Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 132834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Maybe she had.
“You were angry with me,” I repeated, as if that would make it sound less nuts.
Lydia looked down at the tablecloth, tears filling her eyes. Tipping her face up to the ceiling, she blinked them back with big flutters of her thickly mascaraed lashes. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all an act. Or maybe I was just angry and inclined to think everything she did was calculated. I couldn’t tell. Before I could decide, she went on.
“I’d just lost my son, and you played no small part in that, as you know.” Lydia tilted her head to the side and raised an eyebrow, pinning me with a knowing look.
I refused to crumble.
“I don’t know, Lydia,” I said, the cool politeness gone, my tone hardened to steel. “You’ve insisted that what happened to Oliver was my fault,” I said, leaning forward and lowering my voice. “But I’m not the one who kept giving him the pills. I’m not the one who lied to doctor after doctor to get him more. Who lied to me about his sobriety? Who checked him out of rehab early? That was you. I begged you to stop. Over and over. So, I don’t understand how you keep turning this around to make it my fault.”
Lydia’s lips pressed together into a flat line, her lipstick a narrow slash of red. “That’s not how I remember it,” she said stiffly, sitting back.
I picked up my teacup. “I’m aware that’s not how you remember it, Lydia. It is, however, what happened, and I have no interest in having anything to do with you or John when you insist on throwing the blame for what happened to Oliver on me. I loved him. I did everything I could to help him. If you want to blame anyone, blame Oliver.”
“That’s a disgusting thing to say about my son,” Lydia spat, her face twisting in revulsion.
“It’s the truth,” I whispered.
A tear dripped over Lydia’s lashes, pulling a streak of dark mascara with it. Guilt stabbed at me. My past always brought a messy swirl of emotion—grief and love and guilt and anger and heartbreak and regret. All of it tangled together and clouded my vision. Was this all an act? Was Lydia playing me? Or did she truly believe I was at fault for Oliver’s death? She probably did believe it. Maybe that was the only way she could live with the part she’d played.
I smiled vaguely up at the waitress as she slid a bowl in front of me and a salad in front of Lydia. I took a spoonful, letting the rich flavors of cream, butter, and lobster distract me. As good as I remembered. I’d have to come back with my mother and Nicky. I forced down another spoonful, my still-knotted stomach not appreciating the bisque as much as my tastebuds did.
Lydia stabbed at her salad, patting the dressing off her lips as she chewed, her eyes landing everywhere but on me. I’d been here before, during other times when I’d displeased her. She was freezing me out.
Abruptly, I was done playing her games. I didn’t need this in my life.
“Lydia, I left in the middle of my workday with no notice, and I need to get back. Why don’t you tell me why you’re here.”
Lydia glared at me, her anger no longer disguised. “I want time with my grandson. You still haven’t given me an answer about Thanksgiving.”
“Fine. You’d like an answer? I’ll give you an answer. No, you may not have Nicky for the week of his Thanksgiving break. The idea is absurd. You haven’t seen him since he was a toddler. He doesn’t remember you.”
“You could join him,” she offered grudgingly.
“After this conversation, do you think I want to spend a week with you and John? Are you crazy?”
Lydia sputtered, wiping her mouth with her napkin, her fork clinking on her plate as she leaned forward. “Don’t speak to me in that tone,” she ordered.
“I’ll speak to you in any tone I choose,” I said. “After everything you’ve said, do you really think I want my son to spend time alone with you? So you can fill his head with lies about me?”
“I wouldn’t—”
“Please. You absolutely would.”
“Then come with him and make sure I don’t,” she challenged.
“I don’t think so. First, I don’t want to. Nicky and I have plans for the holiday, and I don’t want to change them. Second, I have to work. I can’t just take off an entire week with so little notice.”
Lydia gave an exaggerated sniff. “I suppose you can’t. For a minute, I forgot you were a servant.”
I ignored the last comment, refusing to defend myself to Lydia. I’d had enough of her classist bullshit. I wasn’t treated as less than at Heartstone. Manor, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to let Lydia make me feel inadequate.