Genevieve, on the other hand, was judgy as all get out, and proud of it.
“Darling, is this really necessary?” She flicked her finger up and down, assessing Chloe. “You don’t have better clothes than that? A child is a reflection of their mother, you know.”
There was no hello. No How have you been? No How are you today?
Which was no different than normal.
She just waltzed into Something Borrowed, a walking fashion statement right off the pages of a Ralph Lauren catalog, Hamptons edition. Christie Brinkley on the outside, Cruella de Vil on the inside.
Her stunning beauty was natural—no painful injections or surgery necessary—and the one positive trait she’d passed on to her daughter.
“I’m not a child.” Chloe looked down at herself. “And what’s wrong with my outfit?”
Yes, she bought it at Target, not Bloomingdales, but her white eyelet dress was fashionable and trendy and fit her body perfectly. And since she had the mother of all mortgages, it fit her budget too.
Her actual mother would just have to deal.
“I guess you could call it shabby chic,” Genevieve murmured, making lemonade out of lemons before greeting Wendy. “How are you, Wendy? The children are fine, too?”
Not waiting for an answer, she gave Chloe a quick hug then sat primly in the chair facing her antique desk.
As if she’d not just walked into her daughter’s place of business, unannounced in the middle of a work day, bringing actual production to a screeching halt.
That was Genevieve. All for one, one for none. Except herself.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” Chloe said, forcing a friendly tone. “I thought you were staying in the city for a while.”
Genevieve owned a wealth management firm in Manhattan and, while she could work remotely, spent most of her time in her high-rise office. She might not be the world’s best mother, but her work ethic was second to none.
Okay, another positive trait Chloe inherited. Beauty and brains. Any benevolence was paternally provided.
“Do I need a reason? Maybe I just wanted to lay eyes on my only child. Make sure you were okay since I haven’t seen or spoken to you in weeks.” She tsked. “You’ve been making such terrible life decisions lately.”
As if Chloe had taken to giving back-alley blowjobs to feed a meth habit.
“What decisions?”
“Oh, you know, darling. Buying that house next door.”
Removing her Chanel sunglasses, she placed them inside a fur-lined case, then sat back and crossed her legs, apparently planning to stay awhile.
“Unless you’re going to bulldoze the structures and rebuild, I don’t see the point. That purchase was a misstep, business-wise. Your father should’ve told you that.”
“He didn’t. He sees my vision and agreed with my decision.”
“He’s losing his edge, then.” She waved a hand. “Soraya has softened him. A little too much if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask you.” Her smile was cheerful, her tone holding no animosity. She’d long ago stopped defending her stepmom, a woman who was more maternal figure than Genevieve had ever been. “They’ve been together forever now, so get used to it already, okay?”
Genevieve’s veiled insults weren’t a new thing. As a child, it hurt to hear her mother talk shit about her dad and stepmom, which she did on the regular. As an adult, hearing her talk shit about them was humorous to a small degree and just plain sad to a larger one.
Jealousy did that to a person. So did regret. Made you long for what might have been. Made you hate yourself for a colossal mistake you made when you were too young to know better. To do better.
Another commonality between mother and daughter.
“The house has great potential, Mother. I have plans for it.” And they don’t include demolition.
“Plans? For these little soirees you throw?” She glanced around the office as if looking for something. Maybe Chloe’s misplaced purpose in life.
“Yes. My little soirees.” Semantics aside, Chloe simply agreed, not bothering to hide her eye roll. Some of those little soirees came with six-figure budgets.
“Do you have an interest list started?”
“It’s still in the early stages,” she said, keeping her business to herself because no, she didn’t. “But I’m confident.”
Yes, she planned to host events on the lawn, the seaside grounds postcard perfect. But using the house for indoor parties wasn’t included. Not since Jameson returned, a bold reminder of the house’s history. And her original intent for it.
“The key to a successful endeavor comes in the planning stages, darling, so do work on that posthaste. I’ve instilled that in you since birth.”
“Yeah, I think I remember you saying that when you made me put together a PowerPoint presentation on my plans for the upcoming school year.”
Laughing, Chloe looked at Wendy and added, “I was going into the first grade. Oh, and I already knew the definition of the word posthaste, so I aced Language Arts.”
“I flunked,” Wendy deadpanned, bringing her sleeping monitor to life. “Please excuse me while I Google the word posthaste, Ms. Moreau.”
Genevieve scoffed. Not at the poke to her formal vocabulary but at the jab regarding Baby’s First PowerPoint Presentation.
“It was an oral report of your educational goals, from age six to eighteen,” she corrected, missing the point entirely. “And considering how your seventeenth year turned out, you failed at those plans. Almost failed at life had I not stepped in.”
Chloe sucked in a sharp breath, shocked at her insensitivity.
Mother and daughter stared at each other, Genevieve seeming to realize she’d gone too far but too proud to take it back, while Chloe ignored the piercing pain in her chest. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and narrowed her gaze. Daring her mother to go there.
Five heavy seconds into their silent standoff, Wendy laughed nervously. “You said oral.”
And the juvenile joke broke the tension.
Turning back to her open laptop, Chloe moved the cursor, pulling up her schedule for the remainder of the day. It didn’t include a fight she’d never win.
“I’m busy, Mother. Booked solid this afternoon. Can we visit another time?”
Ignoring that subtle request to leave, Genevieve abandoned her doubt regarding Chloe’s ability to sufficiently adult. For now.
And, instead of exiting, made small talk about nothing whatsoever to the room at large. Chloe wasn’t really listening, but her monologue mostly centered around herself and Neil, a corporate lawyer she’d been seeing for several months.
Neil was a decent guy who treated Genevieve like a treasure. She and Wendy could only deduce one thing: the poor dude was obviously suffering from Early onset dementia.
He had no idea the company he kept.
But despite the cold greeting and judgmental tendencies, her mother wasn’t all bad. There’d been real moments of affection over the years. Chloe knew she was loved and that her well-being was primary to Genevieve. There were just many days when that love was conditional.
One day in particular.
The worst day of Chloe’s life.
After a good ten minutes, Genevieve finally wrapped up the superficial chitchat, pausing to pick at her manicured cuticles. A rare show of insecurity from a supremely secure woman.