Beloved Liar (The Reed Rivers Trilogy 3)

“Hi, Mrs. Rivers,” Georgina says, putting out her hand. “I’m so happy I’m ‘finally’ here, too.”

“Eleanor.”

“Eleanor.”

“You’re beautiful, Georgina.”

“Thank you. So are you, Eleanor.”

Mom hugs me. “Hello, dear. Yes, I know I’ve never met Georgina before. You think I don’t know that?” She pulls back from our embrace and flashes me a chastising look. “I said I’m glad she’s finally here because you’ve finally found a woman you like enough to bring her to meet me.” Chuckling at my stunned expression, she addresses Georgina. “Please, tell me you like my son, as much as he likes you, or I’ll never forgive him for bringing you here, only to tease me.”

“I do like your son. I also love him very much. With all my heart.”

Mom claps. “Finally! And you?”

“I like Georgina, and love her, too. With all my heart. To the moon and back again.”

Mom squeals and grabs Georgina’s hand. “Come. Sit and talk to me while I continue painting the ocean.” She tosses over her shoulder, “Grab a couple chairs, Reed.”

“Yes, Mother.”

I carry two chairs over and get Georgina settled next to my mother, and myself settled next to Georgina, and then take a good, long look at this week’s opus. Not surprisingly, it’s more of the same. A Happy Family Portrait, featuring Mom’s lost loved ones. This time, set at the seashore.

As usual, a younger version of Mom sits on a red blanket with her two young sons—Oliver and me—and both of us are happily licking ice cream cones. One of Mom’s sisters wades in the ocean up to her knees. Another sister turns cartwheels in the sand. A third sister throws a colorful beach ball with her ill-fated mother.

Mom’s father is in this happy scene, too, as usual. Although, per protocol, he’s set apart from his other family members, just in case the pesky rumor about him setting the house fire that claimed his wife and three daughters was true.

Mom picks up her brush and begins filling in the gray-blue of the ocean. And as she paints, she peppers Georgina with questions. How did Georgina and I meet? How long have we dated? When did she know she was in love with me?

At first, I pipe in, here and there, to supplement Georgina’s replies. But, quickly, it’s clear I’m a third wheel. Persona non grata. So, I sit back and listen, feeling relieved and amused and, surprisingly, relaxed. After a bit, Mom starts asking Georgina personal questions that have nothing to do with me. Does Georgina have siblings? What do her parents do for a living? Which, of course, ultimately leads to Georgina revealing her mother’s death.

“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry,” Mom says. “My mother died, too.” She points to her mother’s happy avatar on her canvas. “When I was sixteen.”

I brace myself. This is a topic I’ve avoided talking about with Mom my whole life. Like the plague. Same with Oliver’s death. Because, obviously, I don’t want to upset Mom or trigger a meltdown.

But Georgina jumps right in. “Oh, no,” she says. “How did your mother die?”

I brace myself again. But to my surprise, Mom answers Georgina, in detail, without crying, and then proceeds to regale Georgina with stories about everyone in her painting. When Georgina asks follow-up questions, Mom not only answers them, she tells Georgina lovely, lighthearted stories about her family members, most of which I’ve never heard. And, suddenly, I realize something huge: Mom has been dying to talk about these people!

My eyes drift to Mom’s painting again. To her family members, enjoying the sun and surf. To her younger self, sitting on that red blanket with Oliver and me. And I feel deep compassion for my mother washing over me, not disdain or shame or embarrassment. Not only that, I feel pissed at myself for never doing exactly what Georgina is doing right now. Asking questions.

“Tell me some happy stories about Oliver,” Georgina says. And to my surprise, Mom leaps right in, treating us to three adorable stories about him, which then leads to her telling one about me I’ve never heard before—a story in which I played a concert with pots and pans on our kitchen floor for an enraptured audience of teddy bears.

A bell rings in the distance, signaling lunch is ready in the dining hall, and Mom stands like a Pavlovian dog, saying she’s so hungry she could eat a hippo. But for some reason, for the first time, ever, seeing Mom’s avatar sitting happily on a blanket with her two young sons has given me an idea.

“Why don’t we have a picnic? Right over there, on the grass?”

Mom loses her mind at the idea.

“You two continue chatting and enjoying the sunshine. I’ll head inside and get everything we need.”

Mom claps with glee, while Georgina flashes me a smolder that somehow simultaneously lights my very soul and sends rockets of desire into my dick. And I know, without a doubt, I just hit a grand slam homerun in the bottom of the ninth.