Page 84 of The Debutantes
“Vivian?”
31PIPER
JANUARY 2, 11:00P.M.
When we get home, Mom is waiting for us in the living room with a vodka soda and a stare that could cut diamonds. For a few seconds, she’s quiet, taking a long sip as she watches us. I changed out of my ball gown in the car, and Wyatt’s back in the street clothes he wore under the Jester costume, but I get the strange feeling that she knows exactly where we’ve been—not only tonight, but from the beginning of time.
She sets the glass down squarely on the coaster.
“Where should we start?” she asks. “With what you’ve been doing tonight, or whatever the hell is going on with this email?”
“Does it even matter?” Wyatt snaps. “We’re already the family with the dad who got arrested. Might as well commit, right?”
I can’t believe he’s being so callous after everything that’s just happened. I don’t even have it in me to defend myself: right now, I feel like someone took one of those oyster spoons and scooped out all of the soft parts inside of me until they could only scrape shell.
To my surprise, Mom laughs, just a small one as she brings her glass to her lips again.
“Well, I suppose you’re right about that.” Her gaze turns on Wyatt, cold. “But maybe you should think twice about your tone, considering he’s only in there to protect you.”
The sudden harshness is enough to silence us both. Wyatt curls into himself, his shame obvious. And then it dawns on me.
“You know,” I say. “About the deal with the Pierrot.”
For a second, she’s silent.
“Yes,” she tells me. “I do.”
I stare, waiting for her to say something, do something, but she just takes another tired sip of her drink. Wyatt looks as stunned as I feel. Clearly, he had no idea Mom knew, either.
“Then you know Dad didn’t do it,” I argue. “They framed him.”
“He made his deal. Without consulting me, I should add. He didn’t tell me until after, when it was already too late.” She sets her drink down, turning her glass a few degrees on the coaster, like it has to be perfectly aligned before she can continue. “But I can’t say I would have told him not to take it.”
I don’t know what I expected this conversation to look like—rage and disappointment at the both of us, definitely, but I also thought Mom would have a plan, some ingenious way for us to get through this. Because it’s always been Mom who’s steered the ship. Dad can be softer, more even-tempered, but it’s Mom who’s kept it all running behind the scenes, stitching our family together as flawlessly as one of her gowns. Of course she knew about the deal.
And something about seeing her now, so detached and defeated, is enough to break the dam.
“You know what goes on at the Pierrot, right?” I explode.
“I know enough. Your father does trust me more than most of those men trust their wives.”
“And you let them be a part of it?”
“What else was I supposed to do? Let Wyatt face charges?” Her voice cuts sharply. “And last I checked, your father has free will. He would have done what he wanted regardless. Just like he’s doing now.”
There’s something brimming under those words, more than just resentment.
“What do you mean, like he’s doing now?” I ask.
“He told the Pierrot he wanted out,” she says. She glances at Wyatt. “For both of you. He knew what would happen if he broke their deal, what they would do, and still, he told them y’all were done.”
Wyatt sinks into one of the chairs, his neck straining the way it does when he’s trying not to cry, and I feel myself biting back my own tears. That’s what being a Johnson is about, isn’t it? Fix the problem. Push it down. Be great. Even when it’s all built on a rotting foundation.
“So that’s it, then,” I force out. “We let Dad go down for a murder he didn’t commit?”
“Of course not,” she says sharply. “We’ll fight this. I have an appointment with a lawyer first thing tomorrow, and believe me, I’m not stopping until we’ve proven this accusation is as flimsy as an underbaked praline.” She pauses. “What I’m more immediately concerned with, however, is fixing the problems y’all both created tonight.”
Her stare is ice, the implication reflecting back at us in the surface. The email. Wyatt looks down at his hands, the guiltwritten all over his face. But even his cheating feels small now, in comparison to everything else. And maybe my indiscretion should, too, but a stubborn need to defend myself bubbles up.
