Smiling at Everything

Jazz pulled into the curved driveway of her mother's mansion. Even without her father to help with expense, her mother could afford her lavish lifestyle. She could still get the plastic surgery procedures and spend her money on unnecessary items. One of the perks of being a well-known plastic surgeon and remarrying a lawyer.

Jazz put her car into park in front of the house, cutting the engine and stepping out. A smile was plastered on her face, as it always was when she was in public. She walked around the hood of her car to the car valet on the other side.

"Ms. Presley," he nodded.

"I shouldn't be longer than an hour," Jazz said, knowing he would ask.

"Very well. I'll have your car ready for you."

She handed him the keys, "Thank you."

Why her mother decided she needed someone to park her cars in the garage, Jazz didn't know. Her father sure as hell didn't waste his time hiring a valet for parking purposes. However, he had a butler with the specific purpose of greeting people at the door.

The guy was like the greeters at Wal-Mart.

In all honesty, Jazz never understood most of what her parents did. Sure the nannies, maids, and cooks made sense considering her parents were always too busy to deal with household chores. Mansions as homes, butlers, valets, personal stylists, personal trainers, gardeners and pool boys were pointless, not to mention the expensive interior and exterior of each home. They each had a summer home in California and had memberships to ski resorts.

Her parents made a lot of money, she understood that. Both sets of grandparents left her parents with a large inheritance. As far back as Jazz could trace, her family members were wealthy. They all also seemed to enjoy spending large amounts of money, which is what separated Jazz from them. Jazz hated looking like she had the amount of money she did. She felt it made people judge her the second they saw her. It was bad enough she looked the way she did; the attire just helped pull off the bratty rich kid façade.

But she did love her baby grand piano; it was the only purchase her parents made that she felt wasn't pointless.

Jazz walked up the steps to the front door, which was already being held open by a butler. She nodded her thanks to the butler as she stepped through the door. He bowed, shutting the door behind her and walking to another section of the house.

"Jazz," a woman wailed.

Jazz turned her attention to the woman in front of her. She looked slightly off balance, not quite able to hold herself up in the red stilettos she was wearing. Besides the lack of balance, she seemed fine; her brown hair was curled by a faultless hand, makeup perfect, red dress following the curves of her body, and an empty wine glass in her right hand. Next to her, a man with pepper sprinkled grey hair was clutching the bridge of his nose, his suit clean pressed as always.

"Mother," Jazz said.

"You've grown so much since I last saw you," her mother slurred.

"You saw me last week."

"It's been that long? Robert, it hasn't been that long has it," her mother turned to look at the man next to her.

"Yes, Clarice, it's been a week," Robert answered.

Her mother stared at Robert, confused, her thought process obviously a mess. Jazz's fake smile had dropped the second she heard her mother's slurred speech. There was no way the woman could be drunk on a Sunday; she normally had procedures to perform over the weekend.

Well, someone was going to get the wrong nose.

"Jazz," her mother exclaimed, smiling and looking at her, "What do you think of my breast implants?"

The original conversation was obviously forgotten. Her mother wouldn't likely remember any of it by the next morning.

"You've been having implants," Jazz stated.

"But I got them done again on Thursday because one popped," her mother said.

Jazz looked at Robert for confirmation. He grimaced and nodded at her.

"They look lovely mother," Jazz said.

"Don't they?" she attempted twirl, falling onto Robert laughing.

Robert caught her and hoisted her to her feet, "Why don't you go make sure they have the right wine, Clarice?"

"Okay," Jazz's mother stumbled out of the room, narrowly missing a pillar.

"Is she drunk?" Jazz asked Robert.

"She has no procedures this weekend," Robert stated.

"Besides on the wine and whiskey bottles?"

"Precisely."

"It's not even noon yet."

"You try prying a bottle from your mother's fingers."

"I'd rather get hit by a truck."

"Really? I was thinking get eaten by piranhas."

"That would suffice."

Robert cracked a smile at Jazz, opening his arms for a hug. She stepped into his arms, wrapping her own around his middle. The smell of his cologne wafted over her.

"It's nice to see you again, Jezebel," Robert said.

"Why must you call me that?" Jazz grumbled, pulling away from the hug.

Her birth name was Jazz. Everyone she had ever met assumed it was short for something, including Robert. He stared calling her Jezebel when he met her, thinking that was her full name. After being corrected, he never stopped. Jazz gave up on correcting him.

"Because I'm your stepfather. I'm supposed to give you an odd nickname in hopes that you'll become comfortable with me," Robert replied.

Jazz snorted, "If you were seriously trying to get me to like you by calling me Jezebel, then you were setting yourself up for failure."

"And that snort wasn't very lady-like," he pointed out.

"Like you care," Jazz forced a laugh.

Of the pair, her stepfather was the least strict. He came into Jazz's life after she had graduated high school and felt he shouldn't be in charge of her discipline. It would have likely just made her lash out at her mother, who she was living with until she turned eighteen and her father bought her the penthouse. He didn't want to cause a divide between the two. But he didn't know there was already a divide; he didn't find that out till the first month of their marriage.

He also didn't know that Jazz didn't lash out at anyone, not seriously at least. She smiled constantly around her family unless their actions confused her.

"Very true. We should meet your mother before she drinks all the wine," Robert said.

"Wait, if she just had surgery, she's on pain pills. She's drinking while on medication?" Jazz asked, realizing her mother's stupidity.

Her mother was a plastic surgeon; she should have known not to drink alcohol while taking pain meds. Not that Jazz minded her mother being drunk. She was much nicer while drunk, less condescending.

A crash from the terrace could be heard, a slurred call of "oppsie" following. Robert shook his head, knowing well his wife just broke something in her drunken stupor.

"Like I said, you try taking the bottle away from her," Robert repeated, walking out of the room to meet his wife on the terrace.

Jazz followed after him, curious as to what her mother broke this time.