“Wow.” I tried to disguise the hurt in my voice, mainly because I knew I wasn’t the one who should be hurt. Mother was the wronged one. My eyes burned with unshed tears.
Merde, Mother is going to have a heart attack.
“That’s … ironic,” I managed to cough out.
“Ya think?” Hunter deadpanned, snorting.
Once upon a very long time, Da or Athair (meaning father in Gaelic), as we children referred to him, had dragged Hunter from his school in California all the way back to Boston because a sex tape of Hunter had hit the internet. It made the rounds and provided some very unfavorable headlines for the family. Athair went to extreme lengths to punish Hunter for the national embarrassment he’d caused the Fitzpatrick clan. So this was definitely irony at its best … and worst.
Not that we didn’t know my father cheated on my mother, but he always kept it under wraps and never, ever let it leak. He had the reputation of a flawless family man, and whoever managed to bring him down must be gloating right now.
“Where are you? How is Mother?” I took sharp turns and stole yellow lights whenever I could, ignoring the persistent snowflakes falling down from the sky as I zipped my way through the Back Bay.
“I’m just getting into Avebury Court right now. Sail and the kids are with me. Cillian, Persy, and Sam are already there. Mom is …” Hunter paused, drawing a breath. “I don’t know how she is, Ash. She hasn’t picked up the phone. Hurry. You’re the only one who could ever get through to her.”
I’m the only who makes the effort, I thought bitterly.
“All right, love you.”
“Love you, too, sis.”
With that, he hung up.
My knee bounced against the steering wheel the entire drive home.
Mother. Fragile, vulnerable Jane Fitzpatrick.
Who drowned her sorrow in shopping sprees, cried every time I opted to go out with friends and not stay with her, and always had a ready-made request on the tip of her lips to make me serve her in some way.
Growing up, I’d thought I was just like her.
Meek, shy, and elegant. I’d tried so hard to become what people expected me to be. The fragileness of Jane Fitzpatrick, from her bony structure to her dainty beauty, drew a lot of admirers and the envy and ire of women over the years. But as time passed, I realized I was stronger than my mother, much stronger, and more independent, too.
Which implied I looked like my mom but had the same characteristics as my dad.
That was something I was too grossed out to explore right this moment.
Jane Fitzpatrick slipped in and out of depression like it was her favorite gown, and my father, although he was now retired and dabbled with the family business only a couple hours a day, did very little to try to help her.
Which was why I’d decided to stay at home as long as I could before I’d eventually get married and start my own family.
People always silently judged me for my decision to remain home.
They always assumed I stayed because I wanted to be coddled.
No one had suspected I stayed because I was the one doing the coddling.
But I did just that, flipping the tables and becoming her parent. Her first real depression happened when I was eighteen; I hadn’t slept, spending all my time filling her baths, brushing her hair, giving her daily pep talks, and taking her to doctors.
Since then, I’d helped nurse her through her ups and downs three more times. So having my father so carelessly ruin all my work felt like a stab in the back.
I parked in front of the house with a screech then threw the double doors to our mansion open, ignoring the pitter-patter of my heart at the sight of Sam’s Porsche, which was parked next to Cillian’s Aston Martin and Hunter’s G-Class Mercedes.
Finding everyone was hardly a task. I followed the shrieks and hysterical cries of my mother, all the way from the foyer to the second dining room. Her wails bounced across the high ceilings, ricocheting against marble statues and family paintings.
I came to a halt when I reached the dining area. Mother and Athair were standing at the center, the gardens and heavy burgundy drapes their backdrop as they engaged in a screaming match from Hell.
Mother was so red I thought she was going to explode. Da tried the inconsistent method of apologizing profusely one moment and heatedly defending himself the next. Behind them, I spotted Cillian sneering down at them distastefully, one of his arms draped tenderly over his fair-haired wife, Persephone, who held their son, Astor, close to her chest.
Hunter, Sailor, and their children were there, too. Standing at a safe distance in case Mother started throwing sharp objects, which wasn’t unlikely.