Chapter 14
After what feels like an hour of pacing around my cabin and trying to get ahold of Marianne (you’d think the Hyatt would have better cell service), I hear Jules yelling to me for dinner.
You’ve got this, Stella, I tell myself as I pull on sundress number two of two.
It’s not weird unless I make it weird, right?
When I reach the luxurious salon, the whole family is already seated at the dining table, instead of wearing shorts and polos like normal boat enthusiasts, each of them looks like they’ve just stepped outside for a break between auction items at some annual gala.
I feel like I’ve stepped onto the set of an Agatha Christie remake.
And looking at Patricia’s pointed expression, I know exactly who the killer is going to be.
As soon as they notice me, everyone stops talking abruptly.
“Sorry, am I late?” I ask, suddenly terrified I miscalculated something. “I swore the itinerary said seven.”
Patricia sets down her champagne.
“Dinner is served at seven, dear. Cocktail hour starts at six-thirty.”
I swallow. So much for my attempt at exemplary older sister.
I sit down in the only empty chair, where a little bronze placard with my name engraved flanks a set of approximately one thousand gold-rimmed plates.
Thank baby Jesus, I’m sitting next to Steven.
Unfortunately, I’m also sitting right across from Patricia, which puts her at the perfect angle to see right through my facade of not having just jumped her captain in the elevator.
She looks like she’s making a mental note of my transgression to add to a long-running tab.
Don’t be weird, I instruct myself. They’re just people, Stella. Don’t be—
“Stella, are you alright?” Patricia asks me, and the tower of cards that is my sense of decorum threatens to crumble. “You’re gripping your fork like a murder weapon.”
I look down at my hand to see that I have, in fact, latched on to one of my approximately thirty-seven gold forks quite aggressively.
“Fine,” I cover nervously, earning an eyebrow raise from Jules. “Just a bit of a headache.”
“Well, that’s no surprise,” she says. “You really shouldn’t wrinkle your forehead like that. Terrible consequences down the line. How old are you? Thirty?”
“Twenty-eight,” I feign a smile.
“Oh, my. Well, it’s too late to get an early start, but you really ought to consider Botox. I wish they’d had it when I was your age—could have avoided this whole mess!”
She points aggressively to the barely visible wrinkles around her eyes- probably the only thing her facelift couldn’t hide. She says it as if aging is somehow offensive.
“Best to start before things get away from you. I have an excellent doctor in Brentwood—I’m happy to pass along his number.”
I look to Jules, hoping to convey the depths of my despair, but she just gives me that eyebrow-shrug she’s so famous for.
“Sure,” I smile, ready to stab out my own eyes with the offending utensil . “Thanks.”
“So. What do you do for work, Stella?” Arthur asks me as Gia hands him a fresh cocktail.
“Honestly, Arthur,” Patricia butts in. “You’ve only heard this a thousand times. She’s an art teacher.”
Patricia nearly screams the last two words as if Arthur is deaf instead of just ancient.
“I’m a fellow at Carver University,” I answer him. “I’m working towards my PhD in Art History.”
Liar.
“I’m sure that’s quite time consuming,” Patricia offers. “It must be, since you weren’t able to commit to this trip until last week.”
“Mom,” Harry cuts her off. “We’re just happy you came, Stella. It was important to all of us that the whole family got to join in on this trip.”
At least someone at this table is standing up for me. I give Harry what I hope is my most winning smile while I grip spoon number three so hard my hand starts to go numb.
“Of course, you mustn’t feel guilty,” Patricia says. I wasn’t. “Maybe some of your work ethic will rub off on my vagabond of a youngest son.”
Matthew laughs, but I think it’s more to avoid throwing his plate in his mother’s face than from actual amusement.
“You know, we support quite a few philanthropic endeavors in the art world,” Patricia muses, taking a sip of her dry martini. “I’m sure Harry’s told you?”
“I noticed the Monet in your bedroom. It’s a beautiful piece,” I tell her.
“My mother is quite heavily involved with the California Commission for the Arts,” Harry tells me.
Patricia glares at Matthew. Or, at least, I’m pretty sure that’s what her face is doing.
“It’s nothing compared to Harry’s work in food security and education reform,” she says proudly.
I glance at Harry, who seems completely exasperated.
Without the last name, you might never know Harry was a bajillionaire.
Sure, he smells like money—it’s impossible not to when you’re practically bathed in it from infancy.
But while his father and brother drink fifty-year old scotch and drive custom-built Maseratis, Harry prefers Pacifico and seems horrified when his baby brother’s photos find their way into Glam Magazine.
Honestly, I feel a little bad for him. Because despite growing up with this, right now he looks as uncomfortable as I do.
“It was imperative for Arthur and I to pass down our generosity to the next generation, his mother continues, waving her hand as if trying to swat a very slow, invisible fly.
“If only it had worked for both my children.”
I jump as Matthew practically slams his fist against the table.
“I’m a philanthropist too, Mother.”
“Oh yes, I forgot,” she says pointedly. “Dressage for orphans. What a noble endeavor.”
“It’s polo for refugees,” Matthew spits back. “Horses are very therapeutic.”
“Right. A leftover from that British girl you were chasing in college. What was her name? Kendall? Kiki? Honestly, I can’t keep up. Matthew never brings them home, you see,” Patricia drawls, addressing me and Jules. “Too embarrassed of his poor mother to introduce them.”
Matthew takes a very long slug of his scotch while I shove a piece of bread into my mouth whole and give silent thanks that nobody wants my opinion. You could cut the tension at this table with a butcher knife.
But unfortunately, Patricia uses the awkward silence to hit me with every almost thirty-year-old’s favorite question.
“What about you, Stella? And are there any young men in the picture? Or, perhaps, not so young?”
Did this woman do a background check on me? I try not to look like I’ve just checked the outstanding balance on my student loan payment.
“Mom, please. Stop prying into people’s private lives,” Harry pipes in again, this time more frustrated.
“What? I’ve heard an alarming number of professors end up dating their students.”
I nearly choke on my bread. That would be a yes on the background check.
“Stella’s very focused on work,” Jules answers for me. “And her standards are impossible.”
Well, maybe one of those things is true.
“I prefer the term carefully curated,” I interject.
Patricia laughs dryly.
“Lord, you sound just like Harry,” she says in exasperation. “I’m not sure he met a woman even remotely up to snuff until his late twenties. You know, when he went off to college and still hadn’t had a girlfriend, Arthur and I worried he might be a…” she lowers her voice to a whisper. “Homosexual.”
“Here we go.” Harry slaps down his fork a little too loudly, covering up my choke of astonishment. “God forbid someone be gay in this family. You really ought to listen to yourself, Mom.”
“Oh, stop it, Harry. You know I have no problem with the gays. I just don’t need to hear about their exploits.”
“Then here’s an idea,” Harry bites back sarcastically, “don’t ask.”
“The gays’.” Matthew half-whispers as he drains his drink. “Clearly no problem.”
I cringe and kick Jules’s foot beneath the table as Patricia waves them off.
“There was one lovely girl who just adored him at school—Claire Figgins, of the Charleston Figgins?” she offers, undeterred, as if I have any idea what line of quasi-oligarchs she’s talking about.
“We always hoped he’d come to his senses and make a move.
She would have been such a good match for him. But alas.”
I stiffen, my eyes darting to Jules with a look that says, is this really happening? But Jules is staring so intently at her food, the forced smile on her face amore fragile than an antique vase, that I can’t get her attention. I guess she wasn’t wrong to think Patricia’s still sizing her up.
“It’s a good thing he didn’t, or we might not be sitting here with you, Jules!” Arthur mercifully interrupts. Despite being on his fourth glass of scotch, apparently he’s not too drunk to notice the tension created by his wife.
“Cheers to that,” Harry puts one hand on Jules’s as he raises his glass, and I lift my glass to back him up.
“To Jules!” I start the toast, and even Patricia, never one to be outdone, lazily raises her martini.
“Catch us up on your first week at sea, mi amor,” Harry redirects the conversation. He’s probably an expert at it by now—God knows he must have ample opportunities to practice. “What do you think of the Vela Bianca?”
“It’s such a dream, really,” my sister gushes, her whole face lighting up like a sunrise.
Her whole life, she’s been one of those contagiously happy girls that other people just gravitate towards.
And having spent a few days with Harry’s family, I can see why he needs her.
When she talks about something she loves, it feels like the generations of carefully cultivated ice in the room just melt away.
Even when her future mother-in-law’s just insinuated she’s nothing more than a consolation prize.
“I can’t thank you enough for bringing us along,” she continues. “What a gift to see the islands from the water like this! And the whole crew has been so wonderful.”
“I have to say, Dad,” Harry says, “When you told me you were replacing Captain Tim, I was skeptical. But Caleb’s certainly taken to his new position.”