This Is Me (Cover Girlfriend, Book Three)

Episode Eight

Terri

*One Week Later*

What am I doing.

And.  Who the HELL am I pretending to be right now.

Clinging to whatever hint of my accent I can find, “It is lovely to meet you Mr. Rickerts (father),” pause and look at his wife, “Mrs. Rickerts.”

What the everloving HELL!

Now.  Oh, now I get what Lincoln meant about him doing things, and explaining later.  Inviting me to lunch, but forgetting to inform me it’s with his parents!

I shiver like a lone leaf on a dead tree in the wind; sit down when Mr. Rickerts (son) pulls out a chair.  Send a tight smile in his direction.  A forced, “Grazie.”

I am so going to strangle him as soon as this whatever the Hell is over.  God, he has no idea what he’s risking.

“Ms. Lee.”

I peek up when Mr. Rickerts (father) says my name; hope to God he doesn’t recognize me.  It’s been.... years, a sex change, and a new identity.  But.  Still.

Fingers.  Crossed.

“I hear you’re quite the artist.”

I give him a tentative smile; probably appear some kind of shy, waif type thing that I normally can’t stand.  I hope it’s convincing.

“Mr. Rickerts (father).  I am flattered.  I just put paint on canvas in such a way that some find appealing.”

Get rewarded with a low chuckle, “You have to know it’s more than that.  I’ve seen your work.  It’s quite the show-stopper.”

He’s much older than I remember, with streaks of silver in his once rich, brown hair.  Continues to dress with immaculate care in a deep blue suit, clean white button up shirt, and light grey striped/patterned tie.  Grey eyes a clear window to the calculations moving gears behind them.

“It is just paint.”

“Humble,” this from Mrs. Rickerts, calling my eyes to hers.  Same aging process with the tiny woman that looks the feminine counterpart to Mr. Rickerts’ (son’s) good looks.  Dressed in a floaty red thing that ends just above her knees with a flared skirt, and shoes the same bold color.  Rubies bedazzle her neck and wrist; ears.  Black hair with lines of silver; golden eyes that glow.  Not as open as her husbands; more invasive with their questioning, “I feel like I have seen you before.”

Damn.  Shit.

Facts are, she has.  Both of them have.  The year before my father disowned me.

And I’m sitting here, fighting sweat and nerves, praying to the Lord they don’t figure it out.

“I do not know how that is possible.  I am just now beginning to get the recognition your son believes I deserve.  And, truly, it is all thanks to him.”

I turn my eyes to his; notice he’s staring at his mother.

His voice is practically lethal when he speaks to her, “Mother.  Don’t.”

“What brings you out of Europe,” she queries, eyes still locked on my face when I return my gaze to hers.

Before I can answer, a server stops by our table and asks the typical questions.  We each order our specified drinks, and the young woman in uniform leaves to fill it.

Then I speak the truth as much as I’m able, “Aside from your son?  Nostalgia.  I lived a great deal of my life in this area, and it is nice to return; see old friends.”