“I’ve been watching her all night. She’s been drinking sparkling water.”
“She found someone to enable her.” Angie’s stomach lurched. “She’s talking to Courtney Price, Abby.”
Her sister’s face grayed. Leading the way, Abigail wound her way through the crowd, Angie on her heels. Her mother had drained the champagne and procured another glass by the time they reached her. Her loud voice penetrated the din of the crowd, drawing glances from those around her. Angie’s heart plummeted.
“You grab her,” Abigail muttered. “Get her out of here. I’ll do damage control.”
Angie nodded. Heart in her mouth, she headed toward her glassy-eyed mother. Her mother glared at her. “Oh, look!” she declared in that far too loud tone. “My daughters are here to cut me off before I say something I shouldn’t. I haven’t, have I, Courtney? We’re just having a nice conversation.”
Courtney Price had a half fascinated, half horrified look on her face. Brilliant column fodder. Angie reached for her mother’s arm. “Actually I have someone I’d like you to meet.”
Her mother yanked back her arm. The force of the movement sent the champagne flying from her glass, splattering the dress of the woman beside her. Paralyzed, Angie stared at the silk dress, then lifted her gaze to the woman’s bemused face. She was the wife of one of Lorenzo’s business acquaintances.
Oh, hell.
Gasps rang out around her. The shocked sounds spurred her into action. Grabbing her mother by the arm, she propelled her through the crowd, people gawking at them as they went. Angry and humiliated, her mother kept up a verbal barrage the whole way.
“It was your fault that happened, hauling me out of there like that.”
Angie kept her mouth shut. Nodding her thanks at the butler who opened the patio door for them, she marched her mother inside and up the stairs toward her parents’ suite, keeping her mother’s weaving steps on course. Where the hell was her father? Somehow this just never seemed to be his job.
Guiding her mother inside her suite, she flicked on the light. Her mother stared at her belligerently, hands on her hips. “All I wanted was to have some fun,” she said, her speech slurred. “All I wanted was to be happy tonight, Angelina. But you won’t even give me that.”
A lump formed in her throat. “You’re an alcoholic, Mother. You can’t drink. Ever.”
“I am fine.” Her mother put her arms out as she lost her balance and weaved to the side. “I would have been fine. I only had a couple of drinks.”
A lie. Angie had heard so many of them, about the drinking, about the pills, about every secret her mother had wanted to hide—it had become her normal state of being.
Her mother headed toward the bar in the lounge. Threw open the door of the fridge. “There’s nothing in there,” Angie said quietly, stomach churning. “You need to go back for treatment, Mother. You know that.”
Her mother swung around. Fear pierced her hazel eyes. “I told Abigail I won’t go back there. Ever. Never again.”
“You need help. Professional help.”
“I won’t go.”
“Yes, you will.” Rage vibrated through her. “You will not destroy all of us in your quest to annihilate yourself. Abigail needs a life. I need a life. You need help.”
“You,” her mother said, fixing her with a vicious look. “You who don’t care. You who turned your back on me and walked away.”
“Because I couldn’t stand it anymore. Because you were taking me apart piece by piece, Mother.”
Her mother’s gaze darkened. She pressed her fingers to her mouth. “I don’t feel well.”
Angie moved fast, sliding an arm around her and helping her to the bathroom. When her mother had upended the contents of her stomach multiple times, Angie cleaned her up and put her to bed.
“I’m sorry.” Her mother started to cry, her transformation from angry to sad happening with its usual rapid-fire swiftness. “I’m so sorry.”
Heat burned the back of Angelina’s eyes, the pieces of her heart she’d finally healed shattering all over again. “I know.” She clasped her mother’s hand in hers, hot tears escaping her stinging eyes and sliding down her face. “I am, too.”
For everything. For all of it.
Turning off the light, she let herself out of the room. Tears blinding her vision, knees shaking, she slid down the other side of the door until she sat on the floor, hands pressed to her face.
She couldn’t do this again.
“ANGELINA?” LORENZO PULLED to a halt when he saw his wife sitting in the hallway, legs drawn up, head in her hands. Her quiet sobs tore loose a piece of his heart.
He squatted down beside her. “What’s wrong?”
No response. He tipped her face up to his. “Angelina,” he said more urgently, “what happened?”
Her beautiful blue eyes were red-stained, unfocused. Heart jamming in his throat, he cupped her jaw. “Dio, Angie. Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
She shook her head as if to clear it. Lifted a hand to push her hair out of her face. “I—” Another tear streaked down her cheek.
He cursed. Slid his arms beneath her knees and back and scooped her off the floor. Carrying her down the hallway to their suite, he shouldered the door open and set her on the sofa in the sitting room. Her beautiful red dress was wet, stained with something. Champagne, he assumed, from the story he’d heard.
He sat down beside her. “What the hell happened out there?”
She frowned. Rubbed a palm over her brow. “I’m so sorry about Magdalena’s dress. Did Abigail smooth it over?”
“Magdalena’s dress will survive. What the hell happened with your mother, Angie?”
Her gaze slid away from his. “She had a bit too much to drink.”
His brow rose. “She was drunk. Blotto. She could hardly stand up. I’d say it was more than a bit too much.”
She bit her lip. “So she was drunk. It happens. I apologize for the scene she caused.”
“I don’t care about the scene.” A flash of heat consumed him. “I just found my wife crumpled in a ball in the hallway crying her eyes out... Dio mio, Angelina, what is going on?”
Her chin dipped. “It’s nothing. I’m just...emotional. It’s been a tough night.”
He pulled in a breath. Counted to five. “You can either tell me why you’ve been such a disaster tonight, what is going on with your family, or I will go outside and ask Abigail. In the spirit of making our relationship work, I’d prefer, however, if the truth came from my wife.”
She stared at him for a long time. He held her gaze, ready to follow through on his threat.
“My mother is a functioning alcoholic,” she said finally. “She’s been that way since I was fifteen. We’ve managed to keep it from being public knowledge, have taken her to rehab twice, each time thinking it would be the last. This recent dry spell lasted two years. She started to slide backward when the money troubles began.”
A red tide swept through him. “You were carrying this around with you our entire marriage and you didn’t tell me?”
“My mother swore us to secrecy. It was the only way she’d agree to go for treatment. It was decided it would remain locked within the walls of the Carmichael family vault. If we didn’t speak of