The Rake (Boston Belles 4)

“Cecilia? What on earth is all this commotion? I—”

Belle turned to look at her. The minute their eyes met, two things were clear to me:

They both knew who the other one was.

If anyone was going to kill anyone, I’d put my money on Sweven and wouldn’t even consider it a high-risk investment.

“Oh.” Mother put the box down and pressed her fingers on her mouth like we were both naked, standing there in her driveway.

My mother couldn’t stop staring at Emmabelle’s stomach. The latter, in return, rubbed it protectively, like the woman in front of her was going to try and snatch the baby away if she wasn’t careful. Her belly still had a shallow, faint scar from the whole ordeal with Frank, but Belle told me she loved it even more now. The story behind her pregnancy. How precious and rare our child was.

“Belle wanted to see where I grew up before we left. I took care of the will today. Everything’s done.” I draped an arm over my girlfriend’s shoulder.

My mother was still looking at Belle’s belly with violent, hungry longing.

“I hope it’s to your liking.” She took a step toward the belly—and the woman it was attached to—acknowledging her for the very first time. “It’s free for you to use. We’re moving away. You caught us at a bit of an inconvenient time. Sorry I cannot offer you any refreshments. My kitchens are all packed.”

“It’s always a dud when all the kitchens are packed. I always leave, like, three, fully stocked. Just in case.” Emmabelle offered her a feline smile, producing a lollipop from behind her ear—like a cigarette—unwrapping it and shoving it into the side of her mouth.

She was a trickster. An unexpected rainbow in a bleak, gray painting. A woman of many faces, many shapes, and many hats.

Mother swallowed her with her eyes, fascinated. “Are all American women sarcastic?”

“No, ma’am. Only the good ones.”

“Your accent is so … lazy.”

“You should see my workout routine.” Belle sucked hard on the lollipop, looking around her, like she was figuring out what she wanted to do with the place. “Oh, and yours sounds like you were born to chide small children for asking for a second helping of porridge.”

That earned a snicker out of me.

“I hear you’re a stripper.” Mother tilted her chin up, but there was no defiance in her. Only fascination.

I took a step forward, ready to give her a verbal spanking.

Belle put her hand on mine.

“I’m not a stripper, but as someone who knows a few, I can tell you no stripper I’ve ever met fell behind on her bills. They usually do it to pay their way through college or to just make a quick buck. Lots of tips. Don’t slam it before you try it.”

My mother nodded. She was impressed despite her best efforts.

“You’re different from what I imagined.”

“You should’ve never doubted it. Your son has great taste.”

Mum turned to look at me.

“I don’t hate her, Devvie,” she said with a good portion of resignation.

“Wish I could say the same about you, Mrs. Whitehall.” Belle’s voice caught her attention, and their gazes locked. “But you hurt the love of my life, and we have an open beef to settle.”

“We will.” Mum nodded curtly, moving in our direction almost gingerly. “First, can I touch your belly? It is oh-so-full of baby. And looking at both of you, I just know the child will be gorgeous.”

“You can cop a feel, Mrs. W,” Sweven warned, “but that doesn’t mean you’re off of my shit list.”

Good god, I loved that woman.

My mother put her hands on Belle’s belly and grinned up at her. “She’s kicking.”

“How do you know it’s a she?” I asked.

“A woman knows.” She pulled away, smiling at us enigmatically.

There was nothing more to say really. This wasn’t a part of a reconciliation or an olive branch. It was a quiet, dignified goodbye. A goodbye that should have happened two decades ago.

My mother gathered my hands in hers, and I let her. One last time.

“I just want you to know, I do love you, Devon. In my own roundabout way.”

I believed her.

But sometimes, a bit of love was simply not enough.

“How come most airlines don’t have first-class seats anymore?” Emmabelle pouted next to me on the flight back home later that evening. She was munching on dried fruit.

I flipped a page in the Wall Street Journal, taking a sip of my virgin Bloody Mary, possibly the only virgin I had ever consumed. I would have gone for whiskey, but Belle was the kind of woman who insisted I sympathize with her by staying sober.

“There was hardly any difference between first and business class to begin with. Add to that the fact that business-class seats by definition count as a work expense, and you’ll get why most western airlines don’t want to be bothered. Why are you asking?” I glanced her way.