Page 54 of More With You

“All good things, I hope—the things you’ve heard about me?” I’m awkward as hell and I know it.

She chuckles. “Wonderful things, Miss Larson.”

“Oh, so you do know about me. I thought you were just being polite.” It’s meant to be a joke, but she doesn’t laugh. Instead, she offers a sympathetic smile, as if she knows what I’m about to enter into, dragging all my awkwardness behind me.

“I’m never polite unless I have to be, but Benjamin has spoken very highly of you. I’m Mae, by the way.” She puts out her hand and I take it.

I grin, feeling calmer. “Grace’s favorite?”

“I’m afraid you’ve taken that spot, Miss Larson. Foster is very upset about it.” She winks and guides me on toward a grand set of double doors on the opposite side of the opulent entrance hall.

It’s the kind you might find in a famous art gallery, with a domed ceiling that reveals the shifting palette of sunset, bleeding pinks and purples and vivid oranges together. It might be a vast entrance hall, but there’s an oppressive feeling to it, thanks to the mahogany paneling that sucks away the cheer of any light that reaches down. Plus, the DuCate family portraits, dating back generations, are fairly creepy. Their eyes are watching me; I can tell. And they are judging me.

As we pass by an antique curio cabinet, a flash of silver catches my eye and I slow my pace to investigate. On the beautiful burled wood of the middle shelf sits a small black and white framed photograph. It’s striking against all the other portraits in this room, since it’s the only one that won’t have cost a fortune. This is just two people, dressed unassumingly, leaning against the rickety fence of a cornfield, squinting as if it’s sunny out. Farmers, perhaps. With a little girl between them who looks tired and sad, for one so young. It definitely looks like a family photo, and there’s something about the adults that reminds me of Ben, while the little girl has a hint of Grace about her. Could it be Cybil, maybe? My mind won’t accept it. Even though I haven’t met the queen of this household, I can’t imagine her on a farm.

“They’re just in the dining room,” Mae says. “Dinner has been served, but they are waiting for their dessert, if you would like some?” She pauses in front of a door on the left, her voice pulling me away from the photograph.

“Sure, dessert would be great,” I tell her, as clouds of dread form inside my chest, leaving no space for breath. I didn’t realize this was a dinner party. Maybe, the “Summer Soirée” is afterward? That would explain the lack of cars. Or, it could be a more intimate affair—canapés, champagne, caviar, with a side of sparkling conversation.

Mae pats me on the back. “Very good, Miss Larson… and good luck. Lord, I wish I was as daring as you.”

With that, she opens the door and directs me inside. I take two steps and my heart plummets. There are only three people seated at the enormous dining table, and I am painfully overdressed. Mrs. DuCate, whose face I know from magazines and news articles, is wearing linen pants and a casual blouse. Mr. DuCate, who I thought was in Washington, is wearing chinos and a polo shirt, as if he’s off to the country club any moment. And Ben… my lovely Ben, is in jeans and a t-shirt, staring at me like I’ve grown four heads. No, staring at me like I’m not supposed to be here.

Mrs. DuCate, sitting with her back to me, turns around and shrieks, looking like her eyes are about to bulge out of her head. “Who, in the name of all that is good and holy, are you? And what the devil are you doing in my house? Mae, what is this woman doing in my house?” Her head whips toward Mr. DuCate, with an accusatory jab of a manicured finger. “Benjamin, I swear to God, if she is one of your… expensive mistakes, I will lose my mind! This will cost you more than a new string of pearls, believe me!”

Mr. DuCate shrugs. “She’s nothing to do with me, sweetheart.”

“I’m… here for the party,” I say quietly, as Mae stifles a horrified gasp. Her hand closes around my wrist, like she’s trying to impart some very important knowledge, but I’m too frozen to understand the secret message.

Just then, my badly stitched thigh split rips, and I realize I must be some kind of prophetess. Clearly, there is no party, I’m not welcome, and this really is going to be the worst night of my life.

18

SUMMER

“Is this some sort of joke? You thought you’d spring that… woman on us, looking like that, to what? Teach us a lesson? You need to grow up, Ben! Do the right thing, let us set you up, get married, and give us a moment of peace!” Mrs. DuCate screams like a banshee from inside the annex that adjoins the dining room. I’m fairly sure I’m meant to be hearing all of this, otherwise she’d have sent me elsewhere. She wants me to know that she thinks I’m the joke. No punchline.

Mr. DuCate chuckles, like all of this is the funniest thing in the world and says, “I don’t think he expected her to look like that, sweetheart. His eyes were popping out as far as mine. Let me guess, you told her ‘dinner party formal’ and that’s the best she could do? It isn’t her fault, I expect. White trash don’t know how to do white tie. Or black tie. Or any tie, for that matter.” He explodes with laughter, and I’d like the parquet floor to rip open and swallow me down to the deepest depths.

I’ve known, my whole life, that outer beauty doesn’t always reflect the interior. A lot of the time, the inside is rotten and ugly. This house just validates my childhood opinion, though, back then, my test subjects were cheerleaders and pretty, mean girls who couldn’t have had a bad hair day if they’d stood in the way of a jet engine.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, you can do what you like with discretion and I won’t say a word—I’ll just put it down to you trying to squeeze the last bit of youthful exuberance out of life before you get to forty—but embarrass this family, and I’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks!” Mrs. DuCate continues to howl. “That woman is the very definition of an embarrassment!”

My heart curls up like an ex’s photograph on a bonfire. I feel my body going into self-preservation mode; my walls shooting up, wondering why they were ever decommissioned. A wrecking ball in reverse.

“Sweetheart?” a soft voice jolts me up from the brocade upholstery of the dining chair.

I hold the thigh split together, looking up at Mae in apology. “I’m sorry. I know, I shouldn’t be sitting on the chairs. I was shaky, that’s all. I’m sorry. Please, don’t tell Mrs. DuCate.” I take a few steps away but Mae grabs my hand and ushers me back to the chair, pushing lightly on my shoulder to sit me back down.

“Sit all you like, sweetheart,” she tells me, perching on the chair opposite.

I relax a little, though you could probably make a diamond from the pressure of my clamped-together thighs. “To be honest, I don’t know why I’m still sitting here at all.”

“Ben,” she replies simply, with a generous smile. “I haven’t seen Ben so happy in… goodness, it’s been so long I can’t even remember.” She pauses, turning more serious. “I don’t know what’s going on, but good for you for making a dramatic entrance. Femme fatale.”

I swallow awkwardly. “That wasn’t the intention.” I take the letter out of my purse and hand it to the older woman, who scans it with grim interest. As she’s reading, I’m drawn back to the argument behind the varnished doors. It’s reaching new levels of hysterical.

“You stole my necklace, put it around that floozy’s neck, and thought I’d welcome her with open arms? Are you out of your mind, Ben?” Mrs. DuCate screeches. “It’s bad enough that she’s… well, she clearly has nothing to offer, and everything to gain from you. Are you stupid? You must be at least a decade older than her. What do you think she’s chasing after you for, hmm? I have a good notion, and it’s nothing to do with… love.” She says the last word as if it’s filthy in her mouth, but I’m rewinding to the first part.

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