Riptide by Margaret Carroll Page A

up after one of our parties?”
    Now it was Christina’s turn to shrug.
    “Yeah, well neither do I.”
    “They’re probably not even supposed to be in this country,” she had sniffed. Truth be told, she had no idea whether they were here legally. Jason handled the household accounts.
    He shook his head. “Yeah, well at least they both know how to keep their mouths shut. I like to keep our private lives private. Once in a while, a little extra for them doesn’t hurt.”
    But it was Marisol he had given the cash to, and not her aunt Rosa, who had worked here longer.
    And now it was Christina who looked away first. Christ, she felt like a stranger in her own home.
    Marisol headed upstairs to dust.
    Señora Rosa backed off at last, leaving the plate of food behind.
    Within retching range.
    Peter did not back down. “You know, Christina, you can’t do this on your own. Not without help. Especially not with all you’re going through right now.”
    All she was “going through” was a mild way of putting it. Just hearing the words made her crumble inside. All the breath blew out of her lungs in a whoosh. Too late, she realized he heard it.
    Peter changed tacks. “How’s Tyler?”
    Christina’s shoulders hunched with guilt. The fact was she had no idea. “Fine.” Her voice was small with the effort of holding the floodgates closed. She hated to cry.
    Peter’s voice no longer flowed like syrup. It had hardened into something else. “You know, Christina, you will not be able to help your son get through this if you don’t stay sober.”
    Meaning, Christina supposed, she was useless as a mother. The tears welled up now, hot and bitter. These were not tears for Tyler, who had just lost his father, any more than they were for Jason, who was dead. No, the tears were for Christina.
    For the failure she had been in the past and the failure she would be in the future.
    She doubled over and moaned.
    Peter heard it. “Our problem is self-centeredness. Self-centeredness and self-pity.”
    How dare he accuse her of self-pity at a time like this? “Excuse me,” she said, icing him. “But I don’t think you have any idea what it’s like to lose your husband. ” She spat out the final word for emphasis.
    There was a moment of silence on Peter’s end. “Not to mention your best friend, alcohol.”
    It was a cheap shot. And true. “Shit,” Christina moaned. “What am I going to do?”
    Peter’s tone was brisk. “You’ll get through this. You don’t need alcohol, Christina. It wasn’t working for you anyway.”
    She blinked. That much was true.
    “The thing is, we can change our lives anytime we want. It’s never too late to start over. You can turn this around, Christina. You can get through this sober.”
    She wanted to believe him. She really did.
    It was like he could read her mind. “Fear is the enemy, Christina. Don’t let it rule your life. Fight it. You can do it.”
    “How?” Her voice was small and weak, the insides of her mouth coated with glue.
    Peter was back to business now. “We need to find you a good AA meeting. What about Amagansett?”
    Amagansett was practically next door.
    “There’s a meeting in less than half an hour. Think you can make it?”
    “Yeah.” She couldn’t believe she was agreeing to this. But it would give her a place to go, safe from Marisol’s sly glances and Señora Rosa’s fried pork bellies or whatever they were. Christina checked her watch and grabbed her car keys.
    Paparazzi at the gate be damned.
    At the moment, AA was the least of all evils.
     
    Jason Cardiff’s life ran smoothly, a well-oiled machine with him as the central cog. His self-regard was of the very highest caliber and was innate, a core part of his being from birth. Like most people who are born into tremendous privilege, Jason Cardiff lacked any insight into the source of his superior confidence (unearned), which of course was due only to his vast wealth.
    What this translated to in the