Budapest, April 2013
"Bocsánat!" Rhonda exclaimed after she bumped into a lady wearing a trench coat. Instead of being offended and annoyed, the woman merely smiled and told her not to worry then went on her way. The world had started to tilt a little bit. It wasn't that Rhonda planned to be drunk at 3 in the afternoon. (Okay, tipsy, she convinced herself, not drunk.) But it was getting incredibly boring waiting for her mother and she is in Bortársaság after all. This was the place to get the best Hungarian wine.
So what if she'd been doing some tasting? It's fine. There was plenty of time to sober up before her mother arrives. Her mother, who was once again late, had insisted they meet here so she could select the wine list for an upcoming soiree. It had been a long while since they've spent some time together and she felt it was her familial duty, at least once a year, to show up for the torture of shopping with an incredibly picky woman.
A sleek black Mercedes pulled up in front of her and a woman who was an older, spitting image of Rhonda stepped out in a crisp, white Chanel suit and black Manolo Blahniks with a red swirl pattern on the side. Her mouth was on a permanent scowl and her eyes were shaded with some oversized sunglasses. She'd grown her hair longer than she had in years. Rhonda's gut immediately churned. Her mother and she could be mistaken for sisters.
"Hello, Rhonda," her cool voice greeted her daughter.
"Hello, mother. Late again as usual."
The older Lloyd frowned. "I told you that our flight was delayed."
Rhonda snorted. "I would be generous with my forgiveness if not for the fact this is probably the twelfth time you've done this. Please don't tell me to show up 2 hours early if you're not going to be here," she sighed.
Brooke Lloyd pulled up her sunglasses to the top of her head and gazed at her daughter, placing her hands on Rhonda's shoulders. "Well, yes. I apologise. It won't happen again."
She gave her daughter a quick peck on the cheek and a tight hug, not caring if her Chanel suit would have creases.
"You look thin. Have you been eating well?" she asked, as she clung to her daughter's arm. They started walking to one of the outlets.
Rhonda resisted the urge to roll her eyes but revelled in the warmth of her mother's concern. She had lost weight. Mostly from worrying about her marriage.
"I'm fine. Honest. Just trying on a new vegan diet."
"Well, you know I don't like it when you're too thin. You look better with more meat on your bones."
"Mom, I appreciate the concern but I'm really eating healthily."
Brooke sniffed. "If you say so."
They reached the front door and Brooke spoke to the man carrying boxes of wine. Rhonda took a look around. She was in this shop just earlier and had already bought a box that she asked to be sent to her hotel. Her weakness was white wine. Red gave her massive headaches.
"Dear, what do you think?"
Her mother held up a bottle of Günzer Ördögárok 2011. It was A dark, thick, flavourful wine that Rhonda remembered her mother served at one of her Christmas parties.
"I liked it. I mean, the last time you had it at the house. But I don't really like red so my tastes can't be trusted."
Her mother smiled, "I liked it too. Should we get several crates? I'll buy some Légli Chardonnay as well."
Brooke buying white wine was basically a bribe to get her daughter to attend the soiree. Rhonda knew this and saw what her mother was up to.
"No matter how many boxes of white wine you buy, I'm still not going to your party. My time of hanging out with stuffy, wealthy, old people has come to an end."
"Stuffy! They're our friends, Rhonda."
"Exactly, your friends. Yours and dad's. I don't make you spend time with my friends so please don't torture me."
Her mother ignored her and went back to talking to the man. A few moments later as Rhonda was reading a wine label, her mother came up behind her.
"You don't have to act like such a martyr. I only want to see you once in a while." Her tone had a subtle note of hurt.
Rhonda continued reading. "I know."
"You act as if spending time with me is the worst thing in the world," she continued.
"There are only a few less horrific things I could do with my time," Rhonda replied with a smile so that her mother would know she's joking.
That earned her a pat on the arm and a snort. "Sometimes I don't know what to do with you."
"Giving me up for adoption would be a start."
"You're 27 and a brat. I doubt anyone would want to adopt you."
"Then I guess you're stuck with me," Rhonda sing-songed, putting an arm around her mom's shoulders.
"Oh, lucky me," she said flatly but leaned her head on her daughter's shoulder.
Rhonda laughed. Moments like these were far and few in between when it came to her mother and when they do happen, she cherished them. Her mother could be funny and a good sport once she lets herself go. When she wasn't surrounded by her cronies. She saw a glimpse of what her mother must have been like when she was younger. Full of spirit and untouched by protocol and propriety. They were more similar than she realised now that she had gotten older.
"I like your shoes by the way."
"Thank you. They're new. I like yours as well. Very comfortable-looking."
"Oh, this old thing?" Rhonda joked. She was wearing her old, grimy sneakers. It was a present from her mother when she was a teenager. It was still wearable but ancient.
"I do have good taste," Brooke said proudly.
"You do indeed," Rhonda replied. "Is there anything else you want to get?"
Her mother leaned in, her eyes narrowed. The man came back with a receipt. Her mother signed the invoice and gave her card. She turned to Rhonda, hand on her hip.
"Have you been drinking?" she asked.
"Wine-tasting."
Brooke rolled her eyes and threw her hands up. "It's 3:30 pm!"
"I'm not drunk. You should drink with me."
Her mother sighed. She also had a weakness for alcohol so she understands. Her mother before her was an alcoholic. There was something in their makeup that made them susceptible.
"Later, first, we need to go to Herend. I want to pick up a few pieces for the new bedroom for our country house. And sober up, will you? I thought the flush on your face was from the sun."
They left the store not speaking to each other.
...
It was a short ride to Herend. Rhonda looked out of the window to watch the tall, neat, flat Hungarian houses they passed by as the car rolled on the Attila út. Brooke cast a worried glance at her daughter. There was a grim atmosphere. A stony silence had fallen over them. Their relationship had been on the mend since Rhonda had gotten married but they were still on shaky ground.
"Are you disappointed in me?" Rhonda asked, not bothering to look at her mother. Her daughter's hesitant voice sounded small against the interior of the large car.
Brooke froze. "What do you mean?"
"That I'm drunk."
"You're not drunk. And you haven't made a public nuisance of yourself, so no."
A slight pause.
"Did you ever wish I was different?"
That question shot a pang of pain through her heart. It saddened her whenever Rhonda was like this. She loved her daughter. If only she didn't compare herself to all the other children of their friends then maybe she wouldn't feel like she was coming up short all the time. Her daughter was intelligent, creative, courageous, generous and had the great ability to be empathetic and compassionate. Rare traits when it came to their set.
Her husband, however, didn't know how to handle such a child. Always under the assumption that Rhonda was irresponsible. Flighty.
She never approved of the marriage to the Smith boy but kept quiet since he looked like he made Rhonda happy. In the beginning, at least. Brooke knew better. Rhonda reminded her so much of herself that it was sometimes too painful to look. She was making the same mistakes but she had to figure it out on her own. After all, it took Brooke awhile to realise that Buckley was the man for her back in the day.
"Never, honey. No. If you were different, then you wouldn't be you. You wouldn't be my Rhonda," she said gently, grasping her child's hand to let her know that her mother wouldn't abandon her this time.
Her daughter withdrew from the touch.
"You know, all the time, I wish you were born with another child. Someone who'll make you happy and proud. Some who's glad to socialise and go shopping for parties."
"You love socialising and shopping."
"Yeah but–"
"You've grown lonely, dear. That's all that happened."
Rhonda finally turned to look at her.
"It happened some time ago. You just never realised. Your father and I, we love spending our time with our friends. That's what brings us joy. We love throwing parties because we love seeing people happy, entertained, fed. You need something deeper. Something more meaningful. Your father and I already found that in each other. Once you've found your something, you wouldn't find our existence so shallow."
"You think I'm lonely and bitter?" she asked, doubtful and confused. Brooke wanted to soothe her furrowed brow.
"Lonely, yes. Bitter, maybe. But why?"
That stumped her daughter.
"I'm not…" her voice trailed off.
Brooke gazed at her knowingly. "You need to figure out why, dear. Before the sadness eats away at you. It won't do you any good to let this go on."
They had arrived and the driver stopped the car.
She had opened the car door when she realised her daughter wasn't moving.
"Rhonda, are you coming?"
Her little girl stared straight ahead, her brows still pulled to the middle in thought. "I– I don't, no… I'm not in the mood. I don't think–I think I'll go back to my hotel."
Brooke's heart went out to her. Her daughter needed some time to think. "Alright, I'll meet you at Blue Tomato, later?"
She nodded. Before Brooke could step out, she felt her daughter's hand on her arm. She stopped.
"Mom?"
"Yes, dear?"
"Thank you."
Brooke smiled with a tiny shrug and squeezed her hand. "You're welcome, dear. If you get bored or change your mind, you can find me here. It'll be nice to add some ceramic pieces to your house."
With that, she stepped out of the car, feeling better than she had in years.
...
The Blue Tomato Pub was across the Danube and took nearly half an hour to get to. Rhonda was a little late but she considered it payback for what happened this afternoon. Her mother's words had gotten to her. She made a fool out of herself and she felt a little embarrassed about it.
Rhonda was thankful that there were so many people that there weren't going to be much conversation between them. She found her mother sitting prim and proper at the back, near the brick wall covered in framed photographs. She had changed into a simple peach chiffon shirt and a green pencil skirt. Her hair was loose and her face was bare of makeup. Rhonda hadn't bothered either, wearing a pair of worn jeans and a loose t-shirt.
Even without a stitch of it, her mother was beautiful. There was a pint of craft beer in her hand. Rhonda's brows shot up.
"Is this your idea of slumming it?" she asked, before sitting down.
"I will not be judged by someone wearing an Abercrombie and Fitch t-shirt."
Rhonda laughed and her mother smiled. The lines in her eyes were more apparent without concealer. She decided she liked her mom better like this.
"It's comfy. Besides, it's not even mine."
Brooke's eyes widened. Rhonda felt so stupid for opening her big fat mouth.
"What do you mean?"
"Uh, it was a gift from… Helga. As a joke birthday present. What I meant was that I didn't buy it."
"I see."
Under the pretence of glancing at the menu, she gauged her mother's reaction. She seemed willing to drop the subject. Thank God.
"Should we get the duck breast?"
"I already ordered that. I didn't know what you wanted so you can tell the waiter when he comes by."
"I want the goulash. And some Guinness."
A handsome waiter appeared by her side and her mother ordered for her in fluent Hungarian. No matter how many times she heard her mother speaking in a foreign tongue, it always amazed her. She knew so many languages. Six fluently and three with some basic knowledge, enough to get around. Brooke had said before that it kept her busy and allowed for more fun to be had overseas. Rhonda only knew French and some Italian she picked up in Rome. Compared to her mother, she was a lightweight.
Once done, she looked at her daughter.
"We didn't get to catch up earlier. Tell me how you've been."
She told her mother how she'd been spending her time, most of it was spent on working at the Helping Hand Foundation, a charity started by a Lloyd ancestor, and editing Helga's book. When Brooke asked for the plot, Rhonda stuck to her guns and kept mum. Her mother's book club have been reading Helga's books since she started getting published. It was a show of support for their most famous local author.
It was kind of odd how that was Helga's entrance to polite society. Surprisingly, she was so good at getting along with her mother's friends, entertaining them with stories, and forcing them to dance with her at functions. They loved having her around. Rhonda always thought it was because Helga came from humble beginnings and made all them rich folks feel good like they were doing something noble, philanthropic even, by socialising with her. If being an heiress to an electronics empire was considered humble. In their world, it probably is. But Rhonda knew better now, it was because Helga was delightfully charming when she wants to be.
An enigma. That's what one of her oldest friends was.
"What are your plans for this month?"
"Nadine and I were thinking of going to Spain. She wants to study some ecosystem there. She also has to write about it."
"You're going with her?"
Rhonda shrugged. "Why not? It'll be fun. You know Nadine, she hates writing. The exploring part, that's what she loves but recording it and putting it down on paper bores her. I was planning on helping her out."
Brooke sighed. "You know, you can take a page out of her book and do something with your doctorate."
Rhonda laughed. "My doctorate in art history? Are you serious?"
Her mother nodded.
"Why not? You can teach. Nadine teaches. At least you'll be able to put it to use."
Their food arrived and was set in front of them. Brooke thanked the waiter before glancing back at her daughter. Rhonda focused on demolishing her goulash, trying to ignore her mother.
"It'll be good for you. You love writing and travelling. It'll give you something to do."
"I hate children."
"You'll be teaching college students, Rhonda. Hardly toddlers."
"You seem to forget I was a college student not too long ago and I consider them children. Babies, in fact."
"That's an overstatement."
"I don't have any patience."
Brooke waved a hand. "You have great focus."
"Why are you pushing this?"
Her mother placed down her fork and explained. "I'm not pushing. I'm– what's the correct term? Strongly suggesting?"
Rhonda released an incredulous laugh. "You're impossible. Alright. Why are you strongly suggesting this? Between my time with the foundation, maintaining our family's financial portfolio, overseeing our foreign investments, and editing New York Times bestselling novels, there is not much left."
"You're exaggerating. You have plenty of time leftover. You hired a team for each responsibility you just mentioned except for being an editor."
Rhonda huffed "It's called delegating. I'll have too much on my plate if I do everything myself."
Reaching out to touch her daughter's hand, Brooke gave a small smile. "I just think it'll be good for you. Give you some roots. I'm not deciding it for you. Just putting it out there. Something to consider."
"I'm not teaching."
"Fine. How about writing a book?"
"About art history?"
Brooke shot her a look that said, "Duh?"
"I don't know…"
"You underestimate yourself, dear. Just think about it. Have some future plans."
This was rich. Coming from a woman who spent her days planning parties, going to the spa, and then having lunch with her friends at the country club. But instead of being snarky, this time, Rhonda held her tongue. Maybe her mother had good suggestions and she just didn't want to admit it.
"I'll think about it," she finally said.
Satisfied, Brooke nodded. She took another sip of her beer. Rhonda hated how even that, she did with such sophistication.
Rhonda burped in protest.
Brooke arched a brow.
"I can't picture it. I can't see you with a pint of beer."
"Is it really that shocking of a picture?"
"It makes you too human," the younger woman retorted.
"Beer? Me drinking beer?" she laughed, "It's that hard to believe that I was young once, dated, your father, by the way, went out to have fun, and drank beer? It's not an abstract concept, dear."
She smiled. "Tell me how you and daddy met again."
"You know the story," Brooke replied, trying to avoid a retelling.
"But I want to hear it again."
Brooke sighed. Then, she gulped down all of her alcohol as if trying to gain enough courage. Rhonda kept watching. It was amusing to see her always-poised mother distressed. She hated telling this story. Her father, on the other hand, loved it. When she was young, she wondered why her mother didn't like talking about her past. As she grew older, she came to realise why. Their love story painted her mother and her family as snobs.
"You've heard it so many times."
"Just one last time, please."
She released a loud breath, brushing an errant strand of hair away from her face. "Alright. Well, you know my father, your grandfather, Archibald Wellington, owned a textile company that we still own today. He was, our family was, extremely wealthy. You know how it is, our class is a tight-knit group that's hard to penetrate. I met your father when he was a waiter at a party. At first, I couldn't stand him. I thought to myself how dare this boy talk to me and flirt with me, he was supposed to be working!"
Rhonda knew what happened next but she always held her breath at this part of the story as if the outcome would change at every retelling.
"But the more time we spent with each other, the more I realised how much we had in common and I fell in love with him. Father found out, wasn't pleased with my dalliance with the hired help, and I was banned from seeing him. It didn't matter that the Lloyds used to be a prominent family. You father's father blew it by spending everything on his gambling addiction. They had fallen from grace. Scared, I listened to my father and never saw the young waiter again. Years pass, the waiter and I didn't see each other. My father's business started to lose money. Karma, I guess. It was hit during a recession. To refill the family coffers, my parents started arranging a union between me and Nathan Wexley, an heir to an oil empire. It was quite common at the time."
There was a growing pit in Rhonda's stomach. She always hated that part.
"Desperate for advice, my father sought help from a stock broker who was also a financial analyst. Little did he realise this was the same man he banned me from seeing years before. Buckley helped my father and kept quiet when he saw me. He didn't want to lose the account, I guess. We would pass each other at parties and around the house without speaking. I was about to be married to Nathan in three weeks. One day, I was swimming in our pool. When I came out of the water, he was at the side, holding a towel out. I took the towel, thanked him, and wrapped myself with the cloth. That's when I heard him say something. It was soft but I heard it. I'll never forget it. Your father said, 'Don't marry him.' I turned to him and laughed. The nerve. Like his opinion on the subject mattered. Just as I was about to leave, he continued. 'I don't have much, Brooke. You know that. But I have something he can't give you.'"
This was the best part, Rhonda loved this part.
"'What's that?' I asked him. He was quiet for a long while and I was getting cold. When he saw that I was about to leave again he yelled out, 'Love. I can give you love. If that's not enough then I don't know anymore.' A week later we eloped, it made my father so angry he didn't speak to me for three years despite that fact that Buckley helped him regain his business. I want to say I didn't care about my parents' reaction but the truth was that it hurt. I don't regret my decision. I loved your father, I still do. Even if he makes me so angry sometimes."
Rhonda had never heard that. Since it was always her dad who told the story and it was always from his point of view. Her mother's version was more concise, without any rose-colored glasses.
"But losing my family over him was painful. I could tell he knew and it made him feel guilty. Like he took me away from them even though I went with him willingly. But then a miracle happened. You came along and your grandmother wanted to see you. Then, as we were walking out of the house, my father came home earlier than usual. He saw you and he fell in love. He cried and apologised. Then, he held you and didn't let you go until it was late and I told him we had to go home or Buckley will be worried."
It was kind of heartbreaking how Rhonda was reminded of how her grandpa Archie didn't want her at first.
"I should stop. I think I've said too much."
"No. I loved it. I only get to hear daddy tell the story. It was refreshing to hear it from you."
Brooke smiled. "It all turned out well in the end. Your grandfather and Buckley patched up in the end to the point that he inherited the company."
"It's kind of weird how it wasn't given to you."
"He said it was punishment for marrying a waiter."
Rhonda laughed.
"There was a condition that if he cheated on me or left me, the company would fall back into my hands and he gets nothing."
The young woman snorted. "As if dad would do something like that. He thinks the sun shines out of your ass."
"Language."
"Really, though. It's kind of amazing how much he's still in love with you. Not to mention disgusting."
Brooke smiled. "You sound jealous."
"Just baffled. And grateful, really. Your marriage is proof that this crazy institution might work."
"Touched, dear, truly," Brooke replied. Rhonda learned her cutting sarcasm from the best.
The returned back to their meal. Her mother probably regretting that she shared too much. Brooke was a private person who didn't like to talk about personal issues.
"I saw Thaddeus the other day," Brooke casually mentioned.
Rhonda looked up. "Uh, where?"
"Hillwood. At a function. Some new art museum opening. He looked well."
Rhonda swallowed the lump in her throat.
"Yeah, he runs. He's been running since high school."
"Are you still friendly?"
She chose her words carefully. "We keep in touch but we're not that close."
"I've always liked that boy."
That was new. Rhonda still didn't say anything.
"The way he took care of you in Rome. You remember. Letting you stay at his grandparents' house."
Rhonda wanted to mention that the house belonged to him already but thought it unwise to do so.
"Yeah. He's nice."
"Good-looking too. Shame you didn't end up with him."
Just like that, her breath was stolen. She stilled, feeling dizzy all of a sudden.
"Dear, is something wrong?"
She managed a smile and reach for her beer which she effectively knocked off the table. It shattered into pieces after hitting the floor.
"Oh God! I am so sorry! I'll help you clean it up," she told the waiter who immediately rushed over. The man assured her it was alright and proceeded to sweep the fragments away.
Her mother, meanwhile, ordered another pint for her daughter from another waiter and apologised for the mess.
"Do try to be a little more careful," Brooke chided.
"Sorry, you know how my clumsiness sometimes gets the better of me."
"Now, what were we talking about? Oh yes! Thaddeus. Well, I couldn't believe it. He told me that he's the new head of the Chicago branch of…"
Rhonda tried her best to pretend it was all new information while her mother's previous words bounced inside her brain.
Shame you didn't end up with him.
Shame you didn't end up with him.
Shame you didn't end up with him.
...
Rhonda reached her hotel at half past 11. Her mother was staying at an old friend from university's place. She said that Anna and she had a lot of catching up to do. She threw her bag on the bed and plopped down on the mattress. The city lights cast glorious shadows on the walls.
She had never been afraid of the dark. An odd thing for a child. But Rhonda, as a young girl, loved the privacy of the dark. She could imagine new worlds and scenarios, things that couldn't possibly happen in real life. She let out a loud sigh. A punctuation of her ever-increasing loneliness.
The tears didn't come tonight.
Before she knew it, she had dialled a number.
"Is there an open spot in your art history department?"
"What? Who is–Rhonda, is that you? It's 5:30 in the morning here!"
"So, is there?"
"You're crazy," her best friend replied. "But I'll check for you. How's Budapest and your mother? We're going to the spa next week."
Rhonda found it odd how her mother was friendly with nearly all of her closest friends.
"Sometimes, it feels like you hang out with her more than me."
She could almost see the shrug of Nadine's narrow shoulders. "She treats me like another daughter. And the perks? I get to eat at the Mandarin Oriental anytime I want."
"Leech."
Her best friend laughed.
"So, teaching? Art history, I presume."
"Yeah. Your best friend forever and Mandarin Oriental meal ticket suggested it."
"Really?"
Rhonda got up to get an Evian from the minibar.
"Hard to believe, right? She's thinking it might give me some direction. As if I'm not being pulled in every single way already with all that I have to do. And don't I have to take a teaching course first?"
"Yeah but it'll be quick. I'll make queries. Oh my God, if this comes through, we get to work together! Yay!"
"We won't be in the same faculty."
"What I meant by that is that we get to have lunch together and I get to see you more often. Rhode Island's kind of far from Hillwood though. Have you asked Eddy about this?"
He wouldn't care.
"Not yet. But he'll probably think it's great."
"Hmm, well, I'll get back to you. Thanks for waking me up. I have a class in three hours. We're still up for Spain, right?"
"Wouldn't miss it for the world."