Chapter 1 #2
Clammering out of my car, anxiety rises up into my chest at my tardiness as I make my way to the door. Hand raised to twist the doorknob, I nearly jump out of my skin when the large oak door opens without me so much as breathing in its direction. “Holy crap,” I gasp.
“Lovely sentiment,” my oldest sister deadpans.
“Sorry, um, do you think you could, you know, move?” Waving my hands, I try to convey that I’m in the process of becoming a popsicle.
Imogene rolls her brown doe-like eyes, stepping out of the way.
“You don’t have to look so put out,” I say sweetly, stepping inside. “What were you doing, anyway?”
“I heard a noise.” Imogene raises mocha brows that match her deep chocolate waves. Tall and willowy with sharp features, my sister looks more and more like our mom with every passing year.
It’s freaky. And disturbing.
“And there you were.” She shrugs.
“Oh, come on. That door’s, like, a hundred feet thick.”
Ever the engineer, she squints to look at the closed door. “I’m pretty sure it’s a standard 2.25 inches.”
Resisting the urge to slap myself in the face, I blink at my sister. “Yes, I know. I mean, I didn’t actually know that. I just mean”—I sigh—“never mind.”
“Everyone’s already at the table. Why don’t you go sit down before you hurt yourself.
” Imogene crosses her lithe arms covered in a burgundy sweater by some designer I’ve probably never heard of, matching new Prada shoes flawlessly.
Black darted pants and a perfectly curated ponytail complete the ultimate ‘professional woman’ look.
Before I can open my mouth for a retort, my heart sinks a little more as another much deeper voice joins us. “Genny, did you figure out—oh, it’s you.”
Pinning Prescott with my version of a withering glare, my oldest brother hardly bothers acknowledging my presence before turning back in the direction from whence he came.
The stuffy smell of expensive cologne lingers even after he’s nowhere to be seen.
“You all act like Mom didn’t invite me, or something. ”
Imogene only scoffs before following her older brother.
Suddenly alone in the massive entryway, I leave my coat and scarf with the trembling maid who only shows up once Prescott has retreated. Because, let’s be real, he’s never been one to appreciate my parents’ staff.
Mom’s clearly had the decorators here in preparation for the holidays.
Sticky notes and the beginning of garland strands hang from random places throughout the front rooms. Christmas trees and ornaments wait in boxes on the floor to become something out of a fairytale at a moment’s notice.
Paintings featuring snow-covered villages wait to be hung, replacing what is normally stationed on the wall throughout the year.
While other kids’ moms made homemade gingerbread and left cookies for Santa, ours brought in private chefs for a gourmet meal and told us Santa is for chumps who don’t believe in hard work and earning everything they have.
Needless to say, I didn’t have many friends that wanted to hang out at my house around the holidays.
Or ever.
Or, really, any friends at all, thanks to the sinister tone that comes with my family name.
Except Ian and Aaron.
As I walk further into the house, every siren goes off in my system and the feeling that I should’ve brought Gilmore for backup screams in my head.
Noisy chatter comes from the dining room, just at the other end of the front hallway. One deep breath pushes its way out. Then one more, and my feet carry me toward the sound of love and approval that’s never quite been extended to me.
Except from one little girl.
“Aunt Callie!” Marigold hops up from the table and sprints across the large dining room in record time. Dark spirals bounce with each movement while her deep skin radiates joy. All conversation ceases as my seven-year-old niece throws her arms around me, her footsteps echoing in the cavernous room.
“Hey, Goldie,” I grin, squeezing out all the love I can. “I like the half braids. Did your dad do them?”
Prescott rolls his eyes in my periphery.
She beams up at me. “Thanks, they’re new.”
In the distance, my father clears his throat from the head of the table. “Calloway, take your seat, please. We’ve been waiting on you.”
“Sorry,” I mutter. Quickly guiding Goldie back to her chair next to Prescott, I take my place on the opposite side of the table.
Six pairs of annoyed eyes watch as I scooch around on the uncomfortable chair.
My niece, on the other hand, giggles.
Only when my movements have stopped for a consecutive ten seconds do the salads appear.
“You still look rather casual,” Lillian Rutherford says from the opposite end of the table as my father, eyes never leaving the barely-dressed salad.
Not a soul has to waste time wondering to whom she’s speaking.
I shrug. “Figured jeans were a step up.” Not really. I’d worn a skirt today. Pink tulle—my favorite. But it was way too cold, even with fleece-lined tights. “I know you don’t like leggings.”
My mother narrows unamused eyes in my direction, mouth pinched as she chews.
To my right, Constance coughs to cover a laugh.
Connie, my only semi-ally. In a frumpy gray turtleneck, brown slacks and flats, the investment banker isn’t quite the fashion icon of the family.
But at least she doesn’t throw insults my way at every opportunity.
And unlike our oldest two siblings who favor our mother, Connie and her fraternal twin Christopher look like me with their ruby hair and fair skin.
“Imogene,” my mother finds her oldest daughter, “any luck with the new aircraft piece you’ve been working on?”
“We have a few test samples ready for experimentation.” Imogene squares her shoulders, pride radiating from her form.
“So that’s, what? A few different types of nuts and bolts?” Christopher asks from next to Connie, grinning.
I usually try not to directly piss off my brother since he could probably throw a pretty mean punch with all those muscles, even for a financial analyst.
But Imogene stares at him, undeterred. “Sorry, I can’t hear you over my doctorate.”
Heat floods Chris’ cheeks as he sputters, “Excuse me, but an MBA in Finance is just as good as a PhD in Aeronautical Engineering.”
“Chris,” Connie whispers to her twin, who angrily chews another bite of salad.
Next to Imogene, Prescott rubs his forehead. “You’re all idiots,” he sighs.
Imogene cuts angry eyes toward her brother. “Rude.”
He shrugs. “I’m just saying, some of us work in fields that directly impact people’s lives. And, I’ll point out, I have a doctorate, too. But I don’t feel the need to bring it up in every conversation. Even if I am thirty-three and already a senior partner at a law firm.”
Chris scoffs. “And how sad for you that people don’t call attorneys ‘Dr.’”
At one end of the table, my father salivates as the rest of his children argue over who’s the most successful, while my mother just looks tired.
“Calloway,” Connie’s soft voice echoes above the rest of our siblings' fervent discussion, “How is the preparation for the holiday program going?”
All other conversation ceases, heads turning my way. As if they all forgot I was there.
They probably did.
“Oh, um, good. Thanks.” Smiling at my sister, tension courses through my chest as I wait for what’s coming.
“Are your kids excited?” she continues. Since Connie also holds an MBA in Finance, I guess she can ignore the other conversation with greater ease.
“Yeah, they are,” I nod. “They’re going to dress up as reindeer.
It’s going to be so cute. They're still a little young to do too much, but I know the parents are going to love it.” Taking a chance, I turn to the rest of our family.
“You’re all more than welcome to come, of course.
It’ll be Thursday, December 17th, at the school. 7pm.”
“Not getting enough credit as a babysitter there, Calloway?” Chris asks as the salads are replaced with some kind of Beef Wellington. “Need us all to watch you do it now?”
Connie must reach under the table and pinch him because he yelps.
I don’t bother hiding my snicker.
Neither does Goldie, but Prescott puts a quick end to that.
“That’s enough, Christopher,” my father says with false sternness. “Some of us never reach our full potential, and that’s okay.”
Pressing my lips together, I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Only Imogene and Connie can get away with that one.
“Just because your sister chose a much softer career doesn’t mean cruelty is necessary,” Dad continues.
Taking bites of food that I don’t taste, I mentally tally how much longer this dinner could possibly last. “You know,” I say, swallowing, “I don’t think that sounded as nice as you think it did.”
Ira Rutherford sits back in his chair. Still in his work clothes, he looks the part of an attorney about to win a case. “What would you like me to say, Calloway?”
“Gee, Dad, I dunno.” Unceremoniously dropping my fork, the clattering screams in the resounding silence.
“Calloway Leora,” my mother warns.
“I’m just saying. I went to school, too.” Raising my hands in surrender, I look between my parents. “I have a great job that I love and that pays my bills. And I get to try and make an impact in these kids’ lives. What else could I want?”
“To have a job that earns you some respect and where you don’t change diapers?” Chris suggests a little too casually.
Rubbing my temples, I count to five. “Look, I need to go. Paintings to grade and such. You people with your big important jobs wouldn’t understand.” Pushing back my chair, the feet scrape against the hardwood.
“Calloway,” Mom calls as I’m halfway out of the dining room. Congenial, as if she’s somehow managed to miss the last several minutes of conversation.
Maybe it’s just years of practice being a corporate wife.
My feet come to a halt. “Yes, Mom?” I ask as politely as possible.
“Don’t forget Thanksgiving is coming up.”
Sighing, I turn to my mother. “Believe me, I couldn’t if I tried.”
“Are you bringing anyone?”
“Like who, the guy who mows the neighborhood lawns?”
My mother purses thin lips. “Anyone of significance,” she clarifies.
The laughter that bubbles out isn’t familiar to my ears. Incredulity and embarrassment with a hint of annoyance. “I’d have to be seeing someone in order for them to come to Thanksgiving,” I snort. Not to mention, I’d have to be insane to bring anyone I care about around my family of vultures.
Except Connie.
“What about Ian Fairchild?” my dad asks from across the room.
“Definitely not.”
“Aaron?”
I don’t miss the way Connie tenses. So subtle that anyone not watching her would miss it entirely. “One hundred percent no,” I answer.
“Okay,” Mom sighs, as if my lack of a love life has brought on a bout of extreme melancholia. “Then I guess we’ll see you on Thanksgiving.”
“Consider yourself warned,” I mutter before I hightail it out the door.