The woman who’d called me a whore.

I didn’t want to see her. More than that, I wasn’t sure I could see her and manage to stay centered.

I needed Damien—I wanted Damien. He was my strength, my anchor.

But he wasn’t in town and my mother was downstairs. And while I knew that one phone call would have him returning within the hour, I couldn’t bring myself to go to the kitchen, pick up the house phone, and make that call.

I could do this on my own—I had to.

And with Damien’s voice in my head, I knew that I’d survive.

At least, I hoped I would.

“Well, look at you!” My mother rises from the white sofa, then smoothes her linen skirt before coming toward me, her arms out to enfold me in a hug that is capped off by her trademark air kiss. “I was beginning to think you were going to leave me down here all alone.” She speaks lightly, but I can hear the indictment in her words—I left her unattended, and broke one of the cardinal rules from the Elizabeth Fairchild Guide to Playing Hostess.

I say nothing, just stand stiffly in her embrace. A moment passes, and I decide to make an effort. I awkwardly put my arms around her and give her a small squeeze. “Mother,” I say, and then stop. Honestly, what more is there to say?

“Married,” she says, and there is actually a wistful tone in her voice. For a moment, I wonder about her motive for coming. Is she here because she honestly wants to celebrate my marriage? I’m not quite able to wrap my head around the possibility, and yet I can’t help the tiny flame of hope that flickers inside me.

She steps back and looks me up and down. I’ve taken the time to shower and change and put on my makeup, and I know exactly what she sees as she looks at me. My blond hair is still short, though it has grown out since I took scissors to it and violently whacked off large chunks after the last time I saw her. I like this new shoulder-length style. Not only is it nice not to have the weight of all that hair, but the curls are bouncier and frame my face in a way that I like.

I’m wearing a simple linen skirt that hits just above my knees and a peach sweater over a white button-down. My feet are in my favorite pair of strappy sandals. The three-inch heels are wildly impractical for an afternoon of running wedding errands, but these are the shoes I was wearing the night I met Damien at Evelyn’s party so many months ago, and as I stood in my closet a few moments before, I was certain I’d need the extra bit of magical shoe confidence they impart if I was going to survive my mother.

The truth is, I know that I look good. It’s not possible to have entered and won as many pageants as I have and still hem and haw and pretend not to know how you look. Objectively, I’m pretty. Not movie star gorgeous—that’s Jamie—but I’m pretty, maybe even beautiful, and I know how to hold myself well. Under other circumstances, I’d be standing tall, knowing that I passed the inspection of anyone who took the time to look me over. But these are not ordinary circumstances, and I am suddenly feeling like an awkward teen, desperate for my mother’s approval. And the thing I hate the most? That soft look in her eyes only moments before. She’d knocked me off kilter, and now I don’t know what to expect. My defenses are down, and I’m left hoping for affection, like some lost puppy that followed her home looking for a handout.

It’s not a feeling I like.

“Well,” she finally says, “I suppose if you’re going to wear your hair short, that style is as good as it’s going to get.”

My rigid posture slumps ever so slightly, and I look down so that she can’t see the tears pricking my eyes. I really am that puppy, and she’s just kicked the shit out of me. I can either cower, or I can bare my teeth and fight back. And damn me all to hell, but the cowering almost wins out.

Then I remember that I’m not Elizabeth Fairchild’s pretty little dress-up doll anymore. I’m Nikki Fairchild, the owner of her own software company, and I’m more than capable of defending my own damn haircut. I suck in a breath, lift my head, and almost look my mother in the eyes. “It’s shoulder-length, Mother. It’s not like I’ve been shaved for the Marines. I think it’s flattering.” I flash my perfect pageant smile. “Damien likes it, too.”

She sniffs. “Darling, I wasn’t criticizing. I’m your mother. I’m on your side. I just want you to look your best.”

What I want is to tell her to turn around and go home. But the words don’t come. “I wasn’t expecting you,” I say instead.

“Why would you be?” she asks airily. “After all, it’s not as if you invited me to your wedding.”

Um, hello? Did you really think I would after the things you said? After you made it clear that you don’t like Damien? That you don’t respect me? That you think I’m a slut who’s only interested in his money?

That’s what I want to say, but the words don’t come. Instead, I shrug, feeling all of ten, and say simply, “I didn’t think you’d want to be here.”

I watch, astonished, as my mother’s ramrod straight posture sags a bit. She reaches a hand back, then takes hold of the armrest and lowers herself onto the couch. I peer at her and am astonished at an emotion on her face, one I’m not sure I’ve ever seen there before—my mother actually looks sad.

I move to the chair opposite her and sit, watching and waiting.

“Oh, Nichole, sugar, I just—” She cuts herself off, then digs into her purse for a monogrammed handkerchief, which she uses to dab her eyes. Her Texas twang is more pronounced than usual, and I recognize that as a sign of high drama to follow. But there are no tears, no histrionics. Instead, she says very softly and very simply, “I just wanted to spend some time with you. My baby girl’s getting married. It’s bittersweet.”

She reaches out, as if she intends to take my hand, but draws hers back into her lap. She clasps her hands together and straightens her posture, then takes a deep breath as if steeling herself. “I think about your wedding, and I can’t help but remember your sister’s. I want . . .”

But she doesn’t finish the sentence, and so I do not know what she wants. As for me, I don’t know when, but I’ve risen to my feet, and have turned away so that she can’t see the heavy tears now streaming down my cheeks.

I squeeze my eyes shut, determined not to think of Ashley, and even more determined not to think of the hand that my mother had in her suicide. But these thoughts are hard ones to banish, because they have lived inside me for so long. And now—well, now I can’t help but wonder if this is my mother’s way of showing remorse.

Or am I simply being a fool and wishing, perhaps futilely, that there is a détente to be had between my mother and me.

Chapter Five

“Cupcakes.” My mother’s voice is flat, but her smile is perky and falsely polite. She’s speaking to Sally Love, the owner of Love Bites. It’s one of the most popular bakeries in Beverly Hills. Sally has catered dozens of celebrity functions, has been featured in every food and dessert magazine known to man, and is a longtime friend of Damien’s. She’s also an artist with icing and a pleasure to work with.

I am terrified my mother is going to offend her.

Mother’s smile stretches wider. “What a perfectly charming idea. And was that your suggestion?” she asks Sally.

“I believe in working with my clients to figure out exactly what they want, to make their event not only special but uniquely theirs.”

“In other words, you don’t feel bound by tradition or societal expectations?” Her words are venomous, but her tone and manner are so polite that it’s hard to tell if she’s being deliberately offensive or making genuine conversation. I know the answer because I know my mother, and I step in and flash my own perky smile.

“I’m completely in love with the cupcake idea. I saw it in a magazine and it seemed like the perfect way to combine tradition and whimsy.” I turn to Sally, purposefully excluding my mother. “So we’re good to go on the top tier, right?”