My mother doesn’t kiss Zoe’s cheeks, but offers her hand, a gesture that demeans Zoe for a lower class but that someone not familiar with our culture won’t grasp.
Zoe glances at me. I give a small nod, a warning, at which she shakes my mother’s hand. My mother isn’t up to speed with the grittier details of our business, even if she knows how we conduct it is shady. My father prefers to keep her in the dark, to protect her as he claims, not only from the blood on our hands, but also from his mistresses. If my mother knows, she’s never given on, but her reaction to Zoe tells me she may be less ignorant about my father’s infidelity than what I’ve thought, or, for her sake, hoped.
“Well,” my mother says in English, her accent worse than mine, “you better come in.”
She steps aside for us to enter. The guard follows with the suitcases.
“Where must I put this, sir?” he asks in French.
“In my bedroom.”
My mother purses her lips. Her gaze flicks over Zoe’s pleated coat and killer heel boots with distaste.
As I help Zoe from her coat, my mother, reverting back to French, asks, “How long is she staying?”
I put the coat on the stand by the door before removing my own. “A while.”
Her silence communicates her displeasure.
“You didn’t have to come out all the way here to cook for me,” I say.
She pinches my cheek. “I’m your mother. That’s my job.”
“In English, please.”
She irons out her apron and switches back to English. “Go freshen up. Lunch will be ready when you’re done.”
I show Zoe to the guest bathroom downstairs and wait outside.
When she exits, I take her arm, squeezing harder than necessary. “Not a word to my mother or anyone for that matter. Say anything out of line, and Damian pays the price. Understand?”
She stares at up me, her big, blue eyes shimmering with apprehension and a twist of hostility. “Yes.”
“Good.” I kiss the top of her head just because I can and lead her to the dining room.
Her arm brushes against mine as we walk. I’m overly aware of her, my usual business-focused mind distracted. I don’t know many twenty-one-year-old virgins. I never could’ve guessed. The knowledge surges in me with heated satisfaction. Her innocence suits me even better. I’ve never liked to share my toys as a child. That hasn’t changed once I turned into an adult. If anything, the trait became more imbedded in my making. I guess Alexis is right. I am a selfish bastard.
My mother waits at the table, her apron removed and the rings she takes off for cooking back on her fingers. The five-carat emerald surrounded by diamonds is a family ring, passed on for generations from mother to daughter. We don’t have a sister. Alexis and I are the only children. As the first-born, the ring will be passed on to my wife, and I know exactly what my mother is thinking as she twists the ring on her finger while studying Zoe with a tight expression.
I seat Zoe on my right and take the head of the table. My mother already sits on the left, a place normally reserved for the lady of the house. A veal roast with Parisian potatoes and green beans are set out. There’s enough to feed ten people.
“It smells delicious,” I say, taking the carving knife.
“Your favorite.” My mother gives me a tender look, a look that speaks of family intimacy and customs, one that excludes outsiders such as Zoe. Our clan has always been a clique.
After I’ve carved the meat, my mother serves while I pour the wine. She fills me in on the watering of the plants she’s managed in my absence, which ones have flowered, and the groceries she’s ordered to be delivered. We talk about my cousins, Sylvie and Noelle, who will be home soon from the university they attend in Paris.
“I got you some tangerines,” my mother says after we’ve finished the main course, pushing the bowl toward me. “They’re the ones from Corsica you like so much.”
“You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.” I take one, peel it, and place it on Zoe’s plate. “I have a cook, you know.”
My mother sniffs. “She doesn’t know you like I do. Neither does she cook like me.” She pushes to her feet. “I’ve been in the kitchen on my feet all morning. I need a break.”
I stand. “Who’s driving you?”
“One of your father’s men.”
I kiss her cheeks. “Thank you for lunch.”
She pats my arm. “Take care of yourself.” To Zoe, she says, “Goodbye, then.”
Zoe mumbles a barely audible greeting.
“Have some tea,” I say to Zoe. In other words, stay.
I see my mother out.
While pulling her coat and scarf on at the entrance, she asks, “How did you meet this…” she waves a hand, “…whatever her name is?”
“Zoe. By chance.”
My mother fits her gloves. “She’s a foreigner, Max.”
“I’m well aware, Maman.”
“Is she Catholic?”
“You know I’m not religious.”
She sighs and pats my cheek. “I have to be home before the charity meeting this afternoon. Do think about making a donation. Those poor kids can do with the aid.”
“I’ll write a check.”
“Good.”
I signal the guard waiting on a bench next to my father’s Mercedes and walk my mother to the car.
My mother hesitates when I open the door. “Max, you know how this is going to look.”
I feel one of those long talks coming. “I’m thirty, not ten.”
Sighing again, she gets inside and waves as the driver pulls off. I lift a hand in greeting, waiting until they clear the gates before going back inside.
I find Zoe in the dining room where I left her, a teacup in her hand. She looks up when I enter, her expression uncertain.
“Come,” I say. “I’ll show you the bedroom.”
The way she tenses gives me the same jabbing sensation in my chest as when she showed me so openly how repulsive the idea of me fucking her is. My face may put her off, but she had pleasure last night. She may hate the idea, but she liked what I did to her. In time, she’ll get used to looking at me.
We go upstairs to the master suite. I open the door and usher her inside. The room is spacious with a sitting area and dressing room that connects to the bathroom. The French doors open onto a balcony. The view is magnificent. She goes to the window to look out at the sea. I’m proud. My home is more than an investment. It’s the only place I can let my guard down and relax.
“What do you think?” I really want to know. Why it’s important to me that she likes my home I don’t know.
She turns on me, ire shining in her pretty, blue eyes. “What do you want me to say? That it’s lovely? That my prison is beautiful? Shall I swoon over how big and fancy your property is, over how much it’s worth?”
I give her a warning look. “A simple thank you will do.”
“Oh, my mistake. I guess this is the part where I thank you for saving me from being locked up and raped.”
I let it go. She’s tired. She’s been through a lot in the last three days, especially last night. “If you need anything, my housekeeper, Francine, will see to your needs. My home is yours, and I won’t go out of my way to make you miserable.”