Chapter 21
Supper, as the Loefflers called it, was served quietly and efficiently by Freddie’s assistant, who was dressed in the ubiquitous black uniform, and whose name Ingrid only caught when she deftly arranged a bowl of cold green soup in front of Rill with the skill of a trained server.
“Lovely, Sarita,” he said in a low voice, and touched her arm. The young woman smiled but said nothing.
The Loefflers’ dining room was formal, wallpapered in a plum iridescent paper with more scenes of nature: willow trees and storks and tiny bridges over clear, blue streams. The chandelier threw a spray of rainbow-colored light across the highly polished furniture and over the meticulously set table.
The room was freezing. So cold you could hang meat in it.
Scoot had directed Ingrid to a chair beside Cas, and when she went to sit, he put a hand on her arm to stop her. She looked up at him, shocked at his touch, the first time he’d ever touched her, but she saw he only meant to pull out the chair for her.
“My son, the gentleman,” said Scoot, coolly, cutting her eyes at Rill.
Ingrid sat and so did Cas, and then, when she smiled her thanks at him, his lips curved into a smile that made his dark eyes snap. She had a hard time looking away.
Sarita served them the chilled spring pea soup, then a Parmesan soufflé followed by marinated asparagus and snapper over a carrot purée.
Scoot drank and talked, intermittently pushing her food to various positions on her plate.
Cas didn’t say much, nor did Sailor, but when they did speak it was to soothe and placate their mother.
It seemed their role was to steer Scoot like an out-of-control bumper car.
Rill watched his family interact with a distant, vaguely amused expression.
When she got a chance, Ingrid surreptitiously checked her phone, finding a series of texts from Miles.
Can you come over tonight? I was hoping we could hang out.
We could watch more Twilight Zone.
Litha’s been acting weird. She’s been coughing.
I think she misses you.
Where are the Band-Aids?
There was a feather touch on her thigh and she jumped, looking up. Cas raised his eyebrows at her like she was a naughty child.
“No phones,” he mouthed.
She wedged her phone under her leg. The spot where he’d touched her tingled.
Dessert was espresso over ice cream in delicate crystal dishes. By then, Ingrid, thoroughly chilled to the bone, wished she’d worn a sweater. When the plates were cleared and the after-dinner drinks brought in, Ingrid finally summoned the courage to speak.
“You haven’t told us how your retreat was, Cas. You went to a monastery up north, Sailor said?”
Scoot swirled the ice in her glass. Rill leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. Sailor looked uneasy.
Cas turned to Ingrid. “Yes. Michigan.”
Scoot blew out her lips. “Pfft. Michigan. Who wants to go to Michigan?”
“Michigan is beautiful,” Sailor said.
Scoot held up a finger. “Wait a minute, I take that back. I did go to Michigan once. Mama and Daddy took me to Mackinac Island when I was a little girl. That was such a cute place.”
Sailor’s jaw clenched and unclenched. Cas slowly folded and refolded his napkin.
Ingrid turned to Cas again. “I didn’t know Lutherans had monasteries.”
Cas nodded. “It’s pretty rare. This one’s ecumenical. People from all denominations go there. Roman Catholic, Episcopalian, Eastern Orthodox.”
“What did you do?” Sailor asked. “Like, pray all day?”
Cas bent forward, warming to the subject.
“It’s a farm so most of the day everyone’s working in the garden, helping out in the kitchen, or chopping and hauling wood.
But that doesn’t start until the afternoon.
The morning starts at five with the Office of Vigils, then personal meditations and Lauds at six.
Everyone observes silence during breakfast, then there’s Terce around nine, then the Eucharist. After that everybody does their jobs.
Sext is at noon, None at two-thirty, Vespers at six, Compline at eight-thirty. ”
“We did Vespers at camp,” Scoot said.
“What are all those things you just listed?” Ingrid asked.
“The monastic offices.” Cas’s face was flushed. “Prayers that structure the monastery’s day.”
“That’s so nice,” Ingrid said. It reminded her of the prayers Edie had taught her, that they prayed as they followed the positions of the sun in the house.
Suddenly Ingrid’s phone rang. Loudly. She pulled it out from under her leg. Miles.
“Sorry,” she said, and sent the call to voicemail.
“Sweetheart,” Scoot said. “We don’t bring our phones to family dinner.”
“Sorry,” Ingrid repeated and, face burning, tucked her phone away again.
“So. You gonna be a monk, Casimir?” Rill asked.
Cas swallowed his water. “I don’t have plans to, sir, at the moment. I just went to see what it was all about.”
“Because that’s one hell of a commitment.” Rill was leaning forward now. Sarita smoothly stopped at his chair and removed his empty wine glass.
“Yep.”
“They use the sauce on their meat?”
The sauce. He meant Savannah Sauce.
“They’re vegetarian, so … no.”
Rill snorted. “The least you could’ve done was sell ’em a box. It’s good on beans and tofu, too.”
“We’re in all hypermarkets and specialty chains in Michigan already, Dad,” Sailor said, and took a delicate sip of her drink.
Scoot stood up. “Library time. Sarita, will you bring the Blanton’s with you?”
Sarita scurried out to the foyer bar. Sailor sent Ingrid a pointed look as the rest of the family stood.
Scoot paused, her eyes glassily focused on Ingrid. “Sweetheart, Ingrid? Have a bourbon with me. I want to hear more about everything your grandmother taught you.” She sent a saucy look at Rill.
He moved to her side and caught her by the arm. “Darling, the kids want to go hang out or watch a movie or something, not stay with the old folks.”
Ingrid resisted the urge to rub her arms to warm them. “Thank you so much for dinner.” As if Scoot had had anything to do with the meal.
“You’re welcome, my dear,” Scoot said, formal and cold once again. “We’re so glad you joined us. And came to stay.”
Cas and Sailor headed toward the foyer, Ingrid following. Sailor leaned over to her and whispered, “I’m telling you, we need an anti-Scoot spell.”
“Hey!” Rill’s voice behind them was like the boom of a shotgun.
Cas, Sailor, and Ingrid stopped and turned, facing the man.
He was eyeing Cas. “Put some goddamn shoes on next time you sit at my table,” he said. It was a snarl.
“Yessir.”
Sailor took Cas’s arm and pulled him out of the room, but Ingrid couldn’t seem to make her legs move.
Rill lifted his eyebrows. She stared back at him, trying to comprehend how someone so funny and warm and strong could speak to his adult son that way.
“I know,” he said. “I’m a dick. I’m sorry.” His eyes bored into hers. “You look beautiful tonight, Ingrid. So much like Edie.”
She hesitated, whiplashed from Rill’s turn from domineering father to smooth charmer. And still, something warm and needy opened up inside her. It was a compliment only a handful of people in this town could pay her. Not that many people had known Edie well enough. Not that many seemed to care.
“Thank you,” she said. Then she headed to the kitchen, where no one would notice the way her lips unsuccessfully resisted a smile.
By the end of June, Ingrid and Sailor were texting each other throughout every day, sharing jokes, gossip, and memes about weddings, witchcraft, and difficult mothers. By this time, Ingrid had also experienced a list of things she never imagined in a million years she would’ve done.
These included:
Taking a full tour of the Savannah Sauce headquarters, located in a sleek high-rise near the bridge.
It swarmed with important-looking people holding files and briskly walking around.
Sailor’s office was an impressive, all-glass space on the twenty-first floor that overlooked the river.
Sailor also showed Ingrid Rill’s office and a conference room, a vast expanse of white, glass, and chrome that took up nearly a whole floor and made you feel like you were floating in midair.
Shopping in Atlanta for Sailor’s honeymoon wardrobe, which concluded with Ingrid the proud new owner of a gorgeous gown for the wedding, a new pair of four-hundred-dollar, metallic silver sneakers, and a buttery, soft brown leather jacket that fit Ingrid like a dream.
A facial, massage, and private Pilates session with Sailor at the Hotel Bardo’s elegant spa, and a private chef’s meal at The Grey restaurant with Sailor and Jude that lasted four hours.
Finally—and definitely the experience that took the cake—was a simulated hostage extraction experience on an abandoned army base in South Georgia where she, Sailor, Jude, and a group of their friends were allowed to shoot automatic rifles loaded with blanks at masked actors who were playing paramilitary terrorists.
There had been a helicopter and several fake bombs involved, and while Ingrid had cowered behind a bunch of oil drums for much of the time, praying for the whole ordeal to be over, Sailor had taken quite naturally to the action, transforming into a screaming, chest-pounding action hero.
Ingrid got to know the Loefflers’ staff as well: Mrs. Leimberger, the Loefflers’ house manager, and Adrian, the chauffeur, a thin, older man who wore a black suit and a chauffeur’s cap and who Ingrid learned had a son who was earning an MBA in themed entertainment design at Savannah College of Art and Design.
Freddie and Sarita in the kitchen. The crew of housekeepers who, daily and meticulously, cleaned every room of the enormous house.