Chapter 16 #2
“All right,” he says into my ear. His warm breath and the sound of his voice that close trickles down my neck.
“All right,” I whisper. “That’s enough sniffing.” That was a terrible idea.
He pulls away and retucks his perfectly tucked shirt.
I can feel his family watching us, so I turn toward the view.
I look over the railing, down at the six-mile cliff walk that ends here at Eight Oaks.
Beyond it is the rocky shore where the waves are lazily rolling in and out.
“Not a lot of drama down there tonight.”
“Put a few drinks in my aunt Ellen and you’ll see some drama,” he says. He dips his head to me as he says it and, without thinking, I touch that place on my ear where his lips were.
We’re eating outside, which is a relief.
I’d been picturing the formal dining room, and a million tiny catastrophes played out behind my eyes.
Red wine on the antique carpet, an unsolvable puzzle of slightly different forks.
A lady’s maid straight out of Downton Abbey, lurking behind me in case my hair needs arranging.
Instead, we are all seated around a table overlooking the orange sunset on the bay.
Gladys serves dinner with the help of another woman who has not been named to me.
In front of me is a rattan placemat under a white plate, edged in gold and decorated with tiny yellow birds in flight.
It’s exquisite, this plate. My napkin is white linen rolled into a gold ring embossed with a jeweled acorn.
Stewart is across from me with his back to the sunset.
“Well, the chicken is delicious,” Henry says to Gladys when she’s refilling everyone’s Sancerre.
“Thank you, sir. Tomorrow I’m making scampi. Dolly brought a load of fresh shrimp.”
Henry raises his glass to me. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“Do you cook, Dolly?” Victoria asks.
And just like that, I am stumped. I don’t know how to answer this question. Of course I cook, my kid and I need to eat. “Yes,” I say finally. “Just meals.” What does that even mean?
Kendall laughs. “Oh, not snacks?”
“I just mean I make eggs and sandwiches and chicken. It’s not so much cooking as making something to eat. Nothing fancy.” I look up at Stewart, who is shooting Kendall a look. “I do like to bake when I have time.”
“On Sundays, she bakes,” Stewart says, deftly painting a picture in everyone’s mind of me pulling a fresh pie out of his Beacon Hill oven.
“Dolly has a thirteen-year-old son,” he adds.
It surprises me. It’s the biggest, most important fact of my life, but for some reason I thought we’d be deliberately not talking about it.
“Yes, Gus,” I say.
“For St. Augustine?” Victoria asks.
“More like the mouse from Cinderella,” I say.
Victoria nods but says nothing.
“Who makes the crabcakes at your dad’s store?” Henry asks, tucking into a second piece of chicken. “Victoria sometimes picks those up for lunch when she’s trying to butter me up.”
He gives her a smile, and she says, “It’s true.”
“My dad makes those, but it was his mother’s recipe. My grandmother was a great cook. She made everything. Always won the fall bake-off.”
“I think I remember her,” Henry says. “A redhead?”
“That was her,” I say, proud. “Her name was Maud.”
“Maud!” says Ellen. “The redhead. Did she sew?”
I guess we’re doing this. “Yes, she did your mother’s sewing. Always brought home a big bag of pretty things to be fixed.” I smile, closed mouth. I have placed myself firmly in the servant category.
“And she brought pies sometimes,” says Henry, as if he can smell one of those pies. “Blueberry and peach. Could that be right?”
“Definitely,” I say. “That was one of her specialties. She gave my dad her house on Goose Lane when he married my mom, and she moved out closer to Harvey. She grew blueberries in her yard there.”
The conversation is easier after this, not because we’re suddenly best friends but because I have almost nothing to hide. When our plates are cleared, Gladys comes out with coffee and chocolate-dipped biscotti. She pours mine first, and I thank her.
“Dolly doesn’t like coffee,” Stewart says, to my absolute horror. “Is there something else you’d like? Tea?”
“No, thank you, I’m fine,” I say, flustered. My face is hot sitting in this moment where I am potentially sending something back to the kitchen at Eight Oaks because it is not to my liking. I pick up my coffee and sip it black to prove how much I like it.
“Come on,” he says. “You’re a terrible faker. Tea? More wine?”
I give him that look that usually comes with a knuckle sandwich and say to Gladys, “May I please have tea?”
“That’s no problem at all,” she says. “What kind do you like?”
“Whatever you have would be lovely, thank you.” My skin is too tight on my body.
Stewart’s shaking his head, and I shoot him a few more daggers. “Just say it,” he says.
“If you have Earl Grey, that’s my favorite. But anything’s fine.”
“Earl Grey it is,” she says. “Lemon? Sugar?”
“Honey?” I ask. It hurts to get it out. The absolute arrogance of asking for honey.
Gladys laughs. “That’s no problem at all.”
Stewart leans in close and whispers, “You know it’s okay to say what you want. Doesn’t make you a bad person.” His whisper against my skin makes me shiver. I don’t think I could be completely honest with either of us about what I want in this moment.
“I say what I want plenty.” He raises an eyebrow at me. “Okay, that’s not something I’ve had a lot of occasion to do.”
“I’m going to make you practice,” he says, a smile in his eyes. He turns back to his coffee and lets his words hang in the air.