I got my flute of champagne and floated away from the bar, took a sip, and above the rim of my glass, surveyed the candlelit, festive-LED-lit, lights-on-dim, soft-rock-coming-from-the-Sonos space.
And I saw it was a party in the mountains given by a mountain man.
But it sure was pretty.
I also saw that, apparently, Judge wasn’t keen on meeting the famous Imogen Swan, because he wasn’t one of the first to arrive.
“Green Acres is apparently the place to be.”
This was uttered directly into my ear from behind.
I turned, looked up and saw my handsome brother standing there.
The blood one.
Matthew.
“It’s good you, Mom and Sash are all in to cover the whole satin and sequins front so the locals didn’t have to concern themselves with that,” he continued to tease.
I gave my brother an eye roll and searched for Mom.
I found her standing in the curve of Bowie’s arm at the entryway to the great room. She was smiling at some guests and wearing a striking red satin dress that left one shoulder bare, had a billowing balloon sleeve on the other, and came down to an angle hem that ended above the knee at one side and kissed her ankle on the other.
It was the perfect dress for her.
(Said me, who selected it.)
Although we were far from the only ones who put in an effort—some of the men were wearing sports jackets, one I saw in a suit (though, no tie), and the women had definitely gussied up—the Hollywood faction was not hard to spot.
“She is who she is, I am who I am, and Sasha did the best she could do,” I returned. “At least we can count our lucky stars our baby sister doesn’t have flowers in her hair.”
Matt smirked and lifted his scotch and soda to his lips, doing his own scan of the crowd as he did so.
Once he’d swallowed his sip, he said, “I like her new style. I think it suits her.”
I gave the only response I could give.
I harumphed.
He chuckled and looked at me. “She’s finding her way, Coco. And I think it’s a good thing she’s out from under his shadow.”
I felt my spine straighten at this.
Because when he said “his,” he meant Dad’s.
It was true, growing up, Sash and Dad were two peas in a pod, both the most active, athletic, competitive ones (Matt slid in at number three of that bunch, though Mom and I didn’t compete), and for Sasha, all of that was gone.
As mentioned, it concerned me, including Sasha losing the entirety of her drive, which was something she rode, if memory served, since kindergarten.
But even if they weren’t my favorite things back in the day, I missed the sweaters and tailored skirts and chino shorts and blue oxford button-downs she used to wear.
Mostly, though, I missed Sasha having focus.
Aim.
Goals.
And even more than that (far more than that), I missed Matt and Dad getting along, respecting each other and openly loving each other.
Something, since even before the divorce, when we came to know that things were going wrong with Mom and Dad’s marriage, they did not.
Or at least Matt didn’t.
“Matt—” I started.
He cut me off, his face going hard as he did. “We are absolutely, one hundred percent not talking about that.”
I turned to face him fully. “Can you absolutely, one hundred percent give me a time when we will talk about this? Considering the fact I’ve brought it up repeatedly for over a year and you keep putting me off.”
He tried to dismiss it by saying, “It is what it is.”
“It is, indeed, that.” I couldn’t keep the snap out of my voice. That said, I didn’t really try. “Going back to the fact that what happened between Mom and Dad happened.”
“Chloe—”
“And Mom has moved on from it.”
“Chlo—”
“But regardless, it is hardly your place to make her keep paying for Dad hurting her the way he did. Furthermore, it’s hardly your place to keep him paying for it when he’s already lost everything.”
“He hasn’t lost you or Sash, or as you said, Mom,” Matt bit out.
“If you think he isn’t in agony that she’s rekindled her first love and is happy beyond measure, then you are not nearly as intelligent as I thought,” I bit back. “He is. He’s writhing with it. He doesn’t need this ongoing, and ludicrous, and unnecessary, and just plain hurtful estrangement with his son carrying on and on and on.”
“He cheated on her,” he growled.
My heart pitched.
“I’m aware of that.” I gritted between my teeth. “He made a huge mistake. He’s human.”
Matt shook his head. “It’s my thing with Dad, and it has nothing to do with you.”
“You’re wrong about that too,” I clipped.
“Well, way to go,” he drawled. “You’ve shown your face at Duncan’s party for five minutes, and you’ve ruined it for me.”
I felt utterly no guilt.
“You need to get over yourself,” I advised.
“And you need to go fuck yourself,” he retorted.
I blinked, because Matt could be stubborn, and remote, and brutally honest.
But he was never a jerk.
He prowled away, and I immediately turned my attention in the direction of Mom, who I hoped did not witness the tenseness of that exchange, only to see she was engaged with talking to someone.
But Bowie was watching me closely.
I pasted a jaunty smile on my face and lifted my flute.
He returned my smile, but I could tell he didn’t buy my jauntiness.
Damn.
“I like my ass, as fat as it is, and God granted me a good head of hair, but you in that outfit makes me grieve the loss of my perky tits.”
Heddy, a longtime friend of Mom’s who serendipitously lived in Prescott, had sidled up beside me.
She used to be in the acting biz.
Now, she worked in a title office, had two boyfriends she refused to commit to (and they were all down with that, having their freedom but also having company when they felt like it), and three dogs.
She had a smart mouth and the ability to tease relentlessly.
So obviously, I adored her.
“If I hear you call your ass fat again, I’ll stop speaking to you for a year,” I sniffed.
“Couldn’t have that,” she replied, grinning up at me.
“And it’s not fat, it’s curvaceous,” I noted.
“I stand corrected,” she said.
“You certainly do,” I retorted, lifting my glass to take a sip, intending to restart our conversation by saying hello and telling her she looked cute when I felt something tickle along the side of my neck, a sensation that made my gaze wander the room.
When it did, I saw Judge was there, across the space, standing next to the other bar set up in the corner by the fireplace (which was now burning merrily away).
He had a sturdy glass filled with beer in his hand and a smile on his face as he listened to an extortionately handsome, built man who was standing with him.
As if it had a physical touch, the minute my gaze hit him, Judge Oakley’s eyes swung to me.
And fixed on me.
And he stared.
And stared.
And drat it all, I felt my skin heat, because the look on his face said he saw white satin for about five seconds before his imagination chucked my outfit, and now he saw something entirely different.