Family Love

Tears blinded me as I scrolled through them all, then touched “Call” when I got to the one message from my mother. It read:

“I just need to know you’re alive. Confirm that. Then you don’t ever have to tell me another thing if you don’t want to. Please, Angel.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Palm Springs

Seven Years Later

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t answer that right now.”

The voice of Marco’s secretary made me cringe. I gripped my phone, attempting not to whine at my husband’s bitch of a gatekeeper.

The fact that he was fed up with me and had instructed her not to tell me where he’d gone this time was clear in her voice. Not that he was home much anyway. Between adding a fourth venue to his portfolio, and getting contracts with a couple of European cruise lines, he was gone more than seventy-five percent of the time.

I threw the phone across the cavernous family room with a yell and a curse. My stomach grumbled, but I ignored it. I’d trained myself to survive on less and less food for the past few years, ever since moving to Palm Springs and straight into Marco’s bedroom. He preferred ski

“I love you, baby,” Marco loved to say in front of crowds of people, usually before giving me a kiss and an ass squeeze. “Let’s go make a baby.”

And, Lord help us, we tried that a lot, nearly non-stop for the entire span of our marriage. I knew he wanted kids. He’d made that perfectly clear the night he proposed to me, in Maui at a super-exclusive resort overlooking the ocean. Marco was everything Cal was not—flashy, loud, rich, and showy, and a total pig when it came to women. He never hid that fact. Claimed it’s why I called him up that night, drove to his hotel and let him fuck me six ways to Sunday.

“You ladies love a bad boy, no?” he’d said the next morning while we lolled around naked, eating strawberries and drinking champagne and screwing.

“I’ll make you the star attraction, my love,” he said, while he took me shopping for clothes later that day, before we flew to Florida in his private jet.

And he did. I got to dance as many nights a week as I wanted. Had my own no-limit Amex. I could sleep late or not. Work or stay home. And sex with Marco was like something out of a romance novel. Every encounter was special … rose petals, candles, oils, music, long hot baths, and sexy showers for two, multiple orgasms, the works.

All for one goal, of course. The one I could not reach. Not even a miscarriage I could hide behind and say, “I tried, see?”

When he got mad about it, he would redouble his efforts. We’d go on long vacations to exotic places, with my ovulation thermometer packed with my expensive makeup and perfumes.

I was sick of it now. And bored out of my ever-loving mind. A girl can only get so many pussy waxes, facials, and massages when she knows she is failing her Prime Directive. “Why is it that every other member of this family gets pregnant or impregnates at the drop of a hat, and I can’t manage it, even though I’m starting to feel like the proverbial cum bucket?”

“Damn, Angel. Nice mouth,” Kieran said in our weekly phone call. He was the only one I allowed myself to communicate with. I considered him Switzerland—a neutral party, willing to convey information between warring nations.

I waved away the girl who hovered, ready to give me my daily massage. “I’m a spoiled rotten vessel for Marco’s future. And I’m not producing his heir. I’m getting a real negative vibe from him.” I left out the part about him being gone for the past three days and not telling me where.

He chuckled. “Hie thee to the tower, Lady A

“Yeah, that. So, give me the weekly report, Francis.”

“Mama’s great. She has a new book club, and has started a blog. Daddy’s confused, but once I explained what a ‘blog’ was, he stopped bitching about it. He had his a

I sipped my green tea, wishing I could have a drink, but I’d promised to cut out alcohol in the name of getting knocked up.

“Dominic and Diana are living in that ranch house not far down the road from Antony’s brood. Dom is completely head over heels about Diana’s little girl. It’d be a

“Let’s see … Aiden’s new book is selling like crazy, and the producer who bought the movie rights for the first one, the one about Mama and Daddy, is claiming he’ll start casting it soon. My boys are great. Cara wants another one. I’m not so sure. I mean … whoops, sorry.”

I closed my eyes picturing him, my lanky, handsome older brother, with the woman who’d finally agreed to marry him right after their second strawberry blond son had been born. A surge of homesickness made me lean over my knees to keep from crying.

“Great,” I said, softly. “I’m so happy for everyone. Seems to be a lull in the usual drama.”

“Don’t say that, Jesus. You’ll curse us all.”

“I want to come home.”

“Oh, Angel …” he trailed off.

“I know. I made this fluffy, pampered bed. I’ll lie in it. What did Cara say about y’all coming down and bringing the boys? They’d love this pool. And we could fly over to Orlando, go to Disney?”

I was desperate to see him, to see anyone from my family, really. I’d even sat up the past few nights staring at an email I’d written to my mother. But I hadn’t sent it.

“Well, um … listen, we can’t really afford to—”

“But I can. Aren’t you listening to me? The whole thing would be on me. Well, on Marco. You know. He always says any or all of you are welcome any time.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“That means ‘no,’ so why don’t you just fucking say no?”

“Okay. No. But thanks anyway.”

We stayed silent so long, I thought he might have hung up until he spoke again. “No one understands why you did what you did, Angelique. Least of all Dom, now he’s with Diana and she’s in-laws with Cal. It’s—it was—a cold-ass move.”

“I know, I know. We’ve been through this.” I sniffled. “I don’t know why I did it.”

“We have been through it,” he said, calm as ever. “And as for ‘why,’ well, I guess you’re just one of those people who can’t stand the smell of your own happiness, maybe.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I glanced around at my “happiness.” The giant house, the staff, the cars, the closets bursting with clothes, the jewelry … the absent husband. “I am happy, mostly.”

“Right,” he said. I could hear little boy sounds in his background. Somehow, this pissed me off. He had no right judging me. But he kept going. “Cal Morrison was just too perfect for you. I don’t think you’re happy unless you are in some kind of misery, despite how cushy that misery might be in su

“You’re full of shit, Francis. Having a sister-in-law therapist is rubbing off on you in an a

“Maybe.” He was silent a few beats. “I’ll pass on your news.”

“Not that I have any,” I said, before blowing my nose. “I miss you. I love you the most, you know?”

He laughed. A sound I loved, and had loved my whole life. “I know. I’m your favorite ginger brother, anyway. Take care, Angel. I’ll talk to you next week.”

Marco got home from wherever he’d been late that night. I was still awake, staring at an old movie in the family room and trying not to order pizza. When I heard the door open, I got up and wandered into the kitchen. He put his watch and fancy fountain pen in their designated spots on the counter, loosened his tie, turned to me and said, “This isn’t working out.”