TEN
Violet: Hey, Nessie.
Bren: Are the girls okay?
Violet: Yes. Do you think I’d text you while you’re at an away game with “Hey, Nessie” if they weren’t?
Bren: Okay. Can I help you?
Violet: Oh, the answers I could give. LOL.
Bren: . . .
Violet: ;P (that was me sticking out my tongue, spoilsport). So I’m checking in to see how late is too late for them to drink soda.
Bren: What are they telling you?
Violet: That they usually drink it with dinner and then again with their cookie snack at 8 p.m.
Bren: Lies. All of it. No soda or cookies after 6 p.m. Not unless you want to be up all night with them.
Violet: Nessie has spoken!
Fifteen seconds later . . .
Violet: Oh, they don’t like that. But you’re the bad guy, so I’m in the clear.
Violet: Hey, Nessie.
Bren: Is everything okay?
Violet: Uh, we’ve covered this. Yes.
Bren: . . .
Bren: ?
Violet: Sorry, Gretzky was getting a little familiar with the chica parts there. Anyways, we have a problem. The girls have never seen The Princess Bride.
Bren: Of course they have. Everyone has.
Violet: Nope. I was quoting all the best lines and they were clueless. Mawage. Inconceivable. ROUS. Nothing!
Bren: Way to make me feel like a failure as a parent.
Violet: Right, because it’s all about you. Okay for them to watch?
Bren: As you wish.
Violet: Nice. Have fun storming the ice field!
Bren: Rink.
Violet: Whatevs.
Violet: Hey, Nessie.
Bren: Hey.
Violet: So why do bagpipe players walk while they play?
Bren: . . .
Violet: To get away from the noise!
Bren: Ha-ha.
Violet: I know. Classic, right? Sorry about the game last night.
Bren: Thanks. We still have one more shot. How was the movie?
Violet: Didn’t watch it. Figured you might want to see it with them the first time. We watched The Lego Movie instead, and through the power of product placement, you’re now on the hook for all sorts of useless plastic shit.
Bren: Uh, thanks?
Violet: No problem! BTW, Cat’s no longer vegan . . . you’re welcome! Night, Nessie!
“Mami, what’s the best way to get blood out of clothing?”
Violet held the phone between her cheek and her shoulder, wishing she’d put it on speaker. Too late now, as she was already scrubbing a T-shirt with dish soap in the kitchen sink at Bren’s house.
“You haven’t called in weeks and this is what you open with? Have you finally done away with one of those rich white girls?”
Violet sighed. Since her mom had moved back to Puerto Rico eighteen months ago, she’d been a touch snide whenever Violet called, partly because Violet didn’t move with her. San Juan had never been her home, and it sure as hell wouldn’t start being so now.
But mostly her mom’s attitude stemmed from the fact Violet had moved to Chicago to get to know her sisters. Louisa Vasquez thought Clifford Chase was the devil and his spawn not much better—present company excluded, of course.
“I talked to you three days ago, so quit exaggerating. And we always talk about the same things. The weather, your lumbago, the weather, how it affects your lumbago—”
“Okay, okay, point taken. And now you want to talk about covering up some crime involving blood-spattered clothing.”
No wonder Clifford Chase had run a mile. Of course, he’d recognized a gold digger when he saw one and he was smart enough to ensure that his latest baby mama wouldn’t get a dime for herself. Violet’s Catholic school tuition fees at St. Ita’s were paid directly by Clifford’s lawyer. Anything else had to be itemized and justified as necessary to Violet’s upkeep. Louisa’s scam hadn’t left her any better off, just on the hook for an unwanted child.
Violet had found that part out later. Before the age of thirteen, she’d never doubted her mom’s love for her, that Violet was wanted. She knew Louisa loved her in her own way, but unfortunately it was tangled up in something ugly and sordid.
Biting her lip at her uncharitable thoughts, she tried a reboot of the conversation.
“Hola, Mami, how are you? How’s the weather? Is your lumbago acting up? Any tips for getting blood out of a shirt?”
“What kind of material?”
“Cotton. A T-shirt belonging to one of the girls. Franky, Bren’s youngest, had a nosebleed.”
Violet had already filled her mom in on her new position. Expecting pride that Violet was doing something more productive than answering phones in a tattoo parlor or slinging hard liquor in a biker bar was probably too much. That she was looking after rich gringitas was an extra dose of salt in her self-inflicted wound.
For most of Violet’s childhood, Louisa had worked two jobs—one as a hotel maid, the other as a diner waitress—and now that Violet was a wealthy woman, all her mother could see was the hoops Violet had to jump through to get what was rightfully hers as Clifford Chase’s daughter. Picking up after rich white people was just another mark against Clifford and the tentacles he seemed to extend from the grave.
“I did not raise you to be a maid to some rich man’s children.”
“I’m a nanny, and it’s temporary.”
“I don’t understand why you are there at all. Why have you not sold your share? That’s your money. It’s what you are owed.”
It was what Louisa was owed. The fruits of the score she’d set in motion all those years ago.
“I’m waiting until the end of the season, Mami. I told you. The franchise will be more valuable if the Rebels are champions. They’ll have to give me more.”
That knot between her lungs pulsed at her mercenary thoughts, but she had never lied to Harper and Isobel about her plans. They knew this life wasn’t for her.
“Just remember,” her mom said. “Those girls are not your real family. Don’t get soft and let them off the hook.”
“Bloodstains?” She was beginning to wish she’d just Googled it, but she’d assumed her mother might enjoy feeling useful. The woman enjoyed something, all right.
“Put baking soda in water to make a paste. Spread it on the stain, let sit for thirty minutes or overnight. You could also use lemon juice or hydrogen peroxide.”
“Thanks. Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Her mother sniffed derisively. “This man you are working for, the alcoholic?”
“Done some research, then?”
“Have you? What if he goes on a binge? Takes it out on you? If he hits you, call the police. Or better yet, get a gun.”
“Mami—”
“Your aunt didn’t call the police and she got into trouble later.”
Aunt Cecy hit her good-for-nothing husband with a baseball bat instead of calling the cops. He deserved it, but the police didn’t look kindly on the introduction of weapons into the situation. All her mom’s and aunts’ experiences with men were skewed, so much so that Violet wondered how she’d made it out of their man-hating cocoon free of their bitterness.
Maybe she hadn’t. She wasn’t exactly interested in anything long term.
“Bren’s not like that. He’s a new man.” She didn’t know what he was like before, but she saw no evidence that he was in imminent danger of falling back into his old habits. His daughters meant too much to him. “And I can handle myself. You know I can.” She’d broken up plenty of bar fights and knew how to throw a punch. Not that it would ever be necessary with the Scot. The guy wasn’t dangerous.
At least not in the way her mother thought.
She was having a lot of fun texting him about silly things, as if she didn’t know sugary sodas after 6 p.m. were the work of the devil. Maybe she liked the idea of them making child-care decisions together. Totally whacked, Vasquez.
Her mother’s answer was another disapproving sniff. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you can rely on this man. Not after the last time.”
Violet bit down on her lip, annoyed to be reminded of “the last time” and the man who had let her down when she’d found out about the big C. The minute things got tough, Denny Carter got slithering.
Babe, I can’t. It reminds me of my grandma’s last days.
He’d reached out when her father died, a call that, funnily enough, coincided with her inheriting a professional sports franchise. Subtlety had never been one of Denny’s strong points. She wasn’t fool enough to fall for him again. She was all out of second chances.
Because her mother was paying rent inside her head, her next words weren’t all that surprising. “They’re not like us, Violet. That bastard screwed with their minds, and now they are warped by too much money and not enough love. Don’t forget who was there for you through the bad times.”
Violet knew better than to rely on anyone but those closest to her—the women who had raised her. As soon as the play-offs were done, she’d move on.
“I won’t forget, Mami.”
“Good. And don’t leave it so long to call your mother next time.” She clicked off.