Page 57 of Quake
He frowned, his hand tightening around mine as we stepped into the house.
“Oh, don’t give me that look,” she went on. “It’s all forgotten.”
I wondered what they were talking about.
Turning my attention to her, I studied her appearance and immediately felt undercooked. She looked elegant in a blue dress with capped sleeves, the hem sitting just above her knees. Her feet were clad in a pair of black heels, which were probably designer from the looks of them. Her hair was shoulder length, set in waves that could only have been from a set of curlers and a ton of product. A diamond necklace sparkled around her throat and matching drop earrings adorned her lobes, the glint drawing my eye.
“This is my mother, Lilly Carmichael,” Caleb said, gesturing to her. “Mum, this is Juliette.”
Her gaze raked over me, slowly and deliberately, before she smiled. It looked like more of a sneer to me, but Caleb didn’t seem to notice.
“Nice to meet you, Juliette,” she said. “What a lovely dress you’re wearing. Is it vintage?”
“Uh…” I began, wondering what was wrong with the perfectly presentable dress I’d bought brand new from Target.
“Mum,” Caleb said. “How about a drink to start?”
Her gaze snapped to her son, and she smiled brightly. “Yes! Of course, where are my manners.” She turned gracefully and glided through the house with us on her tail.
“Go straight for the vodka martini,” he whispered into my ear. “It’s the strongest stuff in the house. It makes the night go so much faster.”
“I don’t think getting drunk is the way to impress your parents,” I muttered, really feeling unsure of myself now.
“What they think doesn’t matter,” he replied with a snort. “Believe me, being here is just a courtesy.”
It wasn’t until we’d been ushered into the sitting room and placed on a modern looking leather couch that I realized Mrs. Carmichael had been insulting me. She thought my dress was old and cheap. Talk about the ultimate passive-aggressive maneuver. I’d have to keep my wits about me, though I wasn’t sure I had the guts to give as good as I got. She was Caleb’s mother, after all.
“Now, what would you like?” Mrs. Carmichael asked. “I’ll have George make whatever you like.” She gestured to a man who was lingering by a bar in the corner. He was dressed in a black suit, and I gathered by the way she snapped her fingers at him that he was the help.
Was the front door a portal to another dimension? I felt like I was in another world entirely. Caleb hadn’t told me his mum had practically stepped out of an episode ofThe Real Housewives of Melbourne.
“Scotch for me,” Caleb replied, shooting me a look that said ‘just go with it.’ “And a vodka martini for Juliette.”
“George, if you will,” she commanded with an airy voice, all pomp.
“Where’s Dad?”
“Oh, he’s here someplace,” she replied, flicking her wrist. She picked up a glass that was already half-empty and raised it to her lips. She took a sip before adding, “He’ll come down when he’s ready.”
When he was ready seemed to be the word that summoned him. Mr. Carmichael chose that moment to stride into the room, his stature made all that more imposing by his dark suit and tie.
I recognized him immediately. I’d seen him once at Beat, but even if I didn’t, the resemblance was uncanny. Caleb was exactly like his father in looks. Blond hair, blue eyes, light skin, broad shoulders. They were cut from the same cloth physically, that was for sure.
I rose to my feet, smoothing down my dress before offering my hand. “Mr. Carmichael,” I said, attempting to sound confident. “It’s nice to met you.”
He ignored my proffered hand and looked me over the same way his wife had, with an air of disdain, and I let my hand drop awkwardly to my side.
“Juliette,” he said after a moment. “Welcome. Have a seat, won’t you?”
He sat in the armchair opposite, and George was there in an instant, placing a serviette and a glass of brown spirits on the side table.
Honestly, I felt like I was in an episode ofGilmore Girls. The fancy parents at one end, passive aggression thick in the air, and in between was Caleb, the rebellious son determined to make it through life on his own terms. He could be the male version of Lorelai. And me? I didn’t fit in the scene at all.
“So, Juliette,” Mr. Carmichael said. “What do you do for a living?”
I straightened up. “I work at Slattery Press as an assistant to the head of marketing.”
“Publishing?” he asked.
