"Marina, I'm so glad you're wearing that dress Tammy-Lyn chose for you."
My grey eyes didn't stray from the page of the romance novel nestled in my lap. I sniffed quietly and arched a thin, salon groomed brow. This was not the dress that my sorry excuse of a step-parent had chosen for the flight to Italy. My father was praising me for an act I hadn't committed; why would I waist the effort to respond? I smoothed the white skirt of my favorite little sundress. My mother had loved this dress when she was alive. The day I realized that I fit into it as snug and perfectly as she had, I was thrilled. People like us didn't wear outfits more than once unless they held sincere liking for them.
"Sweetie~" my father's wife had a southern accent that distorted the English language with softened consonants and elongated vowels. It never ceased to irritate. "That ain't quite the one I chose. The one I picked was more…feminine."
My tone was airy and every word was an utterly perfect pronunciation. "It was 'she's having a girl' pink. I don't require clothes that belong in baby showers."
The comment that had breezed out of my mouth wouldn't seem like an insult to the average, untrained ear; nothing more than a spoiled little rich bitch whining and putting an odd emphasis on 'I'. However, Tammy-Lyn had picked up on the subtle and vicious behaviors of the billionaire class that she'd married into much more quickly than I'd thought her southern inbreeding would allow. My father and I knew exactly what I'd said; having been trained to both hear and arm our speaking with the sting of unsaid words since occupying the womb.
I'd just told her that, not only the three of us, but all of the staff and everyone in the gossip grapevine knew that the only reason she was still married to my father was because she'd gotten knocked up. Or so she claimed. It had been five months since she'd shared her big baby news and she should be about seven months along. Yet she didn't even have a teeny bump to show for the supposed life housed within her.
The slight mention of a baby shower had called her a lie-to-your-face, gold-digging, non-mothering, whore. You know…without saying any of the vulgar language aloud. My father really didn't care for outspoken obscenities. The heavy quiet I'd caused within the roomy cabin of our private jet was something I so thoroughly enjoyed; I allowed a small smile to curve my full lips as I turned the page of my novel. Good. I didn't want to talk with either of them.
He wouldn't be staying. Even after he'd postponed for months…my father wouldn't be spending more than one night to recover from jetlag in the same home as I. We hadn't even managed to be in the same room with one another over four times this entire year, not that this was an odd occurrence. The 'family vacation' to Italy had been pushed back repeatedly to accommodate his busy work schedule. We owned a large beach house on the coast of the Adriatic Sea just outside the city of San Marino. It would be filled to the brim with staff members paid to care for me upon my arrival. It's not as though my father hadn't already permitted a slue of random nannies to raise me up to seventeen; but somehow the thought of him deserting me yet again in Italy still managed to rankle.
I had spent every summer there alone after Momma died, always with the promise of a 'family vacation.'
It was now late October and my father's refusal to give leave this year had cost me all hopes of taking a dip in the ocean. Thinking hard about the odd feelings of long dead resentment broiling in my chest this morning; I discovered that I was more upset about missing out on my favorite salty swimming than my father leaving me behind.
As I tucked a stray dark blond curl behind my ear, I knew that my assertion was correct. Father had never once provided false pretenses for our relationship and I understood completely. What was between us was more like a…pleasant business arrangement. He showered me with expensive gifts and large bank accounts. I provided him the illusion of The Family Man by performing a flawless recital of The Saintly Daughter around all clients and company partners that angle appealed to. I'd learned to stop spurning his neglect years ago. We respected each other and wished good things; but neither of us were terribly invested in the well being of one another.
Instead, I took out my frustrations in catty behavior toward his many wives.
We were hours away from our destination and the feeling in the closed aircraft was stiff and awkward. No other attempts to converse with me were raised, though eventually Tammy-Lyn and Father began discussing what she wear in Milan tomorrow evening. I continued reading my book.
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