by Nancy Werlin
Phoebe shrugged.
“I’m sorry, Phoebe. Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. What I’m trying to get across—and doing a terrible job, obviously—is that your mother will always love you. Even if you turn out to be ordinary. You have the freedom to be ordinary. That’s all. I’ll shut up now.”
“I know what you mean,” said Phoebe. And she did. She knew she would always be loved. But that was not what Phoebe had been talking about, when she said her mother had expectations of her.
So Phoebe had changed the subject, because there was no way that Mallory was ever really going to understand this, and maybe also it was a little bit hurtful to even try to talk about maternal expectations and pressures with Mallory, given how different Mallory’s mother was from Catherine.
Phoebe had been standing in Catherine’s open office doorway too long. She saw her mother feel her presence, and look up from her meeting, the crow’s-feet around her eyes and mouth deepening in a smile as she met her daughter’s gaze. Catherine lifted one hand to indicate that she was going to be busy for a few more minutes. Phoebe nodded, made a “don’t rush” motion with her own hand, and moved on into the family room, where she found her father standing tensely in front of the television.
Drew Vale claimed that he was a rational being who knew perfectly well he couldn’t control the play in a football game by standing in front of the TV shouting. But you wouldn’t know this from watching him.
Phoebe was used to her dad. She noted that the Patriots were ahead and sat down on the sofa to wait for a commercial so she could tell him about Mallory’s brother’s impending homecoming. He would be interested, she knew. Both of her parents would be. They were fond of Mallory and understood how important she was to Phoebe.
What Mallory had said about Phoebe’s father was mostly true. He was fifteen years younger than his wife. He worked—not terribly often, to be truthful—as a producer of documentaries. People sometimes whispered that he was really a sort of peculiar boy-toy who had had the good luck to meet the extraordinary (but not exactly sexy or beautiful) Catherine Rothschild when she was past forty and wanting to marry and have a child. There had been all sorts of talk. But the bottom line was that Catherine and Drew’s marriage worked, even if outsiders found it odd, and even if some people sneered at Drew. (Nobody ever sneered at Catherine; not even, at this point, behind her back.)
One reason the marriage worked was that the couple shared a near-complete indifference to what other people might think. Catherine Rothschild had trained herself to feel that way, but Drew Vale came by it naturally. It was, in fact, the quality in him that had originally caught and held Catherine’s attention.
Phoebe was not like either of them in this. She knew it too.
A commercial came on. Drew turned to his daughter and listened with interest while she told him about Ryland. “Mallory thinks maybe her mother will perk up once he’s here,” she said. “But isn’t it weird he was never mentioned before? And it makes me think he’s got to be good-for-nothing, that he hasn’t been around.”
“Yeah,” said Drew. “Although sometimes people need a while to grow up. I was pretty bad too, until I met your mother. Speaking of whom, is she still in that meeting?”
“As of five minutes ago.”
“Okay. Are you hungry?”
Phoebe considered. “Yes.”
Drew switched off the TV “Let me watch this on the kitchen TV while we eat. Catherine will come when she’s done.”
In the kitchen, they found roasted chicken and salad that Jay-Jay had left for them, along with strawberry rhubarb pie for after. As Phoebe ate, she thought about Mallory’s brother. Mallory had asked her to be nice to him, to make him feel welcome.
When the next commercial break came, Phoebe asked her father, “Can we invite Mallory and Ryland over for dinner once he’s here? And Mrs. Tolliver too, if she wants to come.”
“Sure,” said Drew. “Just say the word.” He reached over and patted Phoebe’s hand. “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll go right on keeping a good eye on your friend. Brother or no brother.”
CONVERSATION WITH THE FAERIE QUEEN, 4
“Your Majesty, please, listen to me. Please change your mind. Don’t send my brother! Listen to me—it’s useless now. Phoebe isn’t vulnerable as I thought at first. My brother won’t succeed! I’ve been wrong all these years. I’m sorry! But there are two other Rothschild girls, Phoebe’s cousins—they’re old enough now. Send my brother to one of them instead. Or you could send me too. We would work together, fast—”
“No.”
“But I’m begging you—”
“Stop. You are grabbing at shadows. And you have wasted four years. Four years, child! If it is not this girl, we are all doomed.”
“I don’t agree at all—”
“Do not contradict me. Do you think I know not of what I speak? You, who have been given borrowed strength from the court, you have forgotten how time is slipping away for the rest of us.”
“No, Your Majesty. I haven’t forgotten. I swear I haven’t. Your suffering tortures me. Let me explain what happened. You see, most human beings would feel ordinary next to her mother, and I thought for a long time that I simply needed to reinforce those feelings. But I know her better now, and—”
“Cease your babbling! I have little faith in your judgment anymore. This mission is now in your brother’s purview. He will succeed in this where you have failed. She is old enough now to be vulnerable to a man, and from what you have told me, she has become wistful after love like most maids. Even if she has this inner strength you speak of, he will crush it.”
“But, Your Majesty, it will drain off even more energy to send my brother and glamour him to appeal to her! He is so far from human in appearance and—”
“It matters not.”
“Your Majesty—”
“I have decided. I would in fact bring you home now if you were not still necessary to the mission. You will now help and support your brother in every possible way to gain the girl’s confidence and love. You shall do exactly as he says. He is now in charge. You will obey me and him.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“You have both disappointed and exhausted me. Go prepare the way for your brother.”
“I’ve started doing that. But you see, she thinks it’s weird that suddenly I have a brother I never mentioned before, and my mother—I mean, the Tolliver woman—she never had a son, and—”
“All these small problems your brother will handle with glamour. We will spare no expense. You are dismissed.”
“But—”
“Go!”
chapter 7
Mallory, her mother, and her brother, Ryland, came to dinner at the Rothschilds’ the following Saturday night. That Mrs. Tolliver came too was a surprise because originally she had declined. But when the doorbell rang, there she was, flanked on either side by her son and daughter, and looking unexpectedly beautiful in her large, puffy way. She wore a violet silk dress with an enormous matching shawl, and she swayed slightly as she stood in the foyer in her backless high heels with their sharply pointed toes, her winter coat falling from her shoulders to the floor.
“My son is home now too?” said Mrs. Tolliver. Her voice rose in that insecure way of some women, making a question out of a statement.
“Yes, and we’re so happy you can come celebrate with us,” said Catherine. Phoebe’s father echoed the welcoming words with something Phoebe didn’t catch because she was intercepting a significant glance from her mother. Phoebe contained a sigh, smiled quickly at Mallory, who waved back, and then slipped away to do what her mother wanted: Set another place at the dining room table and inform Jay-Jay that they needed Skittles.
It was frustrating. Phoebe hadn’t had time for more than the tiniest look at Ryland, and had only gotten a vague impression of him.
She lingered in the dining room, setting another place at the table, not wanting to face the cook yet. Jay-Jay was going to delegat
e her to go to the grocery store for the Skittles, she knew it, and Mallory, who had not even come to school the last few days, wouldn’t want to leave Ryland to go with her.
Out in the foyer, Phoebe could hear the murmur of her mother’s voice, talking to Mrs. Tolliver, but she couldn’t make out what was being said. An otherworldly feeling slipped over Phoebe. They were all out there, and she was apart from them. It felt like the kind of spooky distance from the world that you sometimes experience when you have a fever.
Then a voice—smooth, deep, unfamiliar, utterly clear—cut into the distance. “Let me put away your coat, Mother. And yours, Mallory. Ms. Rothschild”—and now the voice moved closer—“do the coats go in here?”
Phoebe looked up.
Ryland Fayne was standing in the dining room archway, women’s winter coats heaped in his arms, gazing straight at her with a pair of cool, analytical, unsmiling green eyes that reminded her, not in their shape or color, but in the quality of their calm gaze, of his sister.
He was tall and slim, but she had known he would be. Tawny-haired, like a lion; yes, she’d known that too, from his picture. His mouth was set a little crooked in his tanned face, and Phoebe vaguely recalled that it was now summer in Australia, from where he’d come.
Ryland Fayne was not handsome in any conventional way. His sharp nose and high forehead and thin, mobile lips were too individual for that. But he had a confidence about him, a presence. In this he was like Mallory, only more so. He was a male Mallory with more maturity and experience. And all of it, together—the full package that he was—it was—he was—
Phoebe felt like she’d been hit by a brick. Time seemed to freeze before she came to herself enough to speak.
“Hi,” she said. Or at least, she felt her lips move. But she wasn’t sure any sound actually emerged.
He was smiling at her. The impact of the smile, cool and reserved and watchful though it still was, stunned like a second brick. Phoebe flattened her hands on the polished dining room table to help support her legs.
She thought about looking away—she knew she needed to go to the kitchen—but she couldn’t.
Like his mother, Ryland had dressed for the evening. He had dressed like an adult, in pants and dress shoes and a white oxford shirt with a wool suit coat. At least he was not wearing a tie. This was good because Phoebe was suddenly, horribly aware that she was not only dressed like a kid, but was also sort of a mess.
She had dressed casually on purpose, thinking it would be more welcoming, more like family. Why, why, why had she thought this a good idea? She could not remember; it now seemed like the purest disrespect and rudeness to their guests. Here she stood, shoeless and flat-footed in her black tights (which at least had no runs in them; she’d had to throw out two pair before she found whole ones), with a jeans skirt that she’d paired with a black sweater. While she loved the sweater, and even felt pretty in it, it was undeniably past its prime. In fact—Phoebe pulled her arms in tight to her sides—it was beginning to pill in the underarms.
But if she raced upstairs to her room and changed, he’d know she’d done it. Those eyes would miss nothing. Would that be bad or good? She didn’t know, and anyway, she still had to tell Jay-Jay about Mrs. Tolliver and the Skittles. And no doubt she would have to race out to the grocery store too.
Ryland might already have returned her inarticulate greeting, might have said her name and hello and how nice it was to meet her and all that. Phoebe’s mind was swimming so much she couldn’t tell. He was still looking at her in her all-wrong clothes, though, and never, Phoebe thought, never had she been examined so carefully.
Not even by Mallory, back at the start of seventh grade, when she had been deciding whether she would allow Phoebe to be her friend.
This was the thought that finally snapped Phoebe back to herself. Because it was funny, wasn’t it? She’d been so vehement about telling Mallory how to dress, back then, and now it was Mallory who was stylish and she who was the ragamuffin. And here she was just about ready to beg Mallory’s brother for friendship too . . . something about him ... she wanted—wanted to please him—
No! No, she didn’t. And she wouldn’t.
She was not in seventh grade anymore. She was eighteen and she was not needy and she was not desperate.
Phoebe straightened her back and lifted her hands from the table. “There’s a coat tree just over to the left, in the foyer, Ryland,” she said. She gave him a professional smile as cool as his eyes. “Now, if you’ll excuse me for a minute. I have a couple of things to do.” She turned and went to the kitchen without looking back.
The shameful thing was that she hoped he was watching.
Chapter 8
Phoebe never knew what her mother’s original intended seating arrangement for dinner had been, because as they all moved into the dining room to sit down, Ryland turned to Catherine and explained that he’d had some back problems as a result of the long cramped flight from Australia. Could he please sit at the foot of the rectangular table, where the chair was taller and had a straight wooden back? This resolved itself into Phoebe, Ryland, and Mallory sitting at one end of the table, with their parents grouped at the other.
It also meant that for large portions of the meal, there were two entirely separate conversations going on, in part because Mrs. Tolliver had a dull, sad, whispery monotone of a voice that required concentration from Drew and Catherine even to hear. She was so unlike her daughter—and her son. It was amazing to think how different family members could be, not only physically, but in terms of personality.
On the other hand, Mrs. Tolliver took a lot of medication. So the Mrs. Tolliver they knew wasn’t who she might have been. “If life had been kinder to her,” was the phrase Catherine used.
Phoebe sat on Ryland’s left, directly across the table from Mallory. From this position, she could glance at him now and then, but didn’t have to look at him directly, which was a relief. She felt shy, even tongue-tied, which was ridiculous and she knew it. She had watched her mother orchestrate formal dinner conversation often, and understood the principles of small talk, of encouraging others to speak by asking them questions about themselves and their experiences. She had become decent at it and often even enjoyed it.
Yet tonight she couldn’t think of anything to say. For a second she thought of catching Mallory’s gaze across the table and mouthing, “Help me! Say something!” But she couldn’t do it. She didn’t want Mallory to know how uncomfortable she was with her brother.
If discomfort was what she was feeling.
And if it was something else—if it was—well, Mallory couldn’t be allowed to know that either. It would have to be Phoebe’s secret until she could talk herself out of it. Because it was ridiculous. Ryland was too old for Phoebe; she was too young for him. He would never be interested in her. And her parents would be shocked. She had to stop thinking—feeling—this way. Right this very minute.
Please, God.
Phoebe picked up the basket of warm whole-grain bread and passed it to Mallory and then to Ryland. To her relief, Mallory began talking about Jay-Jay.
“He’s the cook, Ryland, and he’s great. You’ll meet him later, right, Phoebe? Anyway, he never forgets that I’m vegan. There’s always at least one dish I can eat.”
At least this gave Phoebe an idea for something to say. She looked toward Ryland, if not directly into his face. “Jay-Jay’s afraid Mallory doesn’t eat properly, so he tries to make up for it when she’s here. He’s made a vegetable curry tonight, Mallory. I think there’s pineapple in it, and coconut milk.”
“Yum.” A shadow passed over Mallory’s face, though, and she sent a glance toward the other end of the table for just a second.
“There’s also going to be Skittles for your mother, after,” Phoebe said.
Mallory smiled. “Did I already say Jay-Jay is great? And you.”
“No problem.” Phoebe was pleased. She hadn’t waited for Jay-Jay to ask her to go to the store;
she had volunteered.
Phoebe wondered if Ryland had noticed that she had also changed clothes. No, probably he had not. One item of black clothing would look the same as another to most guys, wouldn’t it? Which was good, right?
But maybe she should give up wearing all black. Introduce a little green, even just in the accessories. Or gray. Gray would be more subtle. She’d just die if she were obvious.
Stop! She had to behave normally, or she’d embarrass herself.
Phoebe forced herself to turn to Ryland. She tried to imitate Catherine and talk graciously, with dignity. “Are you also a vegan? Or just a vegetarian, maybe?”
“No,” said Ryland easily. “I eat meat. Quite happily, in fact.” He seemed to feel no need to add anything else, even though he was looking directly at Phoebe, examining her face. Phoebe felt herself blush. She ducked her head. She picked up her bread and unconsciously began to pull it into small pieces.
At least Mallory was talking now. “Phoebe, what did I miss at school this week?”
“Oh. Well. I, uh, I think there was a quiz in American history—but wait. You’re not in that class with me. Um, in Spanish, that dialogue is due.” She tried to remember. “Or maybe that’s not until Tuesday. We should work on it, though. And then in chem—”
It was a relief when Ryland interrupted, in a drawl that had more than a hint of amusement. “Girls. No more. Please. Keep the details of high school to yourself.”
Phoebe said happily, “It’s a deal.” And then, to her surprise, she found herself able to smile at him and add, with fair composure, to Mallory, “You know what? I’m having trouble remembering what happened at school this week. It’s dull. And you just got your brother back and everything.”