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“Oh, c’mon,” my sister protests. “He’s also rhyming ‘orangey tubes’ with ‘dorky poop.’”

At least Angie makes an effort to quell her roll, sticking to mildly quirking lips. “I am not sure that helps your cause,” she reproves Lydia, only to be rewarded by a massive roll of my sister’s eyes.

“And this is why poetry is dying,” Lydia mutters.

Just as Angie looks ready to go with the pro-poetry argument like the good Frenchwoman she is, my phone buzzes incessantly atop the table. Lydia glances over since she’s closer than me—and unleashes an instant groan. “Our maternal unit beckons.”

Some occasions are really perfect for my Debbie Downer wince. “Imagine that,” I grumble.

’Dia scoops up my device. She knows as well as I do that a call from Mom, especially these days, is like a visit from the Borg. Resistance is futile. Still, she suggests, “Let it drop?”

The second I’m going to say yes, even knowing the damn thing will start with the Laurel Crist buzz barrage in less than a minute, the private elevator dings and there are hormone-raising bootsteps on the landing. I smile and reach for the phone. My knight in tight black leather is back with the perfect timing that ensures I’m in love with him now more than ever.

“Mother.” I abandon the tender comfort I was using on Mis for what I call my “front desk” voice. I’m warm but distant, brisk but friendly. “To what do I owe this huge pleasure?” At the same time, I pray it’s not because of anything she saw on the news about our adventures at the Biltmore. Granted, it’s been nearly seventy-two hours since Lux flew the twins back up the elevator shaft, and we’ve been steadily resting easier about the possibility of any secret video coverage getting leaked, but technology is a crazy mistress. She loves getting in a good bite on the ass when one least expects it.

“Hmmm. Isn’t that an interesting choice of words.”

Her terse tone sets me on edge and soars me with elation at the same time. She’s almost—almost—irritable enough to be the nitpicky socialite I once knew and loved as my mother. And while I’ll always love her, I do not know her anymore. Even in this second, which will probably turn out to be a sham of normalcy again. Because any second now…

“Don’t get me wrong, dear. Your words are always wonderful. And beyond interesting.”

Everything will return to this.

Stepford wifey, Laurel Crist style. Created, directed, and produced by Faline Garand.

“But…?” I supply the lead-in despite already knowing the follow-through. Seriously, I wish I was hedging bets on it with a Vegas bookie.

“But I haven’t seen my grandson in three months, Emmalina.”

I pull in a calming breath. Or at least what I attempt it to be. “Well…”

As if on cue, Lux’s happy shout fills the penthouse. “Dadaaaaa!”

“Oh, my word. Now would you listen to that?”

“I don’t have much choice about the matter.” I fight to keep my voice loving but level, despite the tearful crack in hers. “Speaking of choices, Mom—”

“Oh, goodness!” she butts in as Ira and Mis join in with their elated shrieks—using the same name for Reece in their greetings. Once we got the girls settled in here, we were too tired to create appropriate names for ourselves in their eyes. Our proper assignations felt too casual; “Mr. and Mrs. Richards” was out from the start. “You’ve got quite the pitter-patter of little feet there, missy,” she prods. “Has Troop Richards grown again without Grandmee Laurel getting invited to the fun?”

I allow myself a facepalm. It gives me the chance to swing the phone away from my mouth and then mutter, “Things were so much easier when you had the steel pole jammed up your ass, Mother.”

“Excuse me?” A frothy sigh. Then an annoying singsong. “Speak up, buttercup; it’s the way to have your say!”

Thankfully, she doesn’t continue with the dorky song she once sang to ’Dia and me, often on a daily basis. We eventually were cured of our mumbling tendencies from the simple desire not to hear the song anymore. Too bad the ditty wasn’t part of her visit to the Faline Garand Mental Realignment Spa. I wonder how much loopier Ira and Mis would be if it was.

“Luke is having a playdate,” I declare directly into the phone. Yes, my mother is getting the same pseudonym for the offspring that we invented for the press and public’s use—because no, I don’t trust her as far as I can throw her with the truth.

Correction: I don’t trust what parts of her mind Faline may have access to now.

So much we still don’t know, even now.

So much we still can’t see, though now we’ve seen so much.

So much we can’t control, despite how much we’ve now destroyed.

I confirm that truth as my husband completes his affectionate greetings to the three children—a ritual that apparently consists of them all hanging on him like scree’ing monkeys—and casts a long look across the room at me. At once, I’m dazzled. His electric silver eyes. And liquefied. His beautiful, bold smirk. And ohhhh yes…beyond turned-on. His roaming study of my whole body…igniting every surface he lays eyes on…

“Uh…yeah,” I manage to stammer, responding to whatever memory from Lydia and my playdates that she’s dredged up.