5. Alison
Victor Tremblay arrives at seven carrying flowers for my mother and a bottle of scotch for my father.
I get his hand at the small of my back. Lucky me.
“Alison.” He leans down to kiss my cheek, and I smile, because it’s easier when I know it’s coming. His palm settles against my back as his lips brush my skin, and I force myself not to move until he does.
There’s nothing technically inappropriate about it. Nothing I could point to later and explain without sounding dramatic. A greeting. A hand against my back. A kiss on the cheek. Normal things.
Except Victor’s hand stays there after he straightens, and his thumb moves once against the fabric of my dress. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
Dad comes out of his study before I have to decide how long I’m expected to stand here and let Victor touch me. “Victor.”
Only then does his hand leave my back.
Dad shakes his hand, notices the bottle, and smiles. “You remembered.”
“I remember the important things,” Victor says, handing it over. Dad examines the label with the kind of appreciation he rarely gives anything that doesn’t cost an offensive amount of money.
Mom appears from the dining room a second later, and Victor changes when he sees her. Not enough that anyone who doesn’t know him would notice. His shoulders relax. His smile becomes softer. Polished. Respectable. The version of Victor Tremblay people are supposed to see.
“Jane.” He holds out the flowers.
Mom wipes her hands against her dress before accepting them. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Her eyes flick toward me. Just once. They drop to my dress.
Dad told me to wear this one tonight. Black, high neckline, long sleeves, hem below my knees. Appropriate, according to him. Mom was standing in the kitchen when he told me.
“The blue one was pretty too,” she says quietly.
Dad looks at her. “What?”
Mom’s fingers tighten around the stems. “Nothing. I was thinking about the blue dress Ally wore at Christmas.”
Victor looks me over again. “I prefer this one.”
Mom lowers her eyes to the flowers. “So does Roman.” Barely a comment. She says it softly enough that Dad doesn’t react. But I do — because she knows I didn’t choose it.
“Dinner’s ready,” she says.
Dad gestures Victor toward the dining room, already asking him something about traffic coming in from Boston, and Mom follows them. As she passes me, her fingers brush the back of my arm. They stay there for half a second. Then they’re gone.
Tobias is already at the table when we walk in, staring suspiciously at the vegetables on his plate. I sit beside him. “What?”
He points with his fork. “Why are these wet?”
“They’re green beans.”
“I know what they are.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“I asked why they’re wet.”
I look at his plate. “They were cooked?”
“That doesn’t explain it.”
“It kind of does.”
He pokes one like it might move. “I don’t trust them.”
“Eat three.”
“One.”
“Three.”
“Two.”
“Deal.”
Across the table, Victor laughs. “You negotiate with him?”
“Constantly,” I say.
“She’s bad at it,” Tobias announces.
I look at him. “You just agreed to eat twice as many green beans as you wanted.”
His mouth opens. Closes. Then he looks down at his plate like the beans personally betrayed him. Mom hides a smile behind her water glass.
Dad doesn’t. “Tobias, eat your dinner.”
“I am.”
“Then stop playing with it.”
His shoulders sink. I bump my knee against his beneath the table, and when he glances at me, I steal one of his green beans and chew it while he watches, his eyes going wide. Now he has one left. Problem solved.
Victor watches the whole thing. “You’re good with him.” He takes a drink of wine, unhurried, his eyes still on me. “You’ll make a good mother.”
My fork stops. Just for a second. Someday would have been better. Someday would have at least put some distance between me and the thing he’s imagining. Instead, he says it like another fact about me he’s already decided.
Across the table, I’m carrying Ryan Harrington’s baby.
The secret is so enormous that sometimes I don’t understand how everyone else can’t see it.
I can. Every time I look in the mirror. Every time my stomach rolls.
Every time my breasts ache. Every time Ryan puts his hand over my stomach when we’re alone like he still can’t quite believe there’s something we made underneath it.
“Maybe,” I say.
Victor smiles. “Oh, I think definitely.”
My stomach turns, and I reach for my water.
Dad cuts into his steak. “Let her finish high school first.”
“Of course,” Victor says, laughing.
Mom’s knife scrapes against her plate, sharp enough that I look at her. So does Dad. She immediately sets it down. “Sorry.”
Her face is pale. Dad frowns. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” She picks her knife back up. Her hand is steady now.
Victor looks at me again, turning his wine glass slowly by the stem. “I suppose I should ask if you even want children.”
“I like children.”
“That’s good.”
“I said I like them. I didn’t say I’m starting a daycare.”
Tobias snorts. Dad gives me a look, and I lower my eyes to my plate, but Victor only smiles. “I like that you have a sense of humor.” How fucking generous of him. “It’ll serve you well.”
“For what?”
“Marriage.”
My skin crawls. He says it so easily. Like there’s no question. No choice. No possibility that I might wake up tomorrow and decide I’d rather launch myself into the Atlantic than become Mrs. Victor Tremblay.
Dad takes a drink. “Alison has always had a smart mouth.”
“Only with people she’s comfortable around,” Mom says.
Everyone looks at her. Including me. Her eyes immediately drop to her plate, and she cuts a piece of chicken she doesn’t eat.
Victor smiles. “Then I’ll take it as a compliment.”
Mom nods. “Of course.” That’s it. She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t say another word. But I heard it. Only with people she’s comfortable around. A correction, tiny enough that Victor heard something flattering. I heard something else.
Dad changes the subject. “How long are you staying in Massachusetts?”
“Through the weekend.”
“I thought you were leaving Saturday.”
“Plans changed.” Victor looks at me. “I thought Alison and I might have lunch.”
My fingers tighten around my fork. Dad nods before I can say anything. “That would be good.”
Victor’s eyes stay on me. “Would you like that?”
There is only one answer I’m allowed to give with Dad sitting here. “I’d have to check what I have for school.”
Dad’s expression changes. Not much. Enough. Victor notices. He smiles. “Sunday, then.”
Dinner moves on. For a while, Victor and Dad talk about people I don’t know. Politics, mostly. A senator Dad says is becoming unreliable. A donor Victor thinks is getting nervous. Some dinner in Washington neither of them wants to attend but apparently both will.
Tobias finishes his last green bean and nudges me. “I did it.”
“I’m proud of you,” I tell him.
“Can I have dessert?”
“You have to ask Mom.”
He turns. “Mom?”
She smiles at him. “After dinner.”
“How long after?”
“When everyone is finished.”
He looks around the table, apparently calculating how much food remains on everyone’s plates. “Victor eats slow.”
I choke on my water. Mom’s lips twitch. Victor laughs. “I’ll try to do better.”
“Thank you,” Tobias says gravely.
Dad sighs. “Tobias.”
Tobias looks down. Mom reaches over and quietly adds another piece of bread to his plate. Something to occupy him. Something for her to do. I’m beginning to realize Mom does that a lot — her hands are almost never still when Dad is irritated.
Victor sets his fork down. “Your father tells me your English teacher thinks you should write.”
I look at Dad. “She liked an essay.”
“More than liked,” Dad says. “Alison has always been gifted academically.”
The pride in his voice should feel good. Once, it would have. Now I know the limits of it. Dad likes that I’m smart when my intelligence makes him look good.
Victor nods. “What would you write?”
“I don’t know.”
“Fiction?”
“Probably.”
“Romance?” His mouth curves.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Maybe.”
“That would be a nice hobby.”
There it is.
Victor takes another drink. “You can write from anywhere.” He lets that settle, then adds, easy as anything, “Middleburg is quiet.”
I look at him. “Middleburg?”
“Virginia.”
Dad glances at Victor. “We haven’t discussed that.”
“No reason not to.” Victor looks at me. “I have a property outside town.”
I take a bite of dinner and keep my voice light, mildly curious, the good fiancée finally showing interest. “Is that where you live?”
“Part of the year.”
“Where are you the rest of it?” The question sounds harmless. It is harmless. I’m supposed to be interested in my future husband, and Victor seems pleased that I finally am.
“New York primarily. Palm Beach during the season. Virginia. London when necessary.”
I nod. “That sounds exhausting.”
“It can be.”
“Why so many places?”
Dad laughs. “Ally, you don’t care about real estate.”
I shrug. “I care if I’m supposed to live there.”
Victor smiles. “Fair enough.”
Good. That’s enough. I don’t ask another question. I don’t need to. Dad thinks I’ve lost interest almost immediately, and Victor probably does too. They go back to talking.
“You’re still going to Zurich next month?” Dad asks.
My attention sharpens, though I keep my eyes on my plate.
Victor nods. “If Hollis gets confirmation in time.”
“From Vane?”
“Yes.”
Dad gives a dismissive laugh. “Then I wouldn’t pack yet.”
“Hollis will get it.”
“He’s been saying that since December.”
“Because Bellamy keeps changing the terms.”
Hollis. Vane. Bellamy. Zurich. I don’t know what any of it means. I don’t need to.
Victor reaches for his wine. “Bellamy will fall in line.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“He will.”
“You said that about Mercer.”
Victor pauses. Only for a second. “Mercer was different.”
“How?”
“He required more encouragement.” Something about the way he says it makes the hair on my arms rise.