Page 80 of Every Good Thing
He gives me a short kiss. “Right. We should get back to her before she runs away with the ponies.”
I laugh as his hand slides into mine and folds through my fingers. Before we reach the door, I nod toward his handsome portrait. “It must be shitty for Lauren, walking into her dad’s office every day to see an ex in a place of honor on the wall. The first thing Mom did when I left Mark was take down every picture of us—I found the stack buried in her closet after she died.”
Ben’s brow pinches, considering my words. “I hadn’t thought of that. Trying to make me feel sorry for her?”
“I’m not trying to make you feel anything for her… but seeing that, I kinda do,” I shrug, pulling him to the door.
Ruthie races full speed across the lawn when she sees us. Ben scoops her up, and she straddles his side. “Dad, I rode the ponies four times. They were a little slow for me, but that’s okay. There’s a cotton candy machine!” Her eyes look like green golf balls.
“How about some real food first?” I say.
Mrs. Riley lumbers over, winded and sweaty in her museum-worthy attire. “Ruthie, you got away from me again.”
“Sorry, Jillian. She tends to do that.”
“I love her independent spirit,” she puffs. “Reminds me of Freddy and Omar. Course, we didn’t have them at her age.”
Her pointed expression makes it a complaint.
“Let me introduce you to some of Riley Trust’s families, huh?”
She steps between us, linking her arm to Ben’s like a move she’s done a thousand times. With Ruthie in his arms and Jillian on his free side, I fall behind them—a tagalong afterthought.
She leads us to the calmer right side of the grassy area, away from the food trucks and children’s spaces—where a lovely picnic-scape hosts the Rileys and their special guests. Colorful awnings tied to posts provide ample shade for blankets, pillows, Adirondack chairs, and tables with food and drinks. It could be a magazine spread in Coastal Living under the headline—“Outdoor Dining with the Upper Crust.” This is their space—and though it’s not roped off, it feels like the red-carpet section where one must be invited in, which makes me think of vampires again.
Ruthie slides off of Ben and takes my hand. “I’m thirsty.”
I lead her to a serving table and pour her some lemonade. She’s flushed and already tired. When Ruthie goes full force, she crashes quickly. So, I think of finding a quiet spot where she can settle before her next round of fun.
But Lauren’s laughter lures me back to Ben. A gold-star wife wouldn’t leave her husband alone in such an important social situation. Ruthie and I wedge next to him as best we can.
Jillian and John introduce us to other members of upper management. John brags about Ben’s workday at Riley Trust and how he prevented a homeless invasion near their property line—a story Ben neglected to share with me, but it sounds like they were under a zombie attack with them scaling the fences and gnashing their teeth to hear them tell it.
God, what is with me and the zombies and vampires today?
Ruthie leans against my leg, sipping her drink. New to cups without lids, she holds it precariously in her stubby hands, sucking from the rim instead of tilting it back. I scoop her up carefully, shifting her against my right hip so I can balance the cup for her with my cast hand.
“So, Lena, I hear Hollywood has taken over your little business,” Jillian says. “What’s that like?”
Little? Okay, that’s the route we’re taking? “Um, different, but exciting.”
“My grandsons love that Hunter movie,” Jenny Tenor chimes in. “Have you met Matt Kirby?”
I nod, shifting Ruthie’s weight as she leans against me. “He’s nice, very down-to-earth.”
“Is he as handsome as he is on TV?” Jenny asks. “I always think those actors must be air-brushed.”
“Um, he’s alright,” I answer diplomatically. “He’s not air-brushed.”
“He’s been raving about Saddletree on Insta,” another woman says. “I loved this pic of you two.” She holds up her phone and pans it around to the crowd. Jaye took the image of Matt and me in front of a hay bale. I couldn’t dismantle it with the pitchfork one-handed, and he came to my rescue. “Positive publicity,” Jaye called it.
Judging by the sudden divot on Ben’s cheekbone from tightening his jaw, I imagine he’d call it something else.
“Oh, right,” I say weakly. “Everyone loves farm chores, especially when they don’t have to do them every day.”
“Well, he adores the place. He posts more about Saddletree than he does the movie,” she says, tucking her phone away.
“Must love the free advertising,” John Riley says, tilting his beer.
