Chapter One #2
“First of all, I like that you assumed, correctly, might I add, that Leslie is hot. Secondly, it’s just family night and I’ve been here for over an hour already. It’s not like I’m missing a business meeting.”
“No, that will happen tomorrow when you’re too hungover from your night out with hot Leslie to show up on time,” Cade said.
“I already said I was sorry and that I’d do better, so fuck both of you. I’m outta here.”
“Cam, I’m sorry, I’m just stressed out,” Cade said, but I didn’t want to hear it. As much as they may have been right, disappointing my family was hell on me and I feared things in that department were only going to get worse.
* * *
Tess
I walked into my family home, hanging up my coat and purse as I called out, “Sorry I’m late!”
My sister, Sinclair, came sliding into the foyer with a grin.
Literally.
She slid in on her socked feet much like Joel Goodsen did in Risky Business, although, she was wearing pants instead of tightie whities, thank god. “Dad’s freaking out.”
I rolled my eyes. “Dad doesn’t freak out.”
“He’s checked his watch forty-two times in the last fifteen minutes.”
I snorted. “Okay, that sounds more accurate.”
Sunday dinner was sacrosanct in our home, and I was four minutes late.
And by late, I mean, wasn’t there by four p.m. to help my mother with the table setting.
Or whatever. We didn’t actually eat until five, but even though we’d all flown the coop, so to speak, we were all expected to be home at four on Sundays no matter what we were doing, period.
Every Sunday, every week without fail, so today’s conversation was going to be a tough one.
Because I was moving out of the country. It was temporary, but they would see it as forever, and they were going to lose their minds.
You see, my father was an uber Catholic, Ronald Reagan worshiping, high-ranking admiral in the U.S.
Navy, and he didn’t like it when I went up the street alone.
He and my mother had been married for more than forty-five years.
He was twenty, she was eighteen when they tied the knot, and my brother came along ten months later.
After that, my mother pretty much got pregnant every time my father was home for any period of time.
We had been raised partially in our historic home in Bethesda, Maryland, and our other home in Camden, Maine that had been in my mother’s family since it was built in 1830.
There are six of us, all named after amazing historical figures.
Well, my siblings are, anyway. My eldest brother, Grant (named in honor of Ulysses), Lincoln (named in honor of good ol’ Abe), Theodore (in honor of Roosevelt, of course), Sinclair (in honor of Upton Sinclair), Sherman (named in honor of William Tecumseh Sherman) and then me. I’m the baby, and I was a surprise.
And I was named after… wait for it… Tess of the d’Urbervilles.
Yep, no world leader or important American historical figures for me.
Oh, no, I’m named after the protagonist in the book my mother read at least once every few years to get her cry on.
I’d read it one time and one time only. What a massive bummer.
Literary masterpiece, sure, but how much horror can one woman endure?
Lordy. No thank you. I will stick to my D.W.
Foxblood and Clay Morningwood happy-ending romances and will not apologize for them.
To say my parents set me up for my current career (at least in their eyes) is an understatement. I scout for Hollywood filming locations. I don’t actually do that, but it’s my cover story, and helps to explain why I travel so much.
“Mom wants you to make the rolls,” Sinclair said.
I frowned. “From scratch or did she buy the premade ones?”
“She bought the pre-mades.”
“Okay, good. I was about to open a can.”
“Oh, please.” Sinclair snorted. “Like you’d ever open a can of whoop-ass on either of our parents.”
“One can dream,” I breathed out, following her to the kitchen.
“You are so weird, Tess.”
“So you keep telling me,” I said.
“Why is she weird?” Grant asked.
“Because she has such violent thoughts.”
I rolled my eyes as my brother laughed. “No, sissy, it’s weird that you don’t.”
“Right?” I retorted as I stepped to the sink and washed my hands.
“Oh, good, you’re here,” Mom said as she breezed into the kitchen holding a small wicker basket. She wrapped me in a warm hug and kissed my cheek. “Happy Sunday, my darling.”
“Hi. I understand I’m on rolls.”
“You are.” She set the basket on the island and placed a dish towel inside. “You can put them in this.”
“Okey doke.” I finished with the rolls and slid them into one of her four ovens, then faced her. “Are you sure you don’t want me to make pie while I’m at it?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Where are you going and for how long?”
I sighed. “Europe. No more than five or six months.”
None of that was true, but my mother was on a need-to-know basis, and she most certainly did not need to know.
“What?” Mom screeched. “Six months?”
Dad came rushing into the room. “What happened?”
“Your daughter has just informed me she’s leaving us.”
“It’s not forever, Dad. Six months. Tops.”
“What kind of Hollywood scouting trip takes six months?” Dad asked.
“I’m working with a documentarian in Europe, so there will be a lot of on-location scouting,” I said.
“Is it really going to take you that long?” He narrowed his eyes. “Europe isn’t very big.”
“I’ll be in some pretty remote areas, so I won’t be able to call very often,” I said, ignoring my dad’s comment.
“Teresa,” Mom admonished. “They can’t really expect you to just up and galivant around Europe alone. You’re a beautiful young woman. It’s dangerous.”
“I’m fine, Mom. I’ll be with guides,” I lied.
“Really? The whole time?”
“Probably not. But enough to get the lay of the land. I’ll check in as much as I can. Stop worrying.”
“When do you leave?”
I grimaced. “I leave Tuesday.”
“Then, we better make this dinner count.”
“Mama, I’m not leaving forever.”
She patted my face. “Why does it always seem to feel that way every time you go away?”
I leaned into her touch. “Because you’re my mom and you’re a little dramatic?”
“Impertinent little shit.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I sassed. “Thank you.”
My parents laughed and then I had to pull the rolls from the oven, so it was back to normal as we gathered the food and took it to the dinner table.
The rest of the night passed without any issues other than my mother hugging for an extra seventeen minutes at the end before finally letting me leave her house.
I shook off the melancholic warning bell in the pit of my stomach as I drove down their long, winding driveway and away from my childhood home.
Tuesday couldn’t come fast enough. I just hoped it didn’t all blow up in my face.
Again.