Burned Deep (Burned 1)

“Well, it’s not Nordstrom, darling.”

I seethed inwardly. Showing any sort of outward emotion in my mother’s presence was futile. She only saw what she wanted to see.

So I skipped over it and asked, “To what do I owe the honor?” My tone held a biting edge that I couldn’t disguise. Perhaps it was her air of superiority that grated on my nerves, in addition to the way she’d treated both my dad and me.

My mother was a petite brunette with the right hair, the perfect pallor, the tiny frame suitable for all upscale fashions, and the richest fragrance to make one think she dipped herself in gold every morning. Her crocodile leather handbag—Prada would be my guess—dangled from her dainty forearm as she pointed a finger at me and said, “It’s been much too long, Aria Lynne. You never come visit me.”

She always used my full name. As though that made us royalty or something. She’d truly missed her calling as a Southern belle or privileged debutante. I could see her delivering the most polished curtsey imaginable and then setting an entire room aglow with her UV-ray smile. Serious overkill on the bleach, but it was all part of the Kathryn DeMille Big Top circus.

“I’ve been a bit busy, Mother. Sorry.”

She surveyed my small space—the foyer that opened into a kitchen and the living room beyond. The corner of her mouth twitched, but of course she wouldn’t give in to a frown for fear she’d wrinkle.

Setting her large tote on my table, she extracted two items. The first was today’s Arizona Republic, the Phoenix paper. It was already opened and folded over to reveal pictures from Friday night’s extravaganza at the Delfino estate.

“I had no idea you kept such prestigious company these days,” she cooed.

In the center of the page was a photo of me with a grinning Kyle, Meghan, and Sean. I bit back a grunt of oh, shit, please don’t let Dane see this. But he would. Seeing me with Kyle would create a bit of friction. No need to delude myself.

“I planned Meghan Delfino’s wedding,” I told my mother.

“And you’re now BFFs? Darling, that’s fab-ulous!” She drew out the last word as though I’d miraculously procured the Hope Diamond.

“Just friends,” I mumbled as I moved past her. “Do you want some water? There’s no Evian, just tap, but—”

“You really should be more prepared for guests, Aria Lynne.”

“I don’t get many, Mother. Why are you here?” And why did I feel as though a million tiny spiders had suddenly crawled under my skin?

She set out the other item she’d brought with her—another bridal magazine. “There’s an article in here about all the preparations you made for the Delfinos. So impressive.” Her sculpted brows would have arched for emphasis if they weren’t already at the perfectly elevated degree.

The creepy sensation grew. My mother was up to something. No doubt about it. I decided to cut to the chase.

“Again, is there a specific reason you’re here?” I asked.

“Naturally, I’ve wanted to come see you. I’ve had so much on my plate, though.” She launched into the luncheons with the Junior League and Soroptimist and so on and so forth. There were fund-raising galas she simply had to attend—not volunteer for, mind you, but purchase an expensive seat in order to be “seen.”

I halfheartedly listened, still trying to pinpoint what it was she truly wanted from me. A good five minutes later, I started to piece it all together.

“Well, you of all people know how important it is to be appropriately attired for all of these functions, and to wear the same dress is absolutely not an option. Darling,” she said, “I’m sure that my attendance does so much good for the community but it’s drained my finances completely.”

“You have alimony from Dad. And it’s never been paltry,” I reminded her. I’d suffered the consequences of the payments he made. She had a lovely condo in Scottsdale. We’d lived in a run-down duplex in a not-so-great part of Phoenix.

“Times change, Aria Lynne,” she said in a dismissive tone. “Inflation and all that. I literally cannot be expected to—”

“Whoa, wait.” I raised a hand to cut her off. “Are you here for money?”

She didn’t even bother looking taken aback. Rather, she appeared indignant as she said, “I can’t be expected to live in squalor.”

“Squalor?” I nearly spat out the word. “Seriously, Mother?”

She moved past me and took the five-second tour of my living room. Staring out at the golf course, she said with disdain, “You just can’t resist the fairways. Like your father.”

“You didn’t come here to talk about golf. What’s going on? Tell me straight, because you don’

t make house calls out of the kindness of your heart.”

Flashing me a stern expression I figured was meant to be maternal, though it came out more snide because I was onto her, she told me, “It’s extremely expensive to maintain my lifestyle.”