Where are you with developing your talking points and your theme?” Landon asked. Apparently, she had no qualms whatsoever about quizzing me while my face was being contoured and my hair aggressively moussed.
“You have a theme?” Max piped up beside me. “Is it smash the patriarchy? I hope it’s smash the patriarchy.”
“I like it,” I told Max. “Why don’t you come up with some talking points?”
“Hold still.” Firm hands grabbed my chin.
Landon cleared her throat. “I don’t think that would be prudent,” she told me, glancing delicately at Max.
“Patriarchy smashing is always prudent,” Max assured her.
“Look up,” the makeup artist commanded. “I’m going to get started on your eyes.”
That sounded way more ominous than it should have. Doing my best not to blink, I gritted my teeth. “Why don’t you just save us all a lot of time and effort and tell me what you want me to say?” I asked Landon.
“We need to communicate that you are relatable, grateful for the tremendous opportunity you’ve been given, on good terms with the Hawthorne family, and exceedingly unlikely to throw multiple billion-dollar industries into chaos.” She let a second pass, then continued. “But how you communicate those things is up to you. If I write the script, it will sound like a script, so you need to do the work here, Avery. What can you authentically say about this whole experience?”
I thought about Hawthorne House, about the boys who lived here, about the secrets built into the very walls. “It’s incredible.”
“Good,” Landon replied. “And?”
My throat tightened. “I wish my mom were here.”
I wished that she could see me. I wished that I’d had money—any
money—when she’d gotten sick. I wished that I could ask her about Toby Hawthorne.
“You’re on the right track,” Landon told me. “Truly. But for the time being, it would be best to avoid bringing up your mother.”
If I’d been able to, I would have stared at her, but instead, my chin was tilted roughly back, and I found myself staring at the ceiling.
Why doesn’t she want me talking about my mom?
 |
Two hours later, I was bedecked in a knee-length dress made of lavender silk, with an impossibly delicate black lace wrap. Instead of heels, I wore knee-high boots—black, suede, and not comfortable in the least. Preppy with an edge, my signature look.
I was still thinking about Landon—and my mother.
“I did some research.” Max waited until the two of us were alone to share. “Looks like there’s a tabloid that keeps writing stories about your mom.”
“Saying what?” I asked. My heart rate ticked up. The dress I’d been told to wear was tight enough that I was almost certain you could see my heart beating. Does the press suspect that she lied about who my father is? I pushed down the thought.
“The tabloid claims your mom was living under a fake name.” Max handed me her phone. “So far, no one else has picked up the story, so it’s probably bullship, but…”
“But Landon doesn’t want me talking about my mom,” I finished. I closed my smoky eyes, just for a second. “She didn’t have any family,” I told Max when I opened them. “It was just her and me.” I thought of every ridiculous guess I’d ever made in a game of I Have A Secret. I’d gone down the secret-agent-living-under-a-false-identity route more than once.
“It might make sense,” Max said. “Wasn’t Toby living under a fake name, too?”
That raised a whole sea of questions that I’d been avoiding: How exactly had my mom come to be involved with Tobias Hawthorne’s son? Had she known who he really was?
A sharp knock at the door broke into my thoughts. “Are you ready?” Alisa called.
“Are we sure I can’t skip this?” I called back. “You have five minutes.”
I turned back to Max. “We wear the same size,” I said.
“And that is of interest why?” Max asked, her brown eyes dancing.
I led her over to my closet, and when I threw open the doors, she literally gasped at the sight beyond. “Get dressed, birthday girl. There’s no way I’m going to this thing on my own.”
