Chapter 12
T hey slept until the appointed time and met up in the kitchen. Piedmont perched sleepily on a stool and watched Paley make breakfast.
“Where are you parents?” she asked.
He blinked confusedly at the interruption of silence. “My dad died my first year out of law school. My mom lives in New Mexico because she hates both DC and cold weather. We’re still close and talk several times a week.”
“No siblings?”
“Nope. What about you?”
“My parents live in Maryland. We moved here when I was little for my dad’s job in human resources at Johns Hopkins. I have an older sister and a younger brother. You’ll likely meet my parents when they drop by unannounced at some inopportune time. I’ve been holding them off with the excuse I need time to settle in, but it won’t last forever, so I apologize in advance.”
“What’s wrong with your parents?” he asked.
“Nothing, they’re lovely people. They’re just…you’ll see.”
“Now my curiosity’s piqued,” he said. “Explain.”
“They’re in their own little worlds, neither of which intersect with each other, and neither of which mesh with reality. My dad wants order and harmony at all costs, and he believes the best way to achieve it is to keep his lawn perfect. Unfortunately for him he has no idea how to do that so his day is an exercise in futility. My mom is a dreamer. In her world everything is perfect, and she believes the best way to keep it that way is to refuse to allow reality to intrude. She firmly believes the key to making my marriage work is for me to try harder to return to some June Cleaver utopia, to dress better, to make good food, to be always pleasant and never harsh, and to keep the house clean, despite the fact that my husband kicked me out of it and fathered someone else’s child. I love them, truly. They are good people and good parents, but too much of a good thing is still too much, and I have to limit myself to small doses for the sake of sanity.”
“Are you close to your siblings?”
“Regrettably, no. When you grow up in an environment that disallows talking about real issues, it’s hard to form relationships with any depth. We don’t talk about things in my house, ever. I needed someone with whom I could be real, could be completely myself and talk about the hard things of life. I found Mattie.”
“You and he never dated?”
“We did, briefly our senior year. Didn’t take.” Her eyes slid away from his and to the table where she rubbed at an imaginary spot. Was it because she had unrequited feelings for her best friend or because he had them for her?
“It must have been hard for him when you got married,” Piedmont said.
“He tried to warn me away from Aaron. I thought he was being protective, and now I think he was actually correct and I should have listened. But I was young and in love and didn’t heed the warning signs.” She shook her head. “Sorry, somehow this devolved into a therapy session.” The timer on the oven dinged, as if signaling an end to their session. She removed the pan from the oven and refilled their coffee.
“I was thinking about what you said, about this being an un-date.”
“Oh, no, did I make it awkward by trying to make it not awkward?” she asked.
“No, I agree with you. This is an un-date. Neither of us is in that place where we’re looking or ready for romance. Even if we were, there’s no guarantee we would…” he paused. “Now I’m making it awkward.”
“Pretty much yes,” she said.
“Sorry. My point is I need actual dates a lot. I go to seemingly a million black tie events a year, work functions, charity things, galas. Maybe the best part of having a serious girlfriend was that I never had to scrounge for a date. She was a sure thing, and it was amazing and comfortable, actually made dull events fun. Since we broke up, I haven’t had the energy to date or look for someone to date. I’ve been showing up stag, and somehow that’s even worse than being on a date with someone I don’t like. Picture a wounded zebra in a field of hungry lions. I’ve never felt so hunted as I have these last few weeks. Last month a woman even followed me into the bathroom. So I was thinking maybe you could be my standing un-date to these events for the foreseeable future.”
Paley remained quiet, thinking. He ate his coffee cake while she pondered. “Would you want me to be merely a friend or pretend to be a girlfriend?”
“I don’t know. We’d have to play it by ear. Obviously the truth is best, but I’m not sure that would be enough to deter some of these people and their predatory instincts. My single status is like chum in the water to them. You’re laughing at me and thinking I’m being an egotist, but I’m serious. It’s crazy. I feel like Mr. Bingley being hunted by all the Bennett sisters.”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh. It must be very hard to be so incredibly desired by all womankind,” she said, snickering.
“If it were actually me they were desiring, I wouldn’t be complaining. But it’s not me. I could be anyone. I could have a hump and four arms, and they’d still want me because they want the status and position, the money, the security, even this house.” He motioned helplessly to the grand, well-equipped kitchen, and Paley stopped laughing. Women were throwing themselves at him for his kitchen, her kitchen?
“What exactly would my part in this be? What do you need me to be, to do? Do I have to dote and simper?”
He grimaced. “No, please. Never that. Not to complete the misogynist picture of me I’m creating, but basically you need to be arm candy. You need to put on an evening gown, be friendly, smile a lot, and say hello to a whole bunch of strangers. Occasionally we’ll dance. It’s not horrible, but it’s more exhausting than it sounds.”
“My evening gown is in the shop,” she said.
“I assume Acacia gave you a credit card when you were hired. Use it to buy about five or seven gowns. You could ask her where to do that because I don’t actually know. That is, I mean, if you agree to do this.”
“I agree,” she said, still somewhat solemn.
“Are you sure? I don’t want it to seem like this is mandatory or I’m forcing you. In no way will I be upset if you say no,” he said.
“I agree of my own will, it’s just different from my normal life, so I need to think about it and ponder a while in order to process,” she said.
“I get that. Ponder as much as you like, and if at any time in your pondering you change your mind, please tell me. I would so much rather have honesty than feel like I’m dragging you into this.”
She put up a hand as if taking an oath. “I solemnly swear to keep you informed and up to date on the slightest passing whims of my mind. I’m thinking chicken for supper tonight, now beef, now chicken. See? You’re up to date.”
“Great. Now that you’ve stuffed me with my weekly allotment of butter, are you ready to work out?”
“Yes. Dibs on the rowing machine.”
“You’re calling dibs on my machine in my house,” he reminded her.
“Dibs is a binding and sacred tradition that can’t be undone, even with your lawyer voodoo.”
“I’m so stealing that line to use in court next week,” he said, “but there’s another, more time honored tradition you’re forgetting.”
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Race you,” he said and took off for the basement.