Chapter 15
After three weeks of school with no luck snagging a professor’s key card to access the archives, an impossible essay on harpies hanging over my head for Lisette, and enough sparring bruises to qualify me as a leopard, I find myself agonizing over—of all things—my outfit for dinner at the Pine house.
I rub my shoulder as I study my shoes. Two ice baths and a trip to the infirmary for arnica later, my shoulder still aches, but at least it looks less like the plums you avoid in a supermarket.
I’m not stressing out over my attire because of James’s parents.
I’m stressing because of mine. My mom is going to be there, and nothing I’ve ever worn has pleased her.
I’ve decided on sheer black tights, a miniskirt, and a cashmere sweater.
Still in the dark colors I’m most comfortable in—maroon, gray, black—but hopefully achieving that refined old-money look my mom so appreciates.
I opt for shiny black loafers, which match my slicked-back ponytail.
My small gold watch is on display, and I make a note to tuck my father’s silver locket inside the crew neck of my sweater.
“You look really nice,” James tells me when he picks me up from the Windsor.
I wish Pen and I were driving together and could practice meditative words of affirmation. Granted, Penny doesn’t suffer like I do at the hands of her parents—the Pines find our apartment in Babylon “quirky” and “bohemian”—but I’d appreciate the moral support nonetheless.
“Thanks,” I tell James. “You too.”
He’s in a loden sweater and his hair is slicked back. James Pine at his Piniest. He looks good.
“My dad invited some friends of his to join tonight. Had to bring my A game.”
Fabulous. More blue bloods.
We drive for twenty minutes, up higher and higher, before I see the freeway signs denoting that we’re over the hill.
I have the sudden urge to stick my head out the car window and feel the whipping air on my face.
All I want is a ninety-mile-per-hour wind to wreck my hair and streak my eye makeup under that sliver of moon.
I want to scream into the night until my lungs ache, knowing I’m moving too fast for any sound to carry.
But I don’t, of course. I sit still and feel James’s curious eyes on me.
His driver takes the exit marked Hesperides, and I try to relax my entire body like my meditation app instructs.
Vertebra by vertebra. When I give in and turn toward my boyfriend, the streetlights paint his encouraging face in menacing streaks of gold and gray.
In this light he looks almost deviant. I know I’m sick, because I find myself reaching for his hand because of it.
I wish I could say the Pine house is a monstrosity. But it’s neither garish nor over-the-top. It’s as perfect as the rest of the lives in the Hesperides. Just the right amount of flawless, with enough homey touches to still classify it as a house and not a castle.
I follow James down the flagstone pathway, past manicured hedges and the fountain with the marble angels that squirt water from rounded cheeks.
Penny’s parents’ security men nod their greetings—the Pine manor is about as well protected as the artifact room at the Windsor—and I get a good chuckle out of imagining any of these ex-Navy guys going up against a soul-hungry demon.
We’re let into a foyer full of neutral sculptures and suede furniture that’s never been sat on—as well-designed as my mother’s closet.
And speaking of—
Beatrice Abbot strolls in to greet us with the elegance of Grace Kelly and the warmth of an industrial freezer. Baby-blue sweater set, pleated white pants. Red nails, dark hair. She looks like an American flag, as I guess any aspiring politician should.
“James,” she coos. Two kisses, one for each cheek.
“The case you won this week was something, Beatrice. Our whole firm is in awe of you.”
Sometimes I can’t tell what annoys me more: the sinking feeling that James is closer to my family than I am, or the fact that he’ll take any excuse for more face time with my mom, including dating me.
“Hi, kiddos,” Penny’s mother coos, wandering in after my mom. With her barrel-curled hair, feathery lashes, and cheery smile, you’d never be able to tell she’s battling MS. I give her a warm squeeze.
“We brought wine,” James tells his mother, handing her a bottle of merlot that costs more than my rent.
“A great pick.” Laura Pine nods, giving the wine to their housekeeper, Marta. “Open this for everyone, will you?”
Another cliché debunked—Marta didn’t raise Penny.
Her parents were present for all her soccer games and high school plays.
Meanwhile, nobody was at my plays. Not my working mom, not my dead dad, not even me—I was ditching school to take out banshees and then making up stories about getting stuck in the dressing room before curtain call.
“Viv,” my mom greets me, brushing a stray hair from my brow. “How are you? Fiona tells me you’ve been out sick for weeks. James tried to bring you soup, but you weren’t home?”
Images of Harker’s tall arches and textbooks labeled Modern Ghoul-Hunting: No Ghostbusters Here fill my mind. “I was probably at urgent care. But I’m actually feeling much better n—”
My mom’s tight bob sways with the force of her shaking head. “You’re never going to be asked to work the exhibit if you keep missing days.”
She’s right. It’s time I figure out something more airtight than being ill for the next semester. “I know, I’m sorry.”
“That skirt is nice on you, though,” she says, as if appropriate style is decent consolation for physical illness.
Still, I’m rendered speechless. Like a teen with a crush, my heart wallops. “Really?”
She nods. “I know how hard it can be for you to put in this kind of effort.”
There it is. “Thanks, Mom.”
I move past her and toward the living room as she scoffs. “What did I say?”
The argument plays out in my head as it has a hundred times before:
Why do you have to insult me any chance you get?
How did I insult you? You don’t like to dress up!
Why does it matter if I like to dress up?
I just want you to look presentable!
Why does it matter that I look presentable, though? These people are practically family.
Why are you always so sensitive, Viv? I can never say anything right around you.
I bypass the entire potential exchange and opt for a double pour from Marta instead.
In the living room, Vivaldi is playing and enough candles are lit to make me feel like I’m in a home goods store.
The scent of sandalwood is actually so intense I dip my nose into my wineglass in an attempt at relief.
My heightened sense of smell is good for tracking, not so much for overlit dinner parties.
“Might want to slow down,” James tells me with a warm smile. “Alcohol isn’t great for a stomach virus.”
“I’m actually just…” What? Having a huntress sensory overload to his mom’s Nancy Meyers living room scent? “Thirsty.”
James gives me a curious look before signaling to Marta. “Would you mind getting Viv some water?”
“Stop,” I tell him, mortified. “I can get my own water.”
“So testy,” Nora says, standing from the pristine white couch. My sister’s perfect bone structure and cropped dark hair fill my face as she pulls me into a tight, quick hug. “You okay?”
No, I had to come here. “Yes, of course. Hi.”
Fiona wanders in, and to my pleasant surprise, her wave from across the room doesn’t come with commentary on how healthy I look or questions of whether I’ll be back at work next week.
Though I’d imagine that’s because all eyes are on Caspar Harlock, the unexpected addition to tonight’s dinner.
In fact, James abandons me with my sister—the biggest of boyfriend faux pas—to procure some face time with the Harlock Group’s CEO.
Caspar stands by the mahogany bar, listening as Penny’s father, Stan, tells him a story I can guarantee lacks any point at all.
Pontificating, hands spread wide, potbelly pressing forcefully against an Italian leather belt.
Penny stands beside him, nodding dutifully, not an ounce of irritation in those big green eyes. Bless her.
While Penny’s father is stout and round, Caspar is tall and broad-shouldered with the kind of lukewarm good looks I imagine all multimedia billionaires have.
His heavy brows are graying along with his thick hair, and even in his loosened tie, grasping his tumbler of scotch, I can’t imagine he’s ever taken it easy a moment in his life.
He was the most cutthroat baby in the nursing ward, I’m sure of it.
When you grow up around one of the richest families in the country, you meet a lot of Caspar types.
But Caspar Harlock is the worst Caspar type—the most money, the least interest in helping those less fortunate than him.
The fact that my own boyfriend can’t see that does more than boil my blood.
I watch James nod along with performative enthusiasm—honestly, he looks more eager now than when we have sex.
I hate it here.
When my mom passes by, Caspar pulls her into a greeting that churns my stomach.
He’s far too friendly and spending far too long telling her how radiant she looks tonight.
Despite my mom never remarrying—or even really dating, to my knowledge—Stan Pine’s been trying to set the two of them up for years.
Thankfully, while my mom is half the woman she was before my dad died, at least she’s not the kind of woman who sleeps with a powerful man for political gain.
Wish I could say the same for my boyfriend.