Chapter 6 #2
“A surprise indeed, Mr. Prathmore. I can assure you my attendance is nothing more than supporting someone dear to me in their interests,” Hollister delivers the line so smoothly, with so much lust-inducing intent, I wish I had gulped down that drink after all.
My hand drops from my throat, feeling a bit too vulnerable.
I offer him nothing but a small, practiced smile.
Just enough to acknowledge him. Just enough to say I hear you and see you.
Then I slowly turn and gracefully amble away.
Knowing he’s watching me leave. Feeling his eye trace every line of my silhouette as I disappear into the crowd.
Letting them swallow me whole in an air of reverence.
Because if I don’t go now, I will say something.
I will allow him to commandeer my night, which will be detrimental to both business and my reputation.
Constantly circulating amongst my guests, dropping a well-intended hint as to who’s interested in various pieces and charging the competition between those who have more money than good taste, is how these openings do so well under my direction.
Spending too much time with Hollister will derail that and send tongues wagging at our connection, both of which I can’t have. Halfway across the gallery floor, I spot my son, stalking in, ready to growl at someone for having to be here. More than likely myself.
As many times as I’ve tried to repair our relationship after the divorce. Despite the damage done by years of reinforcing his brilliance and putting him in front of the best doctors money could buy, he’s still unwilling to treat me with anything but disrespect and disdain.
Unfortunately, it’s something he inherited from his father. Mothers should never give up on wanting their son’s love, yet his heart has hardened to mine, as well-intended as I meant for it to be.
When a server passes by, he grabs a glass of champagne, downs it, and sets it back on the tray. He is completely uncouth and mannerless. I plaster a smile on my face despite wondering if it’s out of rebellion or simply not caring.
His gaze lands on me, narrowing. I’ve seen this look many times in boardrooms, galas, and any event involving me.
He stomps over and stops in front of me.
A wall of barely contained rage and resentment wrapped in expensive tailoring.
At least he inherited my fashion sense and desire to look his best at such events.
Perhaps that’s one of the good things I’ve done for him, even if he’d never admit it.
“You’ve got thirty minutes, Mother.”
The same dark eyes I have are boring into me now.
“If you want your goddamn pictures and press or whatever shit this is supposed to be, better make it quick.”
Like always. Sharp and clinical, forcefully direct with no regard for how his tone makes my nervous system spike or the canyon of hurt he continues to carve deeper with every interaction.
I hold his gaze. Already armored for our encounter.
Protected against that cutting judgment and condescending attitude that comes with unrelatable brilliance.
Intentionally cruel, whether meant or not.
“Thank you for coming, Dominic,” I say, as if we’re strangers on opposite ends of a diplomatic exchange with the art patrons viewing our interaction.
Garnering smiles and endearing expressions as we look alike enough to fool others into thinking we are close. He exhales like I’ve wasted his time. Then again, every breathing soul is a waste of his time.
“You had your assistant send three fucking emails and two personal requests through Harvard’s new damn department chair when I didn’t respond. I didn’t have much choice now, did I?”
“Don’t be dramatic, Dominic. It’s unbecoming.”
That gets a snort.
“Unbecoming? What is this, a fucking cotillion?”
My smile never falters, but my chest tightens.
The profanity is a long-lost battle. Therapists assured me it was a phase.
A channel to release his pent-up anger that would fade over time when the shock value lost its power.
They were woefully wrong. It’s only gotten worse as he grows older each year.
But he’s here. That’s more than I can say for my wayward daughter.
Even if he’s not really with me, he’s present, and that means something.
Not all hope is lost. A part of me clings to the fantasy that one day, one of these evenings, one of these causes with my name printed beneath the museum lights, might chip away at his disdain.
My efforts might earn me a sliver of respect for all that I do for the Arts.
While he snatches another champagne glass from a passing server, my gaze travels the room to land on Hollister. His dark blond hair glimmers under a recessed light as he smiles, chatting with another whale of a donor and an obvious friend to his family.
Somewhere deep down, I had hoped that with all the tutoring, private lessons, doctors, medicine, and therapy, he would become more like his friend.
Happy, lighter, and more carefree. Instead, all I see is a handsome young man, a genius, troubled, and everything opposite of what I had wanted him to become.
I thought all that help would remove the gloom that wraps itself around him. Instead, he sinks deeper into the darkness that has always haunted his nights, except now they haunt the days as well.
The slam of the delicate crystal on the server’s platter draws my attention back to him.
“Let’s get this shit over with so I can escape this fucking nightmare.”
I tilt my head, refresh my plastered smile, and gesture toward the donor wall where the bold gold lettering of the Barrett name stands proudly for all to see.
“Of course, Dominic. We’ll do the photographs now.” Smile for the press. Keep the peace. “You can scowl at everyone afterwards and slip away.”
He grunts in response, but he follows. Under all that anger, all that brilliant condescension and inherited cruelty, he’s still my son. And tonight, for better or worse, he’s standing beside me in a show of begrudging support, which I can say is more than my other family members.
With a simple gesture to Anton’s assistant, watching me for the signal, the photographers swarm, always eager to snap a picture for their publication of the mother-son duo that looks remarkably alike.
With practiced ease, Dominic slides in close and cups my waist. His body turns toward mine, hinting at a familiar closeness and tight bond that doesn’t exist.
Dressed in all black, right down to his dress shirt and tie. His hair is meticulously styled, and his beard trimmed to an inch of perfection. He doesn’t disappoint.
He’s a great-looking kid whose unwillingness to smile adds an intensity and natural curiosity for the society page readers. We step into our picture-worthy positions, honed from years of practice, knowing which angles look best for both of us.
It’s a show for the onlookers and the only display of warmth I receive from him. I stifle a sigh, still holding faith to that single thread that one day, someday, we’ll be different. Not as easy and carefree as Hollister and his mother, but something less frosty than we are now.
As the flashbulbs erupt, we move in unison in the direction our names are called. His hand tightened at my waist, the only sign of discomfort from the attention he normally hides away from.
“If this is where the beautiful people stand, I figured I’d better squeeze in.”