Justified by Varina Denman Read Free Book Online Page A

well?”
    â€œAwesome.” My remark came out more sarcastic than I intended, but the irony of my mother asking about my welfare was just too much.
    And yet I wanted her to care.
    She stepped forward as though to sit next to me, but my legs were draped across the seat. Instead, she perched two seats down and peered at my feet.
    She would view my behavior as rude—rebellious—and she really didn’t deserve that. After all, she hadn’t kicked me out of the house. She merely went along with it, so submissive she couldn’t stand up to her husband.
    Not even for me.
    Turning, I tucked my feet beneath my chair, and Mother managed to convey both approval and disgust with her lipstick smile.
    â€œAre you still staying with Ansel and Velma Pickett?”
    â€œNo, I’ve got my own place.” If she’d socialized with the working class, she would’ve heard it by now.
    Her eyes widened in surprise. “How can you—” She looked away, unable to hide the raw emotion. Something like jealousy. “Where?”
    â€œIt’s a small house up on the Caprock, half a mile past the scenic overlook. It’s not much, but it’s all right for the baby and me.” I peered at her, evaluating her mood and weighing my options. “You could come up sometime. To see the place.” I laughed, feeling exposed. “I make a mean iced mocha.”
    She ran her fingertip along the edge of my book resting on the chair between us. “I … I know that house. I’ve been there.”
    I held back a laugh. She couldn’t have surprised me more if she’d stood on a washer and danced a schottische. Even though she had lived in Trapp her entire life, my mother never set foot in real estate less than a certain square footage.
    â€œYou’ve been in that house?”
    She snatched at her purse. “Your father insisted I give you some cash. It’s not much, but it will help with rent and groceries.” And just like that, her stoic indifference fell into place.
    â€œI’m not taking his money.” I couldn’t take it. My father made it clear there were expectations attached to anything I accepted from him.
    â€œFawn …” She dragged out my name, shredding my nerves as she pulled me through memories of arguments.
    â€œHe can’t even bear to look at me, Mom.”
    Her shoulders dropped a half inch. “He’s not heartless, only disappointed.”
    â€œHe’s always disappointed.”
    She almost leaned back in the blue chair but caught herself before her tanned shoulder made contact. “I know.”
    Yes, she knew exactly what I meant. We may have never enjoyed the kind of mother-daughter relationship where we stayed up late and discussed girl problems, but we could empathize about my father without ever speaking a word.
    â€œI ran into Lynda Turner,” I said. It was a low blow, and I knew it, but the endless list of forbidden topics had worn on me during our short separation. “Tell me what he did to that woman.”
    My mother inspected the cuticle of a painted fingernail. “I don’t see how that matters.”
    â€œObviously it matters to Lynda.”
    â€œThen ask her, not me.”
    â€œI shouldn’t have to.” I leaned back so forcefully, the plastic popped, and I wondered if I had broken the blasted chair. My mother never really talked to me. When my pregnancy test came back positive, I thought we might finally have common ground, but no, she only pulled further away.
    â€œCalm down,” she purred. “The fact is, your father dated Lynda Turner when we were young, but he broke up with her to date me.” She rubbed her cuticle again, adjusted her blouse, cleared her throat. “But I wouldn’t mention it to him if I were you.”
    She left something out, I knew it. Her explanation sounded too simple, too clean, and way too forthcoming. I knew better than to think they