Page 23 of Fake Dark Vows
She ignores the question. “How do you think your father would feel knowing that his oldest friends and business associates have been swapping anecdotes with an escort?”
At least she didn’t use the word prostitute. “Ex-escort,” I say, for what it’s worth. “I think he’d be grateful for Jennifer’s sparkling charm and quick wit. You don’t have to worry, Mom. If anyone is going to cause a scene this week, it won’t be Jennifer.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, how much do you know about Rose? You flew her here on a whim to make sure the drinks keep flowing, but you don’t know anything about her background.”
“I ran the usual checks, Brandon.” Her eyes narrow. She often reminds me of a viper poised for the kill. “Why are you deflecting the subject?”
I hear footsteps in the wide hallway, but no one enters the room. I’m certain that if anyone, including my father, peeked inside and found us mid-conversation, they would have the good sense to walk straight past and pretend they never saw us.
“Because you have nothing to worry about from Jennifer, Mom. You have my word.”
She pauses, her lips twitching with words that remain unspoken. I open the door for her, and she halts in the doorway as if remembering the real reason she pulled me aside. “I’m assuming you have a gift for your father.”
And there it is: the sting in the tail.
“I… I’ve been busy, Mom.”
“Too busy to remember your own father’s birthday?”
“No.”
She knows I’m lying. She always has. As a child, I truly believed that my mom had eyes in the back of her head as she could call me out on a chipped ornament or ripped pants without even catching me in the act.
“I—”
“Why don’t you tell Mrs. Weiss about the castle?” The voice catches me unawares—I hadn’t even heard Rose coming back along the hallway from the kitchen.
“The castle?” My mother’s gaze flits back and forth between the two of us.
Rose widens her eyes at me and nods. “The Scottish castle that you’ve rented as a surprise trip for your dad’s birthday. Brandon mentioned it on the airplane,” she says to my mother and then clamps a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God, have I ruined the surprise? I’m so sorry.”
“Is this true, Brandon?” Mom says.
I don’t waste a beat. “Yes. I was going to wait until Dad’s birthday to tell you.”
The smile is genuine. Jennifer is forgotten, at least temporarily. “I can’t wait to tell Sumaira. A Scottish castle! We’ll have to buy some warm clothes before we travel.”
CHAPTER 8
Rose
The following morning, I’m kept busy between playing with Damon and Kelly’s children in the play fort, greeting guests when they arrive on the buggy, and ensuring that luggage is distributed to the correct guest rooms. I’m not formally introduced to the guests, and their faces blur into one heady mix of toothy grins, beige pants, and expensive perfume. I only hope that I won’t be expected to refer to them by name.
No one else is fazed by the sight of the house or the idea of spending a week on a private island where the boats moored at the jetties are for their own personal use and the champagne is permanently chilled. It’s illogical to me that these people are so accustomed to this kind of wealth that they brought along their own tennis racquets and the correct attire for cocktails on the porch.
I don’t understand what sets them apart from people like me and my dad. How do they get to be so wealthy when my dad probably works harder than any of them? I’m not judging them, but as more people arrive with their Gucci suitcases, their Ray-Bans propped up on their heads rather than covering their eyes, and their cursory glances my way, the injustice of it all seems to swell inside my chest.
At the back of the house, the glass wall of the garden room—framed by theatrical gold-tasseled curtains—slides away to allow nature in, and the guests eat a leisurely lunch of cold meats, cheeses—some of which I’ve never even heard of—antipasti, and crisp green salad around a huge, polished table.
I build a fort in the den with cushions from the couches and cotton throws from the storage cupboards, and eat lunch with the three children, sitting on the floor with our legs crossed. We make up stories about pirates and mermaids and giant sea creatures, and lick strawberry juice and ice cream from our wrists rather than using a napkin.
They’re great kids, and I can’t help thinking that all the credit is due to Kelly—I haven’t even seen Damon interact with them yet.
When lunch has been cleared away, and the guests have all relocated to the picnic beach—Ruby and Sumaira take over with the children—Kelly and I sit on the porch with a pitcher of homemade lemonade and embark on Ruby’s little ‘project’.
The treasure hunt.