Then Came You

by Kate Meader

  “I need it for my arthritis. Do you know how hard it is to get a dealer to the house?”

  Jesus. I so don’t need to hear this.

  “Why is my granddaughter still lying to me?”

  I grimace. “Did you think I could just turn it around in a couple of days and undo years of what this family has inflicted on her?”

  “I suppose it was too much to hope that your magic penis would produce the results I want.”

  I feel my color rising. Aubrey is more like her grandmother than anyone, and I wish she could take that fuck-you attitude and ride it all the way through her life. “She’s your granddaughter. Nothing is easy.”

  She barks out a joyless laugh. “All this time I’ve been waiting for her to confide in me, to share with me her pain.”

  I say quietly, “I’ve been waiting, too.”

  Libby and I gelled from the start, and for the last year and a half, we’ve been phone buddies. FaceTime, actually, because she does better when we have the visuals. About six months after I separated from my wife, Libby called me, because she knew something was terribly wrong.

  I broke down on the phone and told her everything. Christ, I haven’t even told my mother, and there I was sobbing like a schoolkid to the equivalent of Katharine Hepburn.

  I thought that sharing might help Aubrey, but I begged Libby to wait until Aubrey reached out herself. If my ex-wife knew I’d told someone in her family about the baby…shit, she’d never speak to me again. My moment of weakness, my need to grieve my lost child to someone who would understand, had overcome me. But Aubrey still hasn’t told another living soul. I wonder if she ever will or if she’s pushed it down so deep that she’s convinced herself it need never find voice.

  If I’m the only person she wants to talk to about this, then I can be there for her. I can be the sponge that absorbs all her pain. But I think it would be better for her mental health if she let her grandmother in. She doesn’t get a lot of affection in this family, but her relationship with her grandmother has always been a shining light. The old dame’s a sharp one, but she has a soft side, too. Just like Aubrey.

  “She can’t know I told you. I’m hoping—praying that she’ll unburden with you this weekend. Just give her time.”

  “I know how to handle my granddaughter, Grant.”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s not a fucking contest, Lib.”

  She hates when I call her that, but she likes that I stand up to her.

  Jordie pops his head around the door to the greenhouse and calls out. “Tea, Mrs. G.?”

  “No, I’m ready to dress for dinner.”

  I am dismissed.

  * * *

  —

  By the time I make it over to the other wing, I can tell the energy in the house is different. I should probably change into formal evening wear, but Aubrey might need me, and I’m pretty whipped when it comes to that girl.

  I head to the lounge. People congregate here before dinner, and that’s where I find most of the Gateses, including Aubrey’s older brother, her sister-in-law, their kids, and assorted aunts, uncles, and cousins. The room looks like an episode of Downton Abbey with heavy oil paintings of ancestors, an ornate fireplace, and fussy furniture that might fall apart if you sat on it. (Or if I sat on it.)

  And then I see her.

  Aubrey’s on a red velvet sofa, holding a baby. From my regular check-ins with the family’s matriarch, I gather this is Aubrey’s newest niece, who’s about eight months old. No one has seen me yet, so I watch from the doorway, gauging her reaction. Seeing that baby in the diner the day before yesterday unlocked something in her—and I’m still not sure if it’s positive or negative. Aubrey’s own flesh and blood is a different thing, however.

  The baby sits in her lap, and Aubrey is nuzzling their noses together. The child is loving it, gurgling and laughing, reacting like any child would. And Aubrey? She’s holding her own.

  She turns to me, and that smile of hers crashes through me, bright and so, so sharp. Sunshine blooms and burns in my chest.

  “Grant!” The piercing sound is Janice, my ex-sister-in-law, who I’m pretending is my current sister-in-law. She’s sweet as peach tea but kind of scattered.

  She grasps my arm, a quick, harried breath blowing blond curls out of green eyes. “God, you look good! Really, really good! I thought you and Aubs were kaput!”

  I open my mouth, but she’s still talking, every few words punctuated by exclamation points.

  “Well, I always thought you were perfect together, but Tristan said—” She cuts off and covers her mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that!”

  “It’s okay, Janice. I know what Tristan thinks.” Neither of Aubrey’s brothers likes me, and while I’d appreciate that sentiment if it came from a place of protectiveness for their sister, I know that’s not it. They think I’m gold-digging white trash.

  I smile to put her at ease. “How’ve you been?”

  “Oh, good. The kids are torture.” Reminded she’s a parent, she grabs the shoulders of one of them, Thatcher, a towheaded gangster who must be close to ten. A Twizzler hangs out of the side of his mouth like a cigarette. “I told you to stop eating candy, Thatch! We’re having dinner any minute! Say hi to your uncle Grant who came all the way from Chicago to see you!”

  Thatcher and I exchange appropriately skeptical glances. “Uh, hi.” He turns to his mother. “I thought Aunt Aubrey dumped him because he’s a redneck.”

  “What? No! I never said that. No one ever said that!” Janice blushes as red as Aubrey’s dress. “I said—oh, never mind. Go find your sister and wash your hands before dinner. Sheesh!”

  Thatcher bounds off, leaving Janice with her mouth gaping, floundering in the rubble of an episode of Kids Say the Darndest Things.

  “I’ve no idea how he comes up with this stuff.”

  “Out of the mouths of babes,” I say to smooth over her gaffe. I really don’t care.

  “Babes?” Janice giggles and leans in. “That’s so sweet of you. I don’t get a lot of compliments these days. But, uh, married woman, you horndog!” She holds up her ring finger dramatically.

  I could explain I wasn’t coming on to her, but what would be the point? Like I said, sweet but scattered.

  Inane small talk has never been my style, but Janice has a habit of covering both sides of the conversation. I’m happy to let her because it gives me a chance to check out Aubrey. The peace doesn’t last, however.

  “Lincoln!”

  Aubrey’s older brother invades my personal space. Both bros are back-slapping, Masters of the Universe assholes, but this one wins by a hair.

  They have names—Tristan and Bradford—but I prefer to think of them as Dumb and Dumber. Not that they’re all that stupid, but they think I am because I’m from the South, and nothing gets my goat more than Northerners making assumptions because of how I talk. Aubrey isn’t close to them, so it’s never been a source of conflict for us, yet their neglect of her bothers me because it’s a symptom of everything that is wrong with this family.

  Tristan is in his mid-thirties and does something with marketing at Gates Inc., though you wouldn’t know it because the guy can’t promote himself out of a paper bag.

  “Thought you and Aubs packed it in, sport?”

  “Didn’t stick. Giving it another go.”

  “Maman’s not going to like that. She already has someone lined up for her.”

  My muscles tense at the notion that Aubrey’s being prepared like a lamb on the altar of the Boston marriage mart. Not on my watch.

  “No worries, sport. Aubrey and I just need a little space to ourselves to work this out.”

  “Well, it’ll be good for Libby, I suppose.” He eyes me suspiciously. “Of course, she probably won’t last long, so if you’re j
ust faking it for her, it wouldn’t be terrible for her to find out. Might move things along, you know?”

  “Tristan!” Janice is horrified. “Must you say everything that pops into your head?”

  “You mean, like you?”

  “Gonna go talk to my girl,” I say, moving off.

  “Pussy-whipped,” Tristan observes wisely as he gulps down another mouthful of scotch.

  I walk over, ignoring the hellos from other family members, all inflected with “fancy seeing you here.” My goal is my wife. It always has been.

  Taking a seat, I ask, “So who’s this?”

  “Grant, meet Minerva.”

  “Oh, poor Minerva,” I mutter in commiseration.

  “Stop,” Aubrey whispers with a giggle. “It’s lovely. I’m calling her Minnie, but Janice says I shouldn’t.” She pulls a face. “I’m sorry. I should have mentioned that Tristan and Janice had another child.”

  As I can’t tell her I already knew from my regular chats with her grandmother, I shrug it off. “Life goes on, Bean.”

  Her smile is genuine and genuinely lovely. “Yes, it does, doesn’t it?”

  We lock gazes for a long moment, another check in the healing.

  “How’s your mom?”

  She sighs. “The same. It’s impossible to tell if she wants me here or would rather never see me again. I’d like to think I fulfill some function for her.”

  Marie-Claire’s affection has always been transactional, so the function idea isn’t far off. My heart keens for Aubrey. Her family life is so the opposite of mine, which factors into our very different communication styles. I wish we were in Georgia, where Aubrey could live and breathe a blueprint for family love and laughter.

  Aubrey coughs slightly. “How were things with Libby?”

  “Peachy. She’s always adored me.” Aware that I need to encourage Aubrey to open up to her family before Libby forces the issue, I start laying the groundwork. “She’s worried about you. Can tell you’re a bit down.”

  “No Oscars for me this year.”

  “She wants to be there for you.”

  “I don’t need to worry her now. Not when—not when we’ve figured out a way to get through this so she won’t get hurt.”

  “Continue to lie?”

  She blanches and lowers her voice. “This was your idea.”

  Sure, but I expected it wouldn’t be long before we couldn’t tell the difference. Hell, I can’t, which means I’m in serious fucking trouble here.

  A change of tack is needed. “So you and I work with some pretty hurt people, clients who are going through amazingly stressful situations. Have any of them ever broken down in front of you?”

  “Of course.”

  “You ever notice when that happens that they seem to let go of the grudges they’ve been holding on to? That the case suddenly becomes easier for everyone involved?”

  “So they get a release. There’s lots of ways to do that. More enjoyable ways than bleeding out every single emotion, Grant.”

  She means sex. If Aubrey thinks that the release she gets from orgasms is going to solve all her problems, then she’s in for a rude awakening. I mean, I’m good, but…

  “Maybe you ought to try it. Lose your shit with your mom, tell your dad he’s an ass, come clean with your grandmother. Might be liberating, Bean.”

  She turns to Minnie and rocks her on her knee. “What do you think, Minnie? Should I throw a tantrum like a big baby? Will that get me everything I’ve ever wanted?”

  Minnie offers up a watery giggle in response.

  “Sounds like Minnie agrees with me,” I say.

  Aubrey remains silent. So she’s not ready to fight back yet, but before this weekend is through, I’m going to have her boxing like a heavyweight champ.

  “So where’s Brad?” I haven’t seen any sign of her other brother, the Dumber in the equation.

  “In Bora Bora with his girlfriend.” She shrugs, unsurprised, but I can tell she’s hurt. “He won’t make it back for Libby’s party.”

  The disappointments, they keep on coming. However, just when I think her family has no more bullshit to offer, they pull another rabbit out of their hats.

  “Aubrey, my girl!”

  The master of the house has arrived.

  Chapter 16

  Aubrey

  My father is a good-looking man, perpetually well groomed and turned out, who thinks he’s much more charming than he truly is. His weakness is women, except when it comes to his only daughter. I’ve never been a daddy’s girl. I’m a reminder of his mistake, and while I’m just one of many, I’m the only one that followed him home.

  Since he and my mother announced their thirty-years-in-the-making split, he’s become more attentive to me, a ploy to ensure I’ll remain on the right side of the newly drawn battle lines. Inspiring loyalty was never his strong suit, but these days he’s conscious of his age and has become strangely maudlin.

  Holding the baby is the perfect excuse not to have to hug him, but Janice whips Minnie out of my hands, leaving me ready and able to greet my father.

  “Hi, Dad. Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Honey, you look tired.” He cups my chin and examines my face. Sometimes I wonder if he’s looking for the ghost of the woman who gave me life. We never talk about her. “What happened to your arm?”

  “Oh, just something silly. The worst is I can’t drive.”

  “Still terrified of planes?” His chuckle isn’t malevolent, just puzzlement that one of his children could show such a strange weakness.

  “Still terrified of wrinkles, Jeffrey?” My mother’s sniping contribution. Though it’s framed as a defense of me, I know it’s not meant as one. Just another chance to score points.

  Still, the wrinkles comment has me checking my father’s unusually smooth forehead, which must be Botoxed. He’s the vainest person I know.

  “Lincoln!” My father grabs Grant’s hand and pumps it. “Didn’t expect to see you here. I thought—”

  “We’ve reconciled, Dad,” I cut in, “and we’re keeping our former situation on the down low for Libby, okay? As far as she knows, we’ve been fine forever.”

  “Got it,” he says blithely because he’s not really paying attention. He looks over his shoulder, oddly agitated. “I want you to meet someone. Mercedes, come say hello to my daughter.”

  A redhead in a shimmery blue cocktail dress has just entered the room; she must have been waiting outside until summoned. She’s at least ten years younger than me.

  “You’ve brought a guest to Thanksgiving dinner,” my mother says, sounding both bored and furious.

  “Hello!” The new arrival—Dad’s current girlfriend, I gather—is as edgy as a high-strung Thoroughbred. I’m torn between feeling pity for her, sympathy for my mother, and rage at my father for being even more of a dick than usual. “I’m Mercedes. Like the car.”

  I open my mouth to put her at ease, but distracted by Grant, she blinks up at him like a child seeing Santa for the first time. “God, you’re a big ’un!” She won’t stop looking at him. I completely understand, but still, I can’t have that.

  “Hi, Mercedes. I’m Aubrey.”

  “Oh, hi, I heard all about you from Jeff.” As if realizing that doesn’t sound as nice as it could, she adds quietly. “You’re so lovely.”

  My ex-husband offers with a half grin, “I’ve always thought so.”

  A warm gooey feeling wars with the acid in my stomach. No one knows quite what to do with the situation, except Grant, who isn’t burdened with the baggage of the rest of us.

  “Mercedes, I’m guessing you’re not from around here. I’m hearing New York? Maybe Queens?”

  “Oh, you’re good!” Mercedes looks immensely relieve
d. “You think New Yorkers are unfriendly? Nothing like Boston!” Color flushes her cheeks. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Bostonians can be tough nuts to crack.”

  “Yeah, they take assholery to peak levels,” Grant comments dryly, which sends Mercedes into a hoot of nervous laughter.

  While they launch into a spirited conversation on all the reasons Boston and its denizens suck, I pull my father aside. “Dad, I know you’re trying to make Mom’s life a living hell, but this is such a crazy dick move.”

  My father takes a slug of scotch. “Just looking to encourage that French witch out the door.”

  I close my eyes. Why I’m a basket case? Exhibit A, Your Honor.

  “So how’s my girl? Made partner yet?”

  “Not quite. But I’m the managing associate of the family law division, and I had an article published in the Journal of…”

  My father’s not paying attention, too busy checking in on my mother’s reaction. She’s playing with Minnie and chatting with my awesome sister-in-law, Janice, doing a fine job of not buying in to his bullshit.

  “Yeah, that’s great, sweetheart. How’s your grandmother?”

  You mean, your mother, Dad? How’s your mother?

  “She’ll have plenty to say about your visitor.”

  He hums his agreement. “She can’t stand Marie-Claire either, so we’re probably all good there.”

  Give. Me. Strength.

  I glance over my father’s shoulder to see how Grant is doing. Of all the people in this room, I like him and Minnie the best. His solidity never fails to ground me, ballast in the storm. Maybe I’m just reaching for a life preserver during these shit show days with the fam. Maybe what I’m feeling isn’t real. For so long, I’ve doubted my instincts.

  Grant is letting Mercedes talk, nodding at whatever she’s saying. He catches my eye and winks, and I’m assured that maybe I’m not the craziest person in the room after all.

  * * *

  —

  After more than two hours of torture—the passive-aggressive sniping at the dinner table was legendary—I knock on my mother’s door and wait. It takes about thirty seconds, during which I imagine she’s fixing her makeup and donning a peignoir. When the door opens, I’m surprised to see her in a Red Sox T-shirt, yoga pants, and thick socks. She looks positively human.