Then Came You

by Kate Meader

  Not if I have anything to do with it. “Let’s play it by ear. This way people won’t be tiptoeing around us and your grandmother. We can relax.”

  She scrunches up her pretty red mouth. “It’s not your worst idea.”

  “That’s my girl.” I release her and put the car in drive again. “Let’s do this.”

  Chapter 14

  Aubrey

  We park around the back in one of the garages, which also means we can sneak through the kitchen and not make a big to-do about our arrival.

  “Someone can get that,” I say, referring to the luggage Grant is unloading from the trunk.

  He raises an eyebrow.

  “Okay, carry it yourself, peasant.”

  Provoked, he drops the bags and stalks over to me.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I think maybe you need to relax a little.”

  I know what Grant’s idea of relaxing involves, and it’s probably going to scandalize the neighbors. Also, I’m still reeling from his plan amendment a few moments ago. You won’t have to fake it. We’re healing, Bean.

  Likely, he doesn’t intend it this way, but it’s almost cruel. I’m feeling far too hopeful, which means it’s about to turn to shit. I don’t know if we’re healing; I do know that I’m relying on Grant far too much to get there.

  “Don’t you dare—”

  He lifts me off the ground and kisses me hard. I can’t help it—I melt into him. Every moment with him since we left Chicago has been the cut and the salve. Even with the pain, I feel as though it’s bearable, possibly worth it just to feel something again. Anything. His tongue slips inside my mouth, tangles with mine, and sets off sparks through every nerve ending in my body. He cups my ass, and it’s perfect. I’m practically climbing him like a tree, eager to get closer, inside him.

  Slowly he draws back, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Pride mixed with power warms my chest.

  “Okay, I’m relaxed,” I say with a husky chuckle.

  He pushes his erection against my stomach. “But now I’m not.”

  “Guess you shouldn’t have started it, then?”

  “Worth it.”

  Another voice intrudes. “Aubrey, what on earth are you doing?”

  “There goes my hard-on,” Grant mutters, to which I laugh because, damn, I’ve missed him and how he’s always been able to cut through my prickliness. No one has ever nurtured me like Grant. Yet again I wonder what he’s getting out of the deal.

  I turn, knowing that my lipstick is probably smeared and nowhere near the perfection my mother expects. I could say I don’t care, but it’d be a lie. I do. I always have. Marie-Claire Amiens Gates stands before me, the model of French chic and disapproval.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say, feeling shy.

  Her lips thin because I haven’t called her “Maman.” That’s what she encouraged—no, insisted—my brothers and I call her as children. She doesn’t want “Maman” because of some long-standing family tradition, but because it set us apart from other families. American riffraff, as she called them, despite the fact they were often just as wealthy as the Gateses.

  The Gates don’t exactly go back to the Mayflower. Think more along the lines of the Astors or the Vanderbilts, that kind of rich. We have homes in Boston, the Cape, St. Bart’s, London, and Paris. Our multinational company rivals Berkshire Hathaway for capitalization.

  Both of my brothers work for the company, VPs of something invented to justify their large salaries and epic trust funds. They’re not bad people, just entitled.

  You’re going to law school, Aubs? Bradford said when he heard. But…why? You’ve got a job right here!

  I know I’m not like them. Yet I still crave my mother’s approval because I’m a mass of contradictions and a scared little girl. Now I blink at her, conscious that my ex-husband still has his hands on my ass and doesn’t seem inclined to let go.

  “Mom, skulking about in the garage? That doesn’t seem your style.”

  She shrugs. “I was at the club seeing about some last-minute party planning for your grandmother and had just parked next door when I heard you come in.” Her gaze moves past me. “Grant, comment ça va?”

  “Ça va bien, Marie-Claire,” Grant replies in perfect French, surprising me but not my mother. She’d never be so gauche as to display true shock, but she’d be cruel enough to try to embarrass an outsider by speaking in a foreign language.

  “Well, everyone is looking forward to seeing you,” she says, looking me up and down. “Come into the salon when you have freshened up.”

  That I don’t pass muster, though I paid special attention to my clothes, hair, and makeup, doesn’t go unnoticed. She doesn’t ask about my arm in a sling. Neither does she close the gap to hug me even though we haven’t seen each other in two years.

  We’re not the most demonstrative of families. Any wonder I’m a coldhearted, prickly-skinned bitch? Not that Grant has ever called me that. I know what I am. I know what I distill to when my confidence wanes.

  “Mom,” I say, feeling emboldened. “Something’s changed. Grant and I—”

  “Grant and you?” she cuts in.

  “We’ve reconciled. We’re together again.”

  My mother’s face remains as impassive as the granite statues lining the main drive to the house. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  With one last once-over, my mother leaves, and I let out the breath I’ve been holding.

  “That went…okay?” I say, squinting at Grant.

  “Could’ve been worse. She could’ve commented on my massive erection.”

  * * *

  —

  My grandmother, Elizabeth Amelia March Gates—who’s better known as, and insists on being called, Libby—lives in what we call the Dower Tower, a sumptuous wing of the family’s Back Bay mansion. Not a tower at all, it sports a castle turret as its most prominent feature, and it’s where she moved when my grandfather died twenty-eight years ago, thus vacating the primary estate for her son and his wife in true feudal fashion.

  Libby has lived her life refusing to be circumscribed by age, gender, or assholes. She tried her hand as a director in Hollywood in the forties (Acting’s for morons, she likes to say. I mean, children can do it), flew crop dusters in the fifties (All the good pilots were in Korea, someone had to step up), had a brief stint as a Playboy bunny in the sixties (Hefner was a terrible lay, Elvis was as scrumptious as he looked), and became the first female CEO of a stock-exchange-listed company.

  She scares the shit out of me, and I love her with total abandon.

  “Aubrey!”

  As I walk in, Grant takes my hand. Why is he being so perfect, especially when I don’t deserve his kindness? A brief urge to blurt out the truth crawls up my throat. It’s all fake, Libby. I’m the biggest phony there is.

  Grant’s holding Cat Damon in his other arm. They’ve been getting along well these last few days, which makes me think the cat shrink knows of what she speaks. Nor has the cat tried to chew any of my bras.

  But I forgot about Asta—that’s Libby’s fox terrier. On spying my cat, he starts barking.

  Cat Damon jumps down, hisses a cheery greeting, and stands his ground.

  A chastened Asta slinks away behind the sofa.

  Good talk.

  I let go of Grant’s hand and bend over my grandmother. She’s in a wheelchair, looking frailer than I’ve ever seen her. Her hair is dyed-to-the-roots strawberry blond—it’s her one vanity—and she’s pulled it back in a chignon. Her skin feels paper-thin as I land a kiss on her cheek.

  “You’ve lost weight,” Libby says, her rheumy eyes assessing me. “And you look tired. Not the good kind, either.” She shoots an accusatory glance at Grant that proclaims him negligent in his husbandly duties. I cou
ld tell her that the man has more than compensated for the neglect in the last couple of days, but she has a filthy mind and would insist on details.

  “I’m fine,” I say quickly. “Oh, Libby, it’s so good to see you. I’m sorry it’s been so long.”

  My grandmother scoffs. “Why should you young people make time for us ancients? Never apologize for living your life.” She turns to her assistant, a guy who looks like the product of an inadvisable Mr. Clean and The Rock union. “Make yourself useful, Jordie. Double gin fizz.”

  “You know what the doctor said.” So little conviction exists in Jordie’s tone that I suspect this is an exchange they have regularly to keep things interesting.

  “I made it this far on a gin fizz a day. Worried a double will make me live longer? You’re not in the will!”

  I laugh, loving her irreverence, before adding, “Grant’s here.”

  “So I see, strapping as ever. If I could do it over, I’d pick a bull of a man like you did.” Before I can protest this objectification—and frankly, what would be the use?—she reaches out her hand to Grant. “Come here, hot stuff, let me get a better look at you. My eyes aren’t what they once were.”

  Grant’s smile is genuine, which makes me so happy, and he leans in to kiss my grandmother on the cheek. “Still rabble-rousing, sweetheart?”

  “The rabble could do with some rousing, don’t you think? Especially this lot. It’s like the Cold War with your parents, Aubrey. Neither of them will give in and move out. It’s just a house!” She shoos us toward the sofa. “Now tell me what you two have been up to.”

  Over my gin fizz, I spend the next hour lying through my teeth.

  Everything is fine. My job is amazing. Chicago is the best place on earth, even with the horrid winters. We drove around Spain this summer and even spent a week in Iceland. After a while I start to believe we’re the super couple we’ve always been.

  My phone buzzes with a message from my mother. Join me for tea in the little salon. Because we have two.

  “Summoned by the lady of the manor?” my grandmother says. She’s not a fan of her current daughter-in-law, with whom my father cheated while he was still married to the first Mrs. Gates, a woman who’s been relegated to history and a mansion in Miami Beach. Neither is she a fan of her son or even her grandsons, my half-brothers. That I’ve left her for so long in this “nest of vipers,” as she calls them, eats away at me.

  “Dinner with the lot of them will be in ninety minutes,” she says, “so I’ll see you for cocktails in an hour.”

  “Triple gin fizzes all around.” I stand, smoothing my skirt nervously. My gaze falls on the Christmas tree, trimmed perfectly with ornaments inscribed with the names of family members, past and present. It’s a strange tradition for someone with as much sentimentality as a tree trunk. She stole it from the soap opera Days of Our Lives.

  “Tree’s up early this year.” I touch one of the ornaments, a green one with Grant’s name on it sitting next to a red one with mine. My heart clenches.

  “Jordie wanted to get it over with,” she says, though I don’t believe her.

  “Need me to come with you?” Grant asks as I make a move to the door.

  “He can stay with me,” Libby says.

  I eye my grandmother carefully. “As long as you’re not too tired.”

  “Not too tired to say all the filthy things to your husband that I’ve been holding back.”

  “Libby!” I giggle, a lightness lifting me because the two people in my corner are right here. Then I remember who I need to talk to next, and that cloud follows me out of the Dower Tower.

  * * *

  —

  I enter the little salon to find my mother is already pouring tea, its aromatic scent familiar and comforting. She slides an unsubtle glance at her Cartier watch because I’m late for a meeting that has no official start time.

  “Entre, chérie,” she says, though I’m already inside. It’s said to retroactively give me permission.

  I’m not feeling my usual subservient self today, probably because the chat with Libby and the support from Grant have put me in a good mood. I’m determined to hold on to it and the good vibes of the last couple of days.

  She puts a sugar cube in my tea even though I take neither tea or sugar. When she hands the cup and saucer to me, I place it down on the coffee table.

  “Is Dad here?” I ask. He lives on one side of the house, as both refuse to leave, despite the fact they could afford any number of sumptuous townhouses. It’s the principle of the thing.

  “He’s at the office.”

  “On Thanksgiving?”

  “Gates is a global firm, Aubrey. The markets don’t close in other countries.” She sips her tea. “I don’t understand why Grant is here.”

  “We’ve been seeing each other lately,” I lie, “and he wanted to come with me for Libby’s birthday party.”

  “But I thought it was all behind you. That you’d come to realize how incompatible you are.”

  “You’re the only one who thought that, Mom.”

  “Yet you divorced him.” The words are heavy with my failure. I suppose I should have remained locked in thirty years of misery like my parents. “You had to have a reason.”

  She’s right—and that’s a rare conclusion to draw about something my mother says. I know my miscarriage set us on that road, but it didn’t have to end in divorce court. Plenty of couples overcome their grief. Instead, we fell apart. And a couple of days jumping each other’s bones shouldn’t make it hunky-dory again.

  “There are always reasons.” I pick up a shortbread cookie and take a bite. At my mother’s faint lip twitch of disapproval, I stuff the whole thing into my mouth.

  Her expression proclaims me childish. “Well, I know he didn’t cheat on you.”

  “How do you know that?”

  She makes a very French noise of discontent that pronounces her an expert on such matters. Having been on both sides of it, I’ve no doubt she is.

  “How he looks at you, then and now, it’s…obsessive. No man should be that crazy about his wife. It’s not healthy, and it inevitably leads to disappointment. A man like Grant has appetites, cravings, and if you can’t satisfy them…” She waves a hand to finish.

  “If I can’t satisfy them, what?”

  “If you’re unable to give him what he needs, then this is your fault. It’s always the woman’s fault.”

  “Are you saying that’s how society—or your concept of society—views it, or are you saying it actually is the woman’s fault if she can’t somehow hold on to her man?”

  She arches an eyebrow at my lawyerly deconstruction of her statement. My ability to parse an argument is why I’m excellent at what I do and not nearly as successful in my personal life. I have a tendency toward overanalysis and second-guessing.

  “Men are fickle—”

  “Except when they’re unhealthily obsessed with their wives.”

  She sighs as if I could never understand. “Grant’s background has always been too different from yours. No father. A teen mother bringing him up. All that…working-class struggle.”

  She’s such a snob. “What about my background? A neglectful father. A mother more concerned with turning me into a society debutante so I could marry well.”

  “I wanted nothing but success for you.”

  The implication being that she could have destroyed me based on my suspect origins but chose not to. I often wonder what possessed her to take on the child of her husband’s indiscretion. Surely it should have been the last straw, yet she elected instead to mold me into a creation she could be proud of. Unfortunately, every day I disappoint her.

  She truly believes she did the best she could, and calling her out at this point won’t change a thing. We�
��re the equivalent of cable news talking heads shouting at each other from opposing ends of the spectrum.

  I resolve to change the topic. “How’s the party planning going?”

  “Comme ci, comme ça. I didn’t expect you to have a guest. As I said, Mason Van Giet will be there, and I told him you were available.”

  “Sorry to upend your matchmaking plans.”

  My mother cocks her head and takes a good hard look at me. “I don’t believe you’re back together for a second. It’s all a little too convenient.”

  I could never get anything past her, yet today I’m determined to try.

  “We’re healing, Mom. Slowly, but we’re getting there. So how about you stop treating him like the help and start giving him the respect the man I chose deserves?”

  She raises an eyebrow. “A little late for that.”

  Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s a little late for everything.

  Chapter 15

  Grant

  With Aubrey gone, I brace myself for some real talk from Libby, but first she commands me to wheel her to the greenhouse. It takes up about eight hundred square feet on the south side of the apartment, though “apartment” is a very loose description for where Libby lives.

  The greenhouse has a Victorian-era feel to it, and entering it is like stepping back in time. My mother gardens, so I recognize some plants, mostly hothouse flowers that really don’t belong in this part of the country. But humans can’t help forcing things into environments where they shouldn’t. I obey her instructions to push her chair down one aisle, stopping on command so she can finger ferns and pat soils.

  “Wait—is that a cannabis plant?” We’ve come to the end of one row, and tucked away at the back is…shit, a whole garden of herbals.

  “It’s legal.”

  “Six plants are legal in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, Libby. This is an enterprise.”