Chapter 29
Dominic
There was no poolside punching, so I guess I didn't snore.
This family dinner, though? It's making me wish Cecily had delivered a swift jab to my nose. It would've given me a reason to hide out in our room.
Duke and Glenn haven't looked up from their phones once the entire dinner, unless it was to confer between the two of them.
I'm no stranger to things at work taking a nosedive and needing to divert all my time and energy, but the Hamptons overlook their behavior as if this is a frequent occurrence.
Kerrigan is on her phone watching Moose on the pet resort's in-room camera.
My family isn't great, of course, and my dad is always half a hard thought away from a Ponzi scheme at any given moment, but at least they interact.
I shouldn't judge the Hamptons too harshly.
They rode in a motor home for more than two hours today, I'm sure they've had plenty of togetherness.
My job isn't to judge them, anyway. If anything, I should study their dynamics for a future book idea for Klein, or let myself be entertained by them like an exhibit at the zoo.
I sit back, malbec in hand, and observe the space.
The lighting is warm, emanating from elaborate candelabras hanging over the large tables.
The walls are wood planked until chair height, when they turn into a decorative stained concrete.
A scent of cedar runs through the restaurant.
Even the stemless wineglass I'm holding is sturdy and thick, well made.
The Hamptons don't look appreciative of this. They don't look unappreciative either, and therein lies the problem. They don't notice it at all. Delicious red wine, glistening grass-fed beef filets, linen napkins, none of this earns their attention.
It's not totally their fault. They are so used to these fine things, they don't know how fine they are.
I'm guilty of the same, in other ways. I don't spend any time thinking about the coffee shops I stop at on my way to work, or the place on the corner where I buy gyros twice a week.
I put my head down and grind through my day and when I pick my head up again it's time to go home.
Cecily's elbow sits near the edge of the table, chin propped in her hand.
She'd gone back to our room to get ready this afternoon after the pool, and I'd hung back, using work as my excuse.
And, yeah, I have plenty of work to do. But really, I didn't want to be in the room with Cecily, hearing the shower running and knowing she's in there sans clothes.
And what would happen next? She'd walk out in a towel?
Grab her clothes from her bag? Would her underwear fall from her hand, some tiny lace scrap of cloth that will haunt me for the rest of my days?
No thanks. Hiding out poolside was safer.
I know the shower situation will have to happen sooner or later, but I'll avoid even a single instance of it if I can.
By the time I returned to the room, Cecily was sitting out front of the pink casita, working her way through a word search.
Cecily's chin tips toward me now. "Penny for your thoughts," she murmurs.
The low, warm lighting does pretty things to her skin tone, bringing out the tans and pinks.
Her chestnut hair and brown eyes, too, as if there is a filter over her.
A powerful urge to lean closer, to press my lips to her shoulder, rises in me like a tide.
That damn casita smelled like smoked vanilla when I returned to it.
Cecily sat out front with her puzzle while I was inside trying to pretend the scent wasn't driving me to the brink of insanity.
"Just appreciating the scenery," I tell her. "No thoughts in this head."
She squints, seeing through me. She knows I've thrown her a softball, served her up an easy chance to deliver one of her patented barbed remarks.
The pad of her pointer finger presses to the square between her eyebrows.
"You were cinching your eyebrows, Dominic.
So don't tell me there were no thoughts in your head. "
The servers arrive, setting down everyone's dinners. Different cuts of meats, roasted vegetables, cast-iron mini-crocks piled with saucy potatoes.
Ophelia requested a different preparation for her potato, and the server announces it by saying, "Your loaded baker, Mrs. Hampton."
Everyone's gaze is on the monstrosity, a pile of bacon and cheese and sour cream.
"Is there a potato under there?" Cecily jokes.
"That spud is a stud," Kerrigan says.
"Ophelia," Cecily's mom says reproachfully, when Ophelia sinks her knife into the little dish of butter. "Do you think you should be eating like that?"
Ophelia doesn't halt her motions, her hands working and her eyes downcast, as she says, "I'm dying. Who the fuck cares?"
A quiet extends around the table, nobody sure of what to say next. Ophelia has done nothing but tell the truth to a table full of people who haven't yet figured out how to handle what's happening.
The quiet presses on painfully for another moment, and then Cecily says, "Why does Grandma get to curse but the rest of us have to watch our mouths?"
The question, though not directed at Rainbow, implicates her. Rainbow is either very good at ignoring, or is slicing into her steak with such enthusiasm that she has not heard Cecily.
Ophelia, fork loaded with buttery, cheesy, bacon baked potato, takes a bite and offers a heartfelt middle finger around the table.
Judging by the tinkle of cutlery, the scrape of knives on plates, the family receives Ophelia's message loud and clear.
There is no more talking, only awkward silence while people eat. I feel a second, odd pang of missing the climate of dinner with my parents. At least they speak. I'm not sure this family knows how to be together.
"So, uh, what are we doing tomorrow?" Kerrigan asks, the first person to finally talk. "I don't know about you, but I'd like to sleep until noon and then get a massage."
Grandma pushes her plate away. "Quit being an idiot and look in the binder."
Hurt softens Kerrigan's features. "What?"
Grandma looks around the table. "Do any of you know what we're doing tomorrow?"
There is a collective shaking of heads.
Rainbow says, "If you bothered to look at the binder, you'd know."
Duke glares at her. "What exactly is a death doula?"
Rainbow, her serene mask growing tight around the edges, says, "I provide emotional, spiritual, and practical support to a person nearing the end of their life."
"Sure," Duke says, in a tone that really says give me a break, con artist. "But what does that really mean?"
"It means I am helping your grandma plan for her passing, and I ensure a peaceful environment for her as she navigates the many emotions that accompany preparation for death."
"You sound like you're reading from a brochure." Duke slices into his steak, the knife sinking in with minimal effort. He stabs the piece with a fork, pointing it at her when he says, "Don't think I'm not looking into you. You show up when a rich woman is on her deathbed?"
There's a collective inhale around the table. Except for Glenn. He doesn't look at all surprised by this.
"You all are a bunch of assholes on a good day." Grandma eyes Duke. "But this is extreme, even for you."
Duke sighs. "I'm trying to protect your interests, Grandma."
She makes a disbelieving face. "You mean your interests."
"The family," he insists. "I'm planning to look into Cecily's husband, too."
Cecily sputters. "You're looking into Dom?"
"For the same reason," Duke defends. "You and Kerrigan bop around like there isn't a family to protect."
"I do not bop," Kerrigan argues, but only half-heartedly. I barely know Kerrigan, but bopping feels like the right word to describe how she lives.
"Fuck you for looking into Dom," Cecily snarls. Hackles up, claws out. For me?
"Fuck you for not thinking about this family before bringing a random person into it." Duke's eyes blaze, but behind the fire, there's hurt. "Fuck you for not thinking about this family ever."
Rainbow, looking as if she might regret saying yes to this job, chooses this moment to say, "Please remember how important it is to your grandmother's health that we be as stress free as possible."
Cecily's head rears back. "Says the interloper who chided us for not looking at the binder when she just as easily could have told us what we're doing tomorrow."
"Enough," Ophelia barks. Palms flat on the table to steady herself, she pushes to standing. "Read the binder, you entitled bunch of assholes. Read the fucking binder. And when you're done, I expect you to get your act together."
Rainbow is already up, a cupped hand on Ophelia's elbow. Ophelia shakes her off. I cannot tell whether she does not need, or does not want, the assistance.
Ophelia stands tall, chin regal, and says, "I did not expect better from any of you."
Savage.
Everyone stays silent as Grandma sweeps from the dining room, Rainbow in tow.
After a moment, Duke says, "I didn't mean to offend you, Dom. There are certain responsibilities that come with family wealth. Managing it, and the like."
I wave off his apology. I don't care that he plans to look into me. I'm a literary agent who lives in an apartment the size of a shoebox. I drink black coffee, buy my lunch from street vendors, and I haven't been on a date since the disastrous one with his sister. There's nothing to find.
Duke looks tired. Exhausted, actually, and I find I feel bad for the guy.
I've never been responsible for generational wealth.
I don't know what kind of pressure or resentment that brings.
Maybe that's why Cecily's dad is the way he is.
Years upon years of pressure, chipping away at his civility, his familial tenderness.
Not an excuse, of course, but a reason. People usually have one.
Cecily turns to me. "Are you done? Unless you'd like dessert or more to drink, I'd like to leave."