16. Emzee
EMZEECHAPTER 16
Y et another dinner with Ford’s parents was getting ready to start.
Oh, joy.
If I could have come up with a good enough excuse to get out of it, I would have, but the bigger problem was that these Malone family dinners were something that Ford did on a regular basis—there was no way I could avoid them forever.
So it was time to face the music.
I just needed to figure out how to coexist with the Malones peacefully.
Or at least, coexist with them peacefully for the duration of a meal.
How hard could it be?
At least for round two, I had a better idea of what to expect…
and what was expected of me as the hostess.
Thus I’d gone into this enterprise tonight with a careful eye toward doing things more like the Malones wanted.
Not exactly like they’d been done in the past, but a compromise that I hoped we all could live with.
No creative tablescapes, no exotic takeout food.
They wanted china dishes and a personal chef?
Fine.
I’d give it to them.
The best wine, chosen by a sommelier.
The best menu, put together by a professional.
The best everything.
Eat your heart out, snobs.
Despite myself, I had to admit that I felt a bit of grudging respect for Claudia.
No matter what I thought of her, she’d put up with these family dinners for years and somehow managed to hold on to her sanity through all of it.
I knew Mrs.
Malone (and to a lesser extent, her husband) would never accept me the way they’d accepted Claudia, that no matter how nice dinner was, they’d still never allow me to stay married to Ford.
But I was going to try to please them anyway.
I didn’t really have a choice.
And I swore to myself that I wouldn’t let their comments get under my skin again.
I would be prepared for whatever insults they threw at me.
I’d stay strong.
Not that a drink wouldn’t help, which was why I had all the martini fixings ready to go.
Ford had said his parents liked them, and I knew I’d need more than wine to fortify me for the long evening ahead.
The doorbell rang, and I straightened my cardigan, put Munchkin in his kennel, and headed for the door.
Ford had his hand on the knob as I came up behind him.
“Here goes nothing,” I murmured.
“You’ll be fine,” Ford said, as if he’d somehow forgotten what a complete disaster our last family dinner night had been.
“There’s my boy!” Mrs.
Malone screeched the second she walked in.
“And…Mara.”
“Hello,” I managed to say politely as she smothered Ford in a hug and an accompanying perfume cloud.
As Ford helped her out of her coat, I turned to Ford’s dad.
“And how are you, Mr. Malone?”
“I’ve been better,” he answered noncommittally.
“I saw that the Dow closed at three points up today,” I said, grateful I’d checked the stock market report earlier so I’d have something to say to him.
“So there’s some good news.”
Mr.
Malone’s face immediately brightened.
“Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
“Shall we?” Ford said, gesturing toward the dining room.
As we shuffled along, I leaned closer to Ford’s dad and whispered, “There’s more good news. I may have arranged a double helping of dessert for you as well.”
They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but it hadn’t escaped me that Mr.
Malone had devoured his coconut sorbet after our last dinner—as well as my portion—so I’d taken a gamble and decided to feed his sweet tooth this time.
Judging by his bright eyes, the gamble had paid off.
I may have secured myself a Malone ally after all.
I made cocktails for the Malones once they were seated at the table.
A very dry martini with two pimento stuffed olives for Father Malone, and a dirty martini with a plain olive for Mother Malone.
Ford had coached me in advance on how to prepare the drinks, but I couldn’t tell if I’d impressed the Malones judging by their post-sip faces.
But hey, at least neither of them had spit their drink across the room.
Meanwhile, Ford made gin and tonics for the two of us, and when the chef popped his head into the dining room to tell us the food was ready, the heavenly smells coming from the kitchen hit us full force.
“Mmm,” I sighed.
“And what, precisely, are we having?” Mrs.
Malone asked, brow raised.
“French,” I said.
I wasn’t being coy, exactly—I just couldn’t even begin to pronounce half the dishes we were about to be served.
I wasn’t worried, though.
Pierre was the most highly awarded chef in the greater Chicago area, and I’d been lucky to book him for a four-person meal when he was accustomed to larger private parties and events for the very wealthy.
Luckily, the Malone family name carried a lot of weight around town.
Once I’d explained who the dinner was for, Pierre had been more than happy to cater.
“We love French,” Mr.
Malone said, still looking perky and obviously attempting to be diplomatic.
“Don’t we, dear?”
Mrs.
Malone ignored him, turning instead to Ford.
“You look tired,” she said.
“Long day?” Then she cut her eyes at me, as if Ford’s exhaustion was clearly my fault alone.
“Uh, I feel fine, actually,” Ford said, taking a healthy swig of his gin.
In my humble opinion, he looked damn fine.
He was wearing a charcoal shirt and matching pants, his sleeves rolled up just enough to show off his drool-worthy forearms.
As for me, under my pale pink cardigan (a shade purchased specifically to please Mrs.
Malone), I had on a modest black dress and flats.
I thought we made a rather decent-looking pair.
“I’m a bit tired myself,” Mr.
Malone said.
“I didn’t ask you,” Mrs.
Malone told her husband with a scowl.
Before they could devolve into full-blown bickering, we were rescued by Pierre’s assistant, Jacques, who was bringing out the first course.
I’d specified that the meal be served on the infamous china that Ford and Claudia had bought, but this time we weren’t having steak.
We were having the best French food in Chicago.
Take that, Claudia.
“Bon appétit,” Jacques said with a flourish, ducking back into the kitchen.
We started with the most delicate escargot I’d ever had, the snails perfectly cooked in butter and herbs.
I’d never cared much for them, to be honest, but they practically melted in my mouth.
I sopped up the rest of the dipping sauce with a fresh, crusty slice of hot bread.
The next course was a petite salad garnished with watermelon radishes, followed by mussels marinières steamed in a lemony broth made with leeks, shallots, and garlic.
“These mussels are fantastic,” Mr.
Malone said dreamily.
“Straight from the market this morning, I’d wager.”
“That’s exactly right,” I said.
“I told Pierre to prepare whatever he picked up fresh today, and I’d say he hasn’t disappointed.”
While the ingredients were insanely expensive enough for Ford’s dad to appreciate, the portions seemed tiny and fancy enough for Mrs.
Malone to enjoy, even if she wouldn’t admit it.
The main course was confit de canard.
The duck was meltingly tender, the skin golden and crisp.
It was served over a pile of buttery fried new potatoes and fresh greens fanned out along the edge of the plate.
Everybody dug in, too busy eating to keep up with the small talk.
The Malones hadn’t complimented me once during the meal, but they hadn’t insulted me either, and frankly, that was a win.
As far as I was concerned, Pierre was worth every penny.
It wasn’t until dessert was brought out that the conversation started back up.
Over bittersweet chocolate soufflé, I started to notice something—despite all of Mama Malone’s fawning, Ford’s parents actually seemed to criticize him just as much as they had criticized me at the last dinner.
As if they didn’t think he was good enough either.
And without my tablescape or menu to fuss over, they were going at him full force.
“Your father has some thoughts about your latest deal,” Mrs.
Malone said.
“What’s the issue? The deal was fine,” Ford said, looking to his dad.
“Now, now, what I said was that—” Mr.
Malone started.
“It was disappointing,” Ford’s mother interrupted.
“You could have gotten at least another quarter million if you had just pushed harder.”
“They would’ve walked,” Ford said.
“They were skittish to begin with.”
“No one walks away from Malone Real Estate Holdings,” his mother said.
“They would have caved. They always do. And we really need to discuss your latest hire.”
She wasn’t eating her soufflé at all, but she was on her fourth martini.
“My latest hire is also fine,” Ford said.
“That’s the problem,” Ford’s mother said.
“You seem to think ‘fine’ is good enough. It’s not. You have a family reputation to uphold. Your actions affect all of us.”
Ford didn’t say anything, but I noticed that he was getting less and less responsive with every criticism his mother heaped on top of him.
She didn’t seem to notice.
“And that new headshot of yours. We’ll have to get that retaken. It’s not appropriate. I mean honestly Ford, facial hair? It just isn’t professional.”
She waited for Ford to respond, but he didn’t.
“Actually, people don’t really mind a bit of scruff these days,” I cut in, unable to listen to her anymore.
“The current generation is…less judgmental.”
Mr.
Malone nodded at me, though he didn’t contradict his wife.
Still, I knew what I was talking about when it came to headshots, and Ford’s mother was just plain wrong about Ford’s.
It was professional and well-lit and fit in well with every other photo that Malone Real Estate had on their site.
If anything, the headshot of Ford’s mother was the one that needed to be replaced.
It was straight out of the eighties, with soft focus lighting and obvious Photoshopping that was clearly intended to make her look younger, but instead just made her skin look waxy and dull, like a doll’s.
“The photo is good,” I reiterated.
“In my professional photographer’s opinion.”
Mrs.
Malone just sniffed.
Ford looked miserable.
It made me want to stick up for him, so I figured I might as well sing his praises.
“I’m not sure if Ford mentioned it,” I said, “but he gave a seminar on the business of real estate last weekend for my nonprofit, and the students absolutely loved it. He’s an excellent teacher. And if he’s half as good at his job as he is at talking about it, I have complete faith that he’s worth his weight in gold at MREH.”
Ford’s parents were both staring at me now.
Then a smile—one I didn’t trust—forced its way onto Mrs.
Malone’s face.
“Well isn’t that lovely ,” she cooed.
“I’ve heard all about your little charity, Mara. All the good it does. And you know what, we should all be helping out. Don’t you think so, Ford?”
“Ford already helped out a lot by teaching the class,” I tried to say, but his mother ignored me.
“I think we should throw a big fundraiser to help out, don’t you?” she kept going.
“A big shindig, with all of Chicago’s cream of the crop. Why, I know the perfect person to help.”
My heart sank.
I knew exactly who she meant and where all of this was going.
And the worst part was, I’d basically walked right on into it.
Ford’s parents were taking over, just like they’d done with my marriage.
Only this time, they had their sights set on my charity—inserting fucking Claudia into the one thing in my life that I was most proud of, which frankly I’d busted my ass to build from the ground up.
Claudia.
It was always Claudia.
I couldn’t help wondering if there was some sort of blackmail at play.
Did Claudia’s family somehow own the Malones, have dirt on them the way the Malones had something on my family?
It would make sense.
I looked over at Ford, hoping he would object.
But as usual, he didn’t.
Instead he just looked at me and shrugged.
“Claudia is good at fundraisers.”
My heart sank even lower.
“You see?” Mrs.
Malone crowed.
“It will be perfect.”
Right.
Of course it would be.