1. Black & White #2
"I'm in San Francisco," I say. That’s a safe response, right?
"And what do you do out there? Still dabbling in your art?" Morgan sneers like you breathe—it comes easy to her; it’s part of her personality.
"I wouldn't call it dabbling, but yes, I'm a professional artist, Morgan."
"And what does that mean these days?" She dabs the corner of her mouth with a napkin she hasn't dirtied. "Will we be seeing your work somewhere relevant?"
I want to tell her it just hung in the Barone Gallery in Rome. She'd know Barone, but she'd pretend she didn't, because acknowledging it would mean being impressed by me, and that is simply not a thing that is done at my parents’ table.
"I don't know how you survive, honestly." Olivia turns my way, swirling her wine, eyes traveling down my blouse and back up. "Well—I suppose I can see how you do, looking at what you're wearing."
My sister is a mean little skank.
I can't believe Xavier's interested in her.
The Xavier I knew was different.
Six beautiful months, real conversations, real fun.
Then one day he said it was over; he had to move on—and I was moving on, too, out to San Francisco for a residency at a studio I'd have killed to get into.
So we let it go. Never talked about it again.
I didn't want anyone to know, and neither did he; the companies were already merging, so it would've been a thing.
Apparently, it became one anyway because the second I left, he started dating my sister.
Or wanted to, which would make me the consolation prize, in reverse.
"Do you sell your art anywhere interesting?" This is from Grandma, leaning in, genuinely asking.
"I do, Grandma. Galleries. Private collectors."
"Private collectors," my mother repeats, like the words taste off. "Buying your art." She can't help herself. She's the nastiest woman you've ever met.
"Lavinia." Grandma sets down her water glass with a small, deliberate click. "Shut up."
Grandma is not usually this direct. But she's eighty-eight and dying and out of fucks to give, so apparently this is the Christmas where she tells people to shut up.
My mother straightens. And here it comes—when she's upset, she develops a faint British accent out of nowhere, like she's watched too much Downton Abbey and decided that's how a wronged woman is meant to sound.
"I beg your pardon.”
Grandma snorts. "I have no pardons left to give, Lavinia." She looks around the table. "It took a lot of effort to bring Indigo here for Christmas, and I will not tolerate any of this behavior."
Olivia leans into her almost-fiancé, who's sitting with his jaw clenched so hard I'm pretty sure it's going to break. "What behavior, Grandma?"
"Bullying Indigo."
Go, Grandma. Finally saying the word.
"You're being dramatic, Paloma." This comes from my ex. This is how he speaks when he wants to patronize. I have been on the receiving end of the "dramatic" put-down several times after we were finished with each other.
But no one puts Grandma in a corner. "Xavier, your behavior needs regulation."
He raises an eyebrow.
"You treat Indigo with respect and care,” Grandma adds.
He looks at me now, and I smile, sitting up. I’m enjoying this—no two ways about it. Having someone on my side against the whole Beaumont-Hale machine is truly epic.
"I hardly notice Indigo enough to treat her without respect and care," he says coolly.
Oh, that hurts—because I can still hear that voice, the one that said to me once, while we were eating ice cream on a beach, "When I'm with you, Indi, everything is brighter."
"Enough." Blake Beaumont, the patriarch of the family, who sits at the head of the table while Grandma sits at the other end—the patriarchy has the upper hand.
He bangs his fist on the table, rattling a few glasses and the silverware.
"Indigo, we're very glad you're here for the holidays, but if it's going to create friction, you can go on and leave now. "
Really? That easy?
I am about to get up, head to my room, and pack when Grandma…stands.
She sets her palms on the table and leans in. "Indigo isn't going anywhere. This is probably my last Christmas, and I want my granddaughters with me. Understood?"
Everyone freezes. She has authority—gravitas—and she doesn't usually spend it defending the black sheep of the family. No, usually, she emotionally blackmails me into situations where I’m bullied, and she does nothing about it.
But she is now…and does that mean she’s really dying? Oh God!
"Understood?" Grandma demands, looking at everyone at the table, one after the other, her tone and vigor belying the fact that she’s nearly ninety.
There are a lot of "Yes, Grandma" and "Yes, Mama" and "Yes, Paloma."
"Like I said, Indigo, you're most welcome here"—Dad swallows when his mother glares at him—"always. And of course, you should stay through New Year's." His mother keeps grilling him with her eyes, so he sheepishly adds, "Or forever, if you want to move back home."
I'd rather go mountain climbing, naked, in the middle of winter, during a snowstorm.
Grandma nods, as if this appeases her, then sits down and preens.
Yep, she still controls the Beaumont family—even if it's only at the dinner table and isn't real power. She did try to get my father to put me back in his will and to leave my grandfather's trust alone. She didn't succeed.
I wasn't—and am still not—upset about it.
Taking money from the family means being in their firing zone—being under their rule because Dad used both his control of my trust and his will over me for years.
I didn't keep trying to be a Beaumont for the money—no, I did it because I used to love my family.
I'm over it now. Over them. Eventually, as the nursery rhyme goes, the bough breaks—and you go tumbling down.
I know, I know, I'm mixing my rhymes—but you get the point, right?
I clear my throat. "So, Olivia, when is the wedding?" I ask in an effort to steer us somewhere uncontroversial, something everyone can rally around. But what follows is stony silence and some throat-clearing.
And like always, despite her best efforts, Indigo Beaumont steps in it.