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I was ten, but it was long and flowed over my shoulders with waves that spilled down my back. After a few swipes with the brush I said, “Okay, I’m ready to get this dog and pony show going.”
    Jane’s smile monopolized her entire face. It was a phrase she’d used for most of my youth. She’d remind me that the Montague way of life was nothing more than show, a display for the outside world. Whenever I’d be forced to attend a public function or do something I didn’t want to do, she’d make me feel better by reminding me that it was all a dog and pony show . It helped. I could do whatever I was supposed to do as long as I remembered who I really was. She’d tell me that pretty on the outside wasn’t as important as pretty on the inside. And she’d always remind me of how beautiful she thought I was.
    Her smile dimmed. “You forgot to put on that dress your momma bought.”
    “No,” I said with the confidence I’d almost forgotten I possessed. “I didn’t forget. Alexandria doesn’t live here anymore.”
    “You’re even more beautiful than I remember.”
    “Thank you, Jane. So are you.”

 
     
     
    THE MURMURED CONVERSATION between Alton and my mother turned to silence as I stepped into the dining room. I watched with satisfaction as red crept from the starched collar of Alton’s shirt like a tide, making its way up his thick neck to the tips of his ears. Time had changed his once blonde hair to white. I fought back my smile as something about the contrast of the reddening of his skin and the white of his hair amused me. With the vein in his forehead popping to attention and his jaw clenched, he pushed back his chair. As he was about to stand, my mother reached for his hand and turned toward me. The eerie calmness of her voice threatened to transport me back in time.
    Then I saw the glass of red liquid, a cabernet wine, and I gave myself permission to smile. As a child I never realized the depth of my mother’s self-medication. White wine during the day and red at night: Montague Manor didn’t need clocks. We could tell the time by the color of the drink in my mother’s glass. Occasionally, other names were used: mimosa or sangria. It was all the same. Adelaide Fitzgerald lived her life in a blissful state of serenity because without it, she would have had to face the gruesome reality. She wasn’t strong enough to do that ten years ago. She sure as hell wasn’t strong enough today.
    But I was.
    “Alexandria, dear…” Her words never slurred. “Didn’t you find the dresses I bought for you?”
    “I did. Thank you.” The programmed words weren’t totally insincere. The dress Jane showed me was lovely—for a teenager. “It’s late and I had a few text messages to answer. I know how you like to eat at precisely seven. Seeing that you held dinner for me, I didn’t want to make you wait any longer.”
    The text part wasn’t a lie either. I just hadn’t responded to them yet. I wasn’t sure how I wanted to answer Chelsea. I’d messaged her to let her know I’d landed. It was in response to How are you holding up? that rendered me at a loss for words. Since I was someone with a degree in English, words should be my forte.
    “Well, it is just us tonight,” she reasoned. “Tomorrow will be different.”
    The fork I’d just lifted grew heavy. My hand landed upon the tablecloth with an exasperated sigh. “Tomorrow? Mother, I can’t stay. I have things that need to be done. I have a life.”
    “You’re staying until after our meeting on Monday,” Alton replied.
    “What meeting?”
    Mother pressed her lips into a disapproving straight line toward her husband. “Let’s not get into all of that. We have the whole weekend before we need to worry about that.”
    “That what ?” I asked again.
    A young woman entered from the kitchen with a pitcher of water. Her presence left my question floating unanswered in the air.
    “Water, miss?” she asked.
    “Yes. I’ll also have a glass