Chapter 19 #3
“She was furious. I upstaged her so thoroughly, in front of so many people.” Cecily sighs deeply, and I have to resist the urge to wrinkle my nose in disgust. “But it happens, you know? I don’t see why she’s holding it against me.”
“Sure, Mom,” Reed says, rolling his eyes. “Whatever you say.”
She doesn’t notice his expression, because she’s still not looking at him.
It strikes me how different this is from any other family dinner. The Eastwoods have never been particularly close to each other, but they’re nothing like my own family; this dinner has none of the warmth and love that our dinners always have.
These four people may be family, but they don’t feel like it in any way I recognize.
Mercifully, the waiter appears to take our orders before we have to sit much longer. Unfortunately, Lionel orders for the entire table, and he does so from the prix-fixe menu—which means that this meal is going to consist of three courses. We’ll be here late into the night.
It rubs me the wrong way that Lionel takes charge like that, too. He makes the decisions for everyone, and nobody challenges him, as if they all expect him to do it and know better than to push back.
I’m already antsy after spending five minutes with the Eastwoods. I’m certainly not looking forward to the rest of the evening.
I wish I could relax a little—this restaurant is beautiful and exclusive, and I can smell the delicious scents wafting from the kitchen, so I know the food is going to be delicious.
Lionel got us all the fresh fish entree, which I have to admit sounds amazing; he also ordered two bottles of vintage red wine that I could never hope to afford.
It should be exciting, but the atmosphere at our table is so tense that it’s impossible to enjoy myself.
I glance over at Reed, trying to catch his eye; I’m hoping for a little comfort, I think. A reminder that we’re in this together.
But Reed seems even less comfortable than I am at this table, surrounded by these people. He’s stiff, unsmiling—so different from the man I’ve been getting to know in the privacy of our intimate moments together. He sits upright, his back straight and rigid, as if he’s a soldier reporting for duty.
“Reed, Olivia,” Cecily says, commanding our attention, “we need to talk about this wedding.”
“What about it?” Reed reaches for a glass of water, taking a long drink. I can tell he’s longing for something a little stronger, but the waiter hasn’t come back yet with our wine.
“Well, obviously,” she says, impatient, “I need to be involved in the planning process. This is important for the family’s image.”
And there it is—the family’s image. The only thing either Cecily or Lionel seems to care about. Though I suspect that she means it a little differently than he does.
She confirms that suspicion almost immediately. “The Beauregards’ oldest son was married two months ago,” she says to Reed, a little sneer on her lips. “You’d have been invited to the wedding, if you weren’t in time-out.”
At that, she laughs lightly, but Reed’s jaw tightens. Clearly, he didn’t find it as funny as she did. As cool as Reed tries to play it, it seems like this is a sore subject with his family.
Oblivious to his cold reaction, she continues, “The wedding was the biggest event I’ve attended in years. It was lavish, darling. They pulled out all of the stops. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to be upstaged by Alicia Beauregard.”
Reed’s brow furrows, and I feel a knot in the pit of my stomach. “Who cares what Alicia Beauregard thinks? It wasn’t her wedding.”
“Reed, you know how important it is for us to keep up with our peers,” Cecily says enthusiastically, disregarding his point entirely. “Our entire social circle will be in attendance. This wedding needs to be impressive—every bit as impressive as the Beauregard wedding, if not more so.”
I’m half expecting Reed to argue, but he doesn’t. He just sighs through his nose as the waiter returns to the table, passing out plates of salad.
When the waiter leaves, Reed stabs a chunk of lettuce with his fork and says, his voice dry, “What exactly did you have in mind, then?”
“Me? Oh, no,” Cecily says, with a tinkling laugh. “I’m not qualified to make any of these choices. But I am well-connected enough to find someone who is.”
I pause with my fork hovering over the salad plate, shooting a nervous glance at Reed. He doesn’t return the eye contact, but I can see the displeasure in his expression.
“What did you do?” he asks, almost accusing.
“I’ve lined up an appointment with a wedding planner.
” Cecily picks at her salad like a bird searching for insects.
“The best in the business. Luckily, I know his mother, so I was able to get you in.” She sets her fork down briefly and looks up at Reed.
“This man is a genius. He works with all of the big names.”
Reed gives a noncommittal hum in reply. He doesn’t look up at her.
“I mean it,” she insists. “He did the DiAngelo-Smith wedding.”
I recognize the names of the two actors. They’re top tier Hollywood stars, each with several blockbusters under their belts. I feel a flicker of nerves in my chest, and focus my attention on the salad. It’s good, fresh and crisp, which helps.
To my relief, I hear Reed laugh next to me, sharp and biting. “Are you serious?” he scoffs. “You hired a celebrity wedding planner?”
“Well,” Cecily responds, ice in her voice, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but you’re a bit of a celebrity.” She spits the last word like it’s an insult, and in all honesty, it is—at least in Reed’s case.
He doesn’t argue with her further, but shifts his gaze over to his father. “Dad, are you hearing—”
“I think it’s a good idea,” Lionel interrupts gruffly. “Make a big show of the planning process. We wouldn’t do anything less, would we? Need to sell it.”
If Cecily thinks that’s an odd thing for him to say, she doesn’t show it. “Of course, we’ll pull out all the stops. Huge budget. Lavish venue. We’ll try to ensure that we have more than a few famous guests—”
“Wait.” Shane holds up a hand, interjecting. I can tell from the weariness in his tone that this is going to be his only attempt to pump the brakes on this whole spectacle. His voice is quiet, like he’s unaccustomed to breaking into these conversations. “Are we sure this is a good idea?”
Cecily and Lionel reply in unison, without looking at each other: “Yes.”
It’s almost impressive that they manage to stay in lock step like that, despite their obvious distaste for each other’s company. Or at least, it would be impressive if it didn’t make me sad.
“This is what we’re doing,” Lionel adds firmly. “It’s the expected way.”
At that, Shane draws a deep breath. He shoots me and Reed an apologetic sideways glance, shrugging.
I’m grateful that he gave it a try, at least, and somewhat surprised that he spoke up in Reed’s defense.
From what I’ve seen of the two of them, they aren’t particularly close—but they’re united in their struggles with their parents, I suppose.
Reed doesn’t argue further. Under the table, he lays a hand on my thigh and squeezes, trying to reassure me. He must be able to sense my unease.
Truth be told, “unease” doesn’t begin to describe how I’m feeling right now. The prospect of wedding planning, especially under this woman’s direction, is nothing short of terrifying.
Reed leans over to me and whispers, too quietly for anyone else to hear, “Are you okay?”
I give him a nod, but I know he can see right through it. I probably look like a deer in the headlights.
“Don’t worry.” His breath tickles my ear. There’s just enough amusement in his voice that it calms me down a little; if he finds this funny, then maybe it’s not as bad as it seems. “I know how to navigate around them. I won’t let her steamroll you.”
I blink at him gratefully, and he leans away from me again. The two of us return to eating. I do my best to copy what he seems to be doing—letting Cecily’s words wash over me without really listening.
If Reed is in my corner, I think I can grit my teeth and accept her help. After all—it’s not as if the wedding is real.
The reminder makes a bite of salad stick in my throat.
As we all finish our first course and the waiter comes to take our plates, Cecily is talking about floral arrangements and color palettes and, “of course—the dress.” I try not to let any of it bother me, even though it does, and I can tell that it bothers Reed, too.
The main course comes out, and as we all start to dig in, Cecily goes quiet—though I notice that she doesn’t eat with the same gusto as everyone else. Lionel takes up the mantle of conversation, and to my dismay, all his questions are focused on me.
“So I’ve heard your mother is unwell,” he says bluntly. I flinch, staring at him, and he meets my gaze with a coolness that sets me on edge.
“Um… yes,” I say. “She has multiple sclerosis. We’re trying to—”
“Has your father been paying the bills, then?”
I’m taken aback by the question. Beside me, Reed goes still. A tension settles over the table, like a storm is about to break.
Desperate to keep things civil, I force a smile onto my face. “No, he hasn’t,” I say, my voice light. Trying to convey to Reed that it’s fine—that he doesn’t need to come to my defense. “I have been.”
Lionel huffs, scowling. “You have been, huh?” He shakes his head. Clearly, he’s wary of me. I start to wonder if he’s unhappy about Reed’s choice. Have they argued about it, behind closed doors? Has Reed kept this from me to spare my feelings?
“Yes,” I say quickly, recovering from my moment of doubt. “My mother requires a lot of care, and we couldn’t afford a home nurse, so my father took on the role.”
At that, Cecily and Lionel exchange their first glance of the evening—a knowing, condescending look that makes my skin crawl. Then Lionel turns back to me. “And now, I assume, my son is paying your family’s bills.”