This Is Me (Cover Girlfriend, Book Three)

Episode Thirty

Terri

*A Few Nights Later*

“Ms. Lee,” I hear a soft feminine voice sing beside me; draw my attention away from the conversation Carlos is having with someone-or-other about something to do with his business.

Bore-Ing.

I’m grateful for the distraction until my attention lands on the smaller, older, version of him.

“Mrs. Rickerts,” any attempt at pleasantry feigned, but believably enough, “always a pleasure.”

Carlos must have also seen her; heard her.  His conversation lulls, and he turns to the shorter woman, “Mother.”  He pauses long enough to drop a kiss on her cheek, “Ever the leader.  Tonight is an absolute success.”

And it is.

I’ve been dragged to another one of her ‘Save the Children’ charities, of which there is an endless variety.  Abused?  Abandoned?  Orphaned?  Refugee?  She champions them all with a ferocious vengeance I still don’t completely understand.  All her efforts poured into this, when she could have done anything - been anyone - considering who she married.

And as Mr. Rickerts hasn’t been seen at any of these events for over a decade?

I can’t help but be curious why she continues.

Mrs. Rickerts smiles up at Carlos, and the love for him is so clear in her expression that anyone can see how much she adores her son; only child.

“Those little girls and boys need all the help they can get, my son,” she replies in that lyrical tone of hers.

“I’d like a moment with Ms. Lee.  Surely you don’t mind sharing her,” she queries, her words too at ease for the tenseness of her shoulders; rigidity of her posture.

Carlos must notice too, because his smile becomes forced; teeth almost gritting and eyes hardening from their sweet swirl of caramel beauty.

“Of course, Mother.”  He smiles at me; releases my hand from his arm.  Admonishes his elder with a soft chastisement, “Remember to be kind.  Finding her took months, and I doubt I can replace her.”

His mother’s laugh is a song in itself, alighting her features with mirth, “Of course.  As if I could be anything else.”  Then, she turns and begins to walk away.

Throwing Carlos a smile, I follow her without needing to be asked again.  Curious, more than anything, what she feels the need to tell me out of earshot of her son.

I recall in flickering memory the moments alone with her that far-ago day in the bathroom.  And as soon as we’re relatively private, despite being surrounded by upstanding business men and their arm-candy, I reaffirm, “Mrs. Rickerts, I’m still not angling for more than what I’ve enjoyed.  No need to warn me twice.”

But her next words hit my gut and drop my stomach.  Almost make me gasp in surprise.

“Who is this muse of yours?  How long have you known him?  Where does he come from?”

She speaks fast, eyes skirting the crowd when I turn to her in surprise.  Then they rise to meet mine.  And she dazzles me with that smile, smaller, but so similar to her sons.

“When did he go to Florence?”

I’m so startled, I answer her last question honestly, “Months ago.”  Recall the earlier queries and respond, masking my surprise with a calm boredom I don’t feel as I begin to survey the crowd; can’t look at her, “I’ve known him for years; over a decade, really.  Lincoln.”  Stop myself from saying more.  Turn, full-body to her, and ask before I know what I’m doing, “Why do you ask?”