Page 111 of The Price of Scandal
The fierce wave of possession caught me off guard. What I wanted crystallized for me. Emily Stanton. In my life. My home. My family. I wasn’t playing games anymore. I was playing for keeps.
“It is, isn’t it?” I said lightly. The complex layers of oil paints in a tapestry of blues and grays reminded me of Emily.
She had no idea the only reason I had this bold slash of color here was because of her. The artist had been refreshingly vocal in her refusal to sell to that “dickweasel” Malcolm Ellison.
“Tell me,” she said, accepting the glass of water I handed her. “Have you ever used this table?”
It was a long, wooden table in a driftwood gray that could easily seat ten people.
“Of course I’ve used it. I spread files out on it, store my mail on it. I’ve even wrapped Christmas presents on it.”
“But no actual dining?” Emily clarified.
“I’ve eaten takeout on it.”Probably.
“I’ve never used my formal dining room either,” she confessed. “My table seats twenty. It was custom-made by an Amish carpenter in Ohio. When I was building the house, I wanted to make sure I could accommodate my whole family for the holidays.”
“And you’ve never used it?” I asked, taking her hand and leading her to the balcony. My indoor living space was calm, masculine. But on the balcony, it was like a South Beach bar had vomited. Charmingly, of course. Bright turquoise and canary yellow pots cluttered the space with plants kept alive by the kindness of the cleaning service. There was a small teak dining set near the patio doors and a pair of cushioned chairs centered around a low, round table.
“Turns out my family isn’t big on Thanksgiving and Christmas… or family. Trey is never around, and Mom prefers the holidays in New York. She says it feels more festive.”
I thought of the Price family holidays. With dozens of people crammed around folding tables, asses to elbows over turkeys and hams. The birthday cakes. The pitchers of margaritas and pots of chili.
“Do you go to them for Christmas?” I asked.
She shook her head and stepped out onto the concrete and glass balcony. The sun was sinking low, painting the sky a dusky pink. “It’s hard for me to get away,” she said, settling on a blue and white striped chair cushion. A politician’s non-answer.
“But you’d make the time if you wanted to,” I guessed.
“Yes, I would. I envy you for your family,” she admitted. “I hope you appreciate them.”
“My mother wouldn’t allow me not to,” I teased.
Emily sipped her water in silence. A melancholy of unfilled dreams slowly extinguishing the excitement of the day.
“Hey,” I said, taking the chair next to her and nudging her foot with mine.
“Hmm?”
“I’m the first to admit that family doesn’t have anything to do with blood. You can build your own. Choose your own.”
She smiled a little sadly. “I’ve got Jane. And Cam and Daisy and Luna,” she agreed. “But…”
It hung there in the air between us as we watched the sun slip behind the skyline of the city we both loved.
The string lights came on above us.
“Do you want a family?” I asked her.
She sipped thoughtfully and put the glass down on the table in front of us. “Do you want the answer I give my mother or the real answer?”
“What do you think?”
“Flawless is my family,” she said finally. “I was never the little girl swooning over wedding dresses or carrying around baby dolls. I was the kid with the microscope and the college junior excited to spend a Saturday in the lab.”
“Do you regret that?” I pressed.
She wrinkled her nose as she mulled over the question. “No. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t want a collection of people that I love in a home I built for them on Christmas morning. Or that a tiny portion of me feels like I might be missing out. I love kids. I really do,” she insisted.
