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.
And Georgia was turning a semi-blind eye to the money situation, aware of it but certain she could do something to turn it around while breaking her neck to do just that.
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.
I also did not want her (contradictorily) to encourage me to drink my weight in vodka, something she would do while she pushed her food around on her plate.
Nor did I want to listen to her telling me what a reprobate my father was, even though I personally arranged the monthly kickback my father gave to Mom’s second husband, the president of a local shipping company. I did this at my father’s command in order for my stepfather to offer his services should Georgia’s machinations bear fruit and we needed something illegal shipped in or out of Denver and we couldn’t use our own legitimate shipping company as that would be stupider than my father’s usual stupid.
A kickback my mother was highly likely aware of because my stepfather might run a large, successful shipping company but she had his testicles in a vice and he barely took a breath without her permission.
No, I did not want any of this.
“I’ll be certain I’m free,” I told her.
“Excellent,” she replied crisply.
I knew it would be a wasted effort, but I did my next anyway because I was me.
“Would you like me to see if Georgia’s free?”
This was a wasted effort because Mom and Georgia had not spoken in three years. This began after Georgia lost her temper at Bistro Vendôme and let her mouth loose when Mom had a variety of things to say about Dad, much of this centering on the swelling and cut at my upper lip.
Swelling and a cut my mother knew who delivered on me.
My sister was her father’s daughter.
But she was my sister.
She might have always been and continued to be the golden child (when I was never anything close, though it must be said, I never actually wanted to be), but we’d been through a lot together. She was loyal to our father and she was loyal to me. She loved us both. This to the point I honestly didn’t know if Dad and I were both drowning, which one of us she’d save.