Page 82 of My Favorite Lost Cause
“Fine,” Mom says, throwing up her hands. “If you’re so much smarter than me, I won’t trouble you with my assistance.”
She flounces off toward her bedroom and Kit and I laugh.
“What are the odds she’s not going totrouble me with her assistance?” Kit asks.
The odds are zero. Ulrika will be back to planning within the hour as if this conversation never occurred. “You’re not really going to elope, are you?”
She groans. “No. Miller says we need to have a wedding so he can watch Dad cry.”
I laugh. “That’s not really the best reason I’ve heard for a wedding.”
Her smile is sweet and secretive, a smile I might’ve been jealous of a few weeks ago but suddenly understand to the depth of my soul. “That’s what I said, and he said there were a few other reasons he wanted to marry me in front of everyone, though it was mostly about that.”
I never dreamed I’d use the wordsillyto describe Kit, because even as a toddler she acted like a small, angry adult, but it’s as if Miller has brought out some young, unjaded part of her. I love it. Half of Manhattan thinks I’m angry about this situation when I’m actually just grateful it’s happened the way it has. If he hadn’t dated me first, they might not have met. They were meant to be, and if anything, I’m glad I got to play a part.
Ulrika returns to the kitchen only a minute later, triumphant because she’s just secured “the end-all, be-all wedding planner of the century.”
That didn’t last long.
And then she points one long-nailed finger at me. “I’m setting you up with that friend of Roger’s while you’re here. Saturday night. He wants to take you to Le Bernardin, which seems like a good sign.” She rubs her thumb to her forefingers. So the sign she’s referring to is money.
“Mother, I am not going out with a friend of Roger’s,” I say firmly.
“He’s not Roger’s age, though honestly, Maren, you’re in your thirties now. It’s time to start making some concessions. He’s fifty-three. Maybe fifty-four. Still young enough to start a second family but not so young he’ll be picky about it.”
“Jesus, Mom,” Kit groans. “I need you to say all that again on tape so I can play it for Maren’s eventual therapist. It’ll explain everything.”
“I’m not going out with Roger’s friend,” I repeat. “I’m not going out with anyone.”
“Fine!” Mom huffs, throwing her hands in the air. “You can just move in and be a spinster and take care of me and Roger in our old age! I won’t help you get out of this mess, and we’ll see how much you like what you’re left with!”
Kit laughs as Mom exits the room. “What are the odds she’s not going to keep trying tohelp you out of this mess?”
I grin, trying not to let on how much the threat bothered me, how worried I am that this could be one more way my life and Margaret’s potentially follow parallel paths.
I ask about the apartment she and Miller have just rented in Charlottesville. She asks about Charlie’s house and commends me for helping him with it. I feel guilty accepting her praise—I am doing very little to help Charlie these days outside of things that involve my vagina.
I tell her about finding the journal, and William, who wouldn’t admit he loved Margaret until the very last minute.
Her head tilts. “It’s funny. When you describe him, I keep picturing Charlie.”
I try to not read too much into the way she seems to study me as she says it.
“So, what happened to them?” Kit’s too practical to believe the giddiness and grief I’ve felt in that room could mean something. Love has softened her a little—she might be more polite about it than Charlie is—but she’d still think it was nuts.
I shrug. “I stopped reading. I can’t find any of their descendants, and I met someone at the club who said ‘old Miss Ames’ lived there when he was a kid. Plus, Charlie said some past owner of the house was found dead in this shack that used to stand on the property. I don’t want to find out that Margaret died alone.”
Kit’s head tilts again, as if she’s seeing things in me I can’t even see in myself. “It’s not like you can control the outcome. Wouldn’t you rather know a sad truth upfront than spend the rest of your life waiting for it to destroy you?”
She’s talking about the journal, but it’s true of this thing with me and Charlie as well, isn’t it? I’m not looking at anything too closely.
I’m waiting for it to destroy me instead.
36
CHARLIE
Ihave dinner with Elijah and some of the crew in town that night. The bartender Maren mentioned swings by with drinks on the house for all of us and slides me her number. Elijah smirks as I crumple it up, but I don’t owe anyone an explanation.
