up, after all.”
“Been a while, yeah. Quite a few birthdays, by my count. Like seven, maybe.”
Something flickers in her eyes, and my throat tightens.
Is it possible my mother missed me?
“Do you have any plans?” she asks. “Your thirtieth is a milestone worth celebrating.”
I stuff my hands in my pockets. “My friends are throwing me a surprise party.”
“Well, that hardly sounds like a surprise,” she murmurs.
I push out a laugh, still acting casual. I’m a duck, remember? No ruffled feathers. “My friends are pretty terrible at keeping secrets, and I’m pretty terrible at pretending, so, yeah.”
Hear that, Mom? This is all real. One hundred percent authentic.
Quack.
“I do wonder.” She taps her chin with a fingertip. “Might there be room for one more guest?”
I stifle a smirk. “You want to come play darts and drink beer with my teacher friends?”
“Well.” She smooths her hand down her skirt. “I might wear different shoes.”
This earns her a genuine laugh.
My mother’s pretty funny, I’ll give you that. She’s also thrown her weight around way too hard for too long for me to just bury the hatchet. But she’s here now. And me being nice to her probably has no downside.
Probably.
So. I’ll tell her she can come, then make it my mission to get her to leave before the weekend.
As soon as possible, preferably.
“Sure, Mom.” I hitch my shoulders. “Just promise to look surprised.”
“How’s this?” She gasps, popping her eyes wide. Her hand flies to her mouth, and her forehead lifts all the way to her hairline.
I chuckle. “Shockingly good, actually.”
“I’m overdue for Botox,” she deadpans. “Fortunate timing.”
Yep. Like I said. She’s pretty funny. And also a professional intimidator, who’s brilliant at getting people to lower their defenses. So I have to keep mine up, for my own sake and for Loren’s.
Speaking of which.
I should warn her that my mom’s here. She’s over at Havenwood now, with Sayla. So I slip my phone from my pocket of my sweats and open my messages.
My mother clears her throat. “Planning to call Loren?”
I look up. “I thought I’d text her, actually. My wife isn’t much of a phone talker.”
I put some extra emphasis on the word wife, to nail the point home. Subtle? No. True? Yes.
“Don’t,” my mother says.
“Don’t what?”
“Tell her I’m here.”
Uh. What?
“She should know we have a visitor.” I shift my weight. “A VIP, at that.”
“I’d rather surprise her.”
I frown, no longer interested in keeping up the pretense. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” She pins me with a stare. “Or are you afraid Loren needs time to practice?”
I huff a breath. “Practice what?”
“Being your wife.”
Damn.
I shake my head, racking my brain for my next move. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do, Bridger. I think you need to let Loren know I’m here so she can prepare for the performance of a lifetime.”
“You’re wrong,” I mutter.
Unfortunately, she isn’t.
“Where is your bride, by the way?” She glances toward the staircase, and it occurs to me for the first time that she may have snooped around the house before I got home, so I’d better play this perfectly.
There’s no margin for error. Loren and I have to be even more convincing to make up for whatever doubts my mom’s already harboring.
“Loren’s visiting her father,” I say.
“At Havenwood?”
My gut wrenches. Of course, Margaret Adams knows everything about Havenwood.
And about Harlan. But I need a minute to strategize, so I let loose with an info-dump of facts she’s probably already read about in some dossier.
I begin with a long, detailed description of the best memory-care community in the area, then shift into every single thing I know about Harlan’s condition.
When my mom’s eyes begin to glaze over, I figure I’ve done enough.
“Sorry,” I lie. “The scientist in me tends to get carried away. And the husband in me,” I add. “I really love my father-in-law.”
Now that one’s true.
My mother purses her lips. “How nice for you all.”
“I mean, FTD isn’t exactly nice, but we’ve got the best team working with him now.”
“We.”
“Yep.”
Another starchy smile finds her face. “You know, it’s almost charming.”
“What is?”
“Your devotion to strangers.”
The word slams into my chest. “My wife and her father aren’t strangers.”
“I stand corrected.”
My jaw shifts. “Anyway, I shouldn’t have bored you.”
“I wasn’t bored at all,” she says. “On the contrary, watching you is fascinating.”
We stand there facing each other, both of us contemplating our next moves. One thing’s for sure, I won’t be her pawn.
My phone buzzes in my hand. And then again. She darts her gaze to the screen, ending the stalemate.
“Is that Loren?”
“No idea.”
Man, I really hope it’s not, because I haven’t decided how, what, or whether I should say anything to her about my mom being here. But if I don’t reply to multiple messages from her, she’ll worry. And Loren already worries too much.
I check the texts.
DEX
It’s on, buddy. We’re officially celebrating you Saturday night. 7PM. Tequila Mockingbird. Be there or be square.
Act surprised.
“It’s not, Loren,” I say. Then, for good measure, I hold up my phone so my mom can see the texts.
The entire thread is nothing but innocent plans for a birthday party and, further up, a back-and-forth about our workout this morning.
Plus a gif of some wrestler slamming someone on the mat, because Dex is gonna Dex.
Is showing my mom giving her control? Maybe. Or maybe I’m offering her a false sense of it. Either way, there’s nothing incriminating here. And now I have a choice to make.
Neither option is good.
Leaving Loren out of the loop means she’ll walk into the lion’s den completely unprepared. And by lion’s den, I mean our home. Where she should feel safe. And where my mother’s lying in wait. So I could text her a quick heads-up.
On the other hand, sending Loren any kind of message will give my mother another reason to suspect us. She’s clearly looking for evidence that I’m not sure how my wife will react.
So.
I could set my phone in plain sight, demonstrating my complete confidence in Loren.
Or I could say screw it, and try to dash off a quick text to her right now.
SOS MOM HERE.
The real question is this: Do I trust Loren more than I fear Margaret?
I lock the screen and set the phone on the table.
Loren wins.
“Anyway, I can’t wear sweatpants to our in-person business meeting,” I say, absently, like there isn’t a fist around my throat. “I need to change first.”
“Naturally.”
“We can use the study for the meeting, if that’s all right with you.” I nod to the hallway on the left.
“Of course,” she says, with an elegant dip of her head.
My next question to her is a gamble, but it’s one I’m willing to take. “Do you need to freshen up a bit first?” I ask. “A little grooming, maybe?”
She hoists a brow, always so cool, calm, and collected. “I’m fine, thank you.”
Bingo.
“Then I’ll just go ahead and put your luggage in the guest suite upstairs. You can wait for me in the study.”
Unless she’s willing to shift gears and admit she needs some polishing up after all, my mom will have no choice but to head directly to the study, which is down the opposite hall from the suite Loren’s been using.
I’ll use the back staircase to trade my mom’s bags with mine, and drag my stuff down to Loren’s suite. Temporarily.
Hopefully.
A smile slants across my mother’s face. “Wonderful.”
Wonderful indeed.
Now I just have to trust Loren to forgive me when she comes home to the Margaret Adams Invasion. I also have to trust her ability to act like my wife with zero notice.
I move to collect my mother’s luggage, my body tight as a rat trap. Still, this could work.
No, it is working.
You’ve got this, man.
“Don’t be too long,” my mother says. “We have so much to catch up on.”
“We sure do.”
She turns and floats down the hall. “Oh, and Bridger?” she quips, over her shoulder. “I simply can’t wait to meet your cat.”