by Kate Meader
Marie-Claire is sitting at the kitchen island looking like Lady Macbeth in Chanel. She’s sipping eggnog and looking at an iPad.
“Oh, sorry,” I say. “Didn’t expect anyone to be here.” I turn to leave.
“Not up for spending a moment with your mother-in-law? No, wait, former mother-in-law.”
I ignore the jibe. “Just don’t want to disturb. Looks like you’re taking some time for yourself.”
Marie-Claire makes a strange sound, halfway between a laugh and a snort.
“What’s so funny?”
“Time for myself. It seems I am an expert at creating it, non?”
I don’t disagree with her. Time in her presence is usually fraught, and no one appears in a hurry to spend much of it with her. A pang of pity for her gnaws at me, so to slough it off, I start pulling open drawers, looking for a tin opener for the cat food I grabbed from his upstairs stash. It’s slow going because I’m doing it one-handed with the cat cradled in my other arm. Either I’m protecting him, or he’s protecting me.
“What do you need?”
“Tin opener.”
Marie-Claire opens a drawer I haven’t tried yet, extracts the tool, picks up the cat food—and yanks the ring pull. I laugh at my dumbassery; she merely smirks.
She takes care of filling a bowl, and when the cat’s settled, she speaks again. “Would you like a Croque Monsieur?” At my blank look, she translates. “A grilled cheese and ham sandwich.”
“Sure.”
In all the years I’ve known Aubrey, I’ve spent maybe ten hours total with her mother and about ten minutes of that alone with her. You might say we’ve got Aubrey in common, so that should be enough, but when one party’s goal is to keep a boot on the neck of my woman, then it’s hard to find middle ground.
Apparently it’s a night for surprises, because her next statement catches me off guard. “How is Aubrey sleeping these days?”
“Better.”
With deft moves, she removes ingredients from the fridge: bread, ham, cheese, something in a covered bowl. “She used to have nightmares as a child about getting left behind in places. At home. At the store. At school.”
“Doesn’t take a psychology degree to figure that one out.”
No comment on that. She constructs the ham and cheese sandwich and slathers a layer of thick cream sauce from the bowl onto the bread.
“What’s that?”
“Béchamel. It’s not a true Croque Monsieur without it. The proper way is to bake it, but I am taking a shortcut.” She drops the sandwich into a pan of melted butter, the sizzle as mouthwatering as the smell.
“I would sing ‘Frère Jacques’ to coax her back to sleep.” She slants me a look. “This surprises you, non?”
“Nothing surprises me, Marie-Claire. You’ve never struck me as completely heartless. Everyone’s got their reasons.”
She flips the sandwich, showing off the lovely golden-brown crust. “Cultivating independence in children is important, but especially in a daughter. Whoever she chose would eventually hurt her. That independent streak would be her saving grace.”
Because better we all make peace with the fact we’ll be dying alone anyway. What a crock. “So seeing me rear my ugly mug again is the last thing you want.”
She places the sandwich on a plate and slices it in half, taking one for herself and pushing the other half my way. I pick it up and bite into it, savoring the gooey béchamel sauce complementing perfectly the salty ham.
“This is delicious,” I murmur around bites.
“I don’t make it much. I don’t make much at all these days.” She takes a seat at the island and considers me. “I can’t say I’m all that happy to see you, Grant. Aubrey would be better off with someone less—”
“Southern?”
“Emotional.”
This makes me laugh because I consider myself to be the calmest, most even-handed person I know.
“You think this is funny, but it is true. There is something of the sentimentalist about you, Grant. Not to mention a crazy-eyed view of love that can give a girl ideas. The wrong ideas.”
“That she deserves to be adored and worshipped. Yeah, pretty radical thinking there.”
She smiles over her eggnog. “And when you let her down…”
“I won’t.”
“You already did. If you love my daughter so much, then why did your marriage fall apart?”
This is usually the point in my internal dialogue where I give all the credit to Aubrey for being walled off and inaccessible. Where I backfill the blame game to include the woman before me and the asshole who bought me dinner tonight. Psychologists and therapists would talk about cycles and repeating patterns, but what it boils down to is faith—or lack thereof.
I’m not going to share what happened with Marie-Claire; that’s Aubrey’s story to tell. But I will tell her this:
“Humans live constantly in the moment, needing instant gratification to keep those happy-sappy neurons firing. And during the bad times, we’re looking for this quick rebound, and the happy memories, those good times should be a storehouse you can draw from. Only this time the bank was closed, and all the ATMs were vandalized.” Marie-Claire is watching me carefully. “I’m not making much sense. Neither of us trusted that the good was enough to tide us over the bad. Aubrey and I have problems, but they’re our problems, for us to work out, together. Don’t need anyone interferin’ or offerin’ rebound guys or uninvited opinions.”
“M#@%&!”
“That goes for you, too, Cat.”
Marie-Claire takes a sip of her eggnog. “Well, perhaps you are worthy of her after all.”
I can’t tell if that’s meant as a compliment or an insult.
* * *
—
Brookline Country Club is the oldest club in the United States, so exclusive that the list of people it’s rejected for membership is more famous than who it’s allowed through its hallowed doors. These fuckers wouldn’t even let Tom Brady and Giselle join until they begged (or gave up one of Tom’s championship rings, I’m guessing).
Of course it’s the site for Libby’s ninetieth.
Like so much in Boston Brahmin culture, everything is a bit faded and decrepit. The upholstery is chintzy, the furniture old, shades of money long spent. Country clubs are part of a bygone age, and given Libby’s practicality and brook-no-bull attitude, it’s hard to tell why she buys into it. She’s a cut above this lot.
So is Aubrey, who looks like a dark angel, wearing my favorite color on her, a ruby red with a dip of the fabric to reveal her back, which means no bra. Jesus.
“What are we doing here?” I ask as we walk in. “When I’d much rather find a closet and run my hands inside that dress.”
“Just one more night, and then you’re free to go.”
“Come to Georgia with me tomorrow.”
She turns, her eyes wide and wary “But—no. What would your mother think? Wouldn’t that confuse her?”
“She’d love to see you. Zoe, too. I was going to fly and pick you up on the way back, but we could leave early tomorrow morning and drive straight through. Or we could load you up with pot brownies, leave Cat Damon here for a couple of days, and just fly there.”
“I worry about Libby—”
“Who would like to see you living your best life.”
Yesterday we had fun with her nieces and nephew. Sadness pinched us at first, but mostly there was us, healing, getting our happy on. Figuring out that once it might have felt like the world ending but that love will find a way.
I will find a way.
I pull her out onto the dance floor because I need to hold her tight against me. I also need the entire congregation to witness me claiming this woman for my own
.
“They’re a strange pair,” Aubrey says, with a nod to her father and Mercedes, who have just appeared at the doorway.
“So she’s not a gold-digging bimbo after all.”
“Jury’s still out on the gold-digging piece, but yeah, she doesn’t need my father. He’s pretty smitten with her, don’t you think? He’d be really hurt if she dumped him.”
I laugh. “So now you’re worried about him?”
“Oh, shut up. It was easier when she wasn’t nice and interesting. I don’t think my mother has any idea how serious it is. She thinks there’s still hope that it’s just another of his late-life crises.”
“You need to stop worrying about everyone else. Let them sort it out.”
“I can’t help it. Better that than think—” She cuts off.
“Than thinking about your own problems?”
She shrugs, her chin dipped, hiding her expression. But that’s okay. I know what she’s thinking. I always have.
Appropriate courtly rituals are observed around Libby, and soon we sit with her, in time for the audiovisual presentation that Aubrey has been working on, the one honoring her grandmother. It’s clear that she’s led a fascinating life. Some of it I knew: her stint in Hollywood, her aerial exploits, her forays into the business world. More of it was a surprise to me, as it revealed a softer side. Volunteer work with veterans, an affair with a Hungarian count, holding her newborn son in her arms. It was this last sepia-toned image that Aubrey lingered over, as if to prove that even the most brittle personalities are capable of great feeling.
The presentation ends, and the audience claps politely. Now is the time her son would—should—stand and toast his mother, but Aubrey stands in his place, the strongest of the clan, and addresses the crowd.
“My grandmother, Elizabeth Amelia March Gates, our Libby, is a remarkable woman.” She smiles down at her grandmother. “Everything interests her, nothing fazes her. She’s a true Renaissance spirit, with beauty, wit, and gumption to match. All my life, I wanted to be more like her. Elegant, fearless, and just a little bit inappropriate.”
Boston society laughs at that, the sound like tinkling crystal.
“I’ve come to realize that there’s only one Libby. No one can come close to emulating her, but we can all enjoy how much she enriches our lives.” She raises a glass. “Libby, I love you. Here’s to seeing everyone back here for your hundredth!”
Over the clink of glasses and the calls of “To Libby!” the woman scoffs. “If there’s any chance I live to be a hundred, I’ll throw myself off the Tower!” She grips Aubrey’s hands, her eyes shiny with emotion, and my heart warms to see my girl getting the love she deserves.
Janice and Tristan are seated near us, though Tristan is on his phone. Has been all evening. Janice leans in conspiratorially. “So, when are we going to hear the patter of tiny feet from you two?”
I squeeze Aubrey’s hand. “Plenty of time for all that.”
“You’re getting on, Aubs,” Janice continues. “For every year you wait, your fertility rates plummet! I mean, Tristan only has to look at me and I’m pregnant. I’m going to have to get him to snip it—right, T?” She nudges her husband, who doesn’t look at her, still busy on the phone. “After this one, I said, baby, no more. The hoo-ha can’t take it.”
“The birthday girl can’t take it, Janice,” Libby says. “Put a sock in it.”
“I’m just giving them advice, from one old married lady to another!” Janice smiles, and God, I know she means well, but please shut up.
“Oh, Christ!” Libby says, and we all look up to see my father approaching the table with Mercedes.
“Mom,” he says, leaning over to kiss her. “Happy birthday.”
Libby gives a snort of disgust.
I stand and offer Mercedes my seat. “Oh, thanks, Grant, you’re such a gentleman.”
My smile is a little forced, the wear and tear of the charade starting to weigh on me. I can’t wait to see my own family, and I’m more determined than ever that Aubrey will be with me when I do.
“Drink, sweets?” Aubrey’s father asks his girlfriend.
“Just some ginger ale to settle my stomach.” She rubs over her abdomen, the gesture so familiar that something inside me jerks hard in reaction.
Maybe no one else noticed.
“Are you—oh my God, are you pregnant?” Janice screeches, dashing any hope I had.
Mercedes colors and gives a shy look at Aubrey’s father. “We’re supposed to be keeping it on the down low. It’s so early, and you never know what might happen.”
“Jeffrey, if you were any dumber, I’d have to water you,” Libby says. “She’s old enough to be your daughter. Your granddaughter. What the hell are you going to do with a baby at your age?”
“Stay out of it, Mom. Can’t you be happy for us?”
Mercedes turns to Aubrey, clearly uneasy. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you sooner. We were all getting along so well at dinner last night, and we weren’t quite ready to share it.”
Aubrey pats her hand, her expression shockingly calm. “It’s something you want to hold close for a while. I get it. It’s okay. Congratulations.”
But it’s not okay. I’m tired of this family and how they force-feed politeness and veiled insults down one another’s throats. I’m tired of the passive-aggressive nature of their superficial relationships. Mostly I’m tired of Aubrey taking it all without fighting back.
“What are we congratulating?” That French-accented voice cuts through the party like a rapier.
“I’m going to be a father,” Jeffrey says, as if he’s not already one. His eyebrow raises in challenge to his soon-to-be ex-wife.
Marie-Claire mutters something in French, and while I know only enough to say hello, I can tell that what she said isn’t nice. “So that’s why you want the house. Why you’d like to ensure I don’t have my share. Well, I won’t be there to raise it if this one gets dumped on you.”
Aubrey blanches.
I’ve had enough. I reach for her. “Let’s dance, Bean.”
But her grandmother is squeezing her arm, which makes Aubrey stare at her. And stare. Recognition dawns.
Aubrey turns to me, her big eyes rounded and panicked. Slipping out of her grandmother’s feeble grip, she stands, all while glaring me into the grave.
I follow her out to the lobby and catch her before she makes it to the restroom.
“Aubrey, wait.”
She rounds on me, fury in her eyes that she can’t muster for her dreadful parents. “You told my grandmother?”
“Yes.”
Surprised at my unvarnished confession, she takes a moment to collect herself. “The phone call, Elvis’s ‘Burning Love’ ring tone, that was from Libby. Who else knows?”
“No one. But I’d tell everybody if I thought it would shatter this fucked-up family dynamic you’ve got going on here.”
“It’s no one’s business! Grant, this was supposed to be ours to get over. To get through.”
“And how did that work out, Aubrey? We kept it inside, and it destroyed us.”
“That’s not why. I had it handled, and you wanted to dredge it up over and over again. Unnecessarily. And with my grandmother?”
“I told Libby because she knew something was wrong. With you. With me. With us.”
Aubrey’s a volcano waiting to unleash the molten core’s fury. She thinks she can remain dormant, but nature will eventually win out. It has to. People pass us by, and all I can think is: Go nuts, baby—scream it the fuck out!
She’s barely breathing, snatching at shallow bursts of air, as if she can’t get enough to fill her lungs.
“C’mon, Bean, I know you’re mad at me. That’s okay.”
“Don’t tell me
it’s okay,” she grates. “Don’t tell me what to think.”
“Someone has to, because you’re unable to express your anger like a normal person. Your mom told you to act like a lady, to not make a fuss, to never let them see you sweat. Your father wouldn’t know a genuine moment of affection if it bit him on his cheatin’ ass. So you stuff it all down with top-shelf champagne and painted-on smiles and pretend it’s all fine when it’s fucked beyond all recognition.” What will it take to make her go batshit in Boston? “You’ve been living those rules for so damn long, you don’t know how to climb out of that pit of perfection you’re buried in. But I see you, Aubrey. I see everything you refuse to.”
“Quit with the cheap psychoanalysis—”
“Cheap, Bean? Nothing cheap about it. I’ve paid dearly these last two years. But why bother when I can love you so good we’ll both forget all our problems.” I hear the sneer in my voice. I hate it but have already committed to my part. Moving closer, I overwhelm her with my brute strength. “That’s what you’d like, isn’t it? For us to use our bodies to figure this out.”
Her breathing is heavy, labored. She raises a hand to my chest, pushing away but holding me close.
“Yeah, that’d suit you better. Don’t get mad at them when you can work out all that mad on my cock.”
She gasps. “You—don’t you dare…”
“What? Talk about how you like to use sex to paper over the cracks, Aubrey? Is that not proper talk for the high society party?”
“This is nobody’s business but ours.”
This. This. Fucking this again. “So you keep saying, but your strategy of keeping it to the two of us hasn’t exactly worked. We lost a baby, Aubrey. We lost a child we had already started to love, a part of both you and me, the natural result of how much we goddamn adored each other. And nothing I did was right. Nothing I said was good enough.”
She’s shaking her head. “I just wanted you to hold me. Desire me. Love me.”
“And I did. I loved you so much. But you wanted me to love you with my body instead of my words. Well, that’s what got us into trouble in the first place, Aubrey! I couldn’t keep my hands off you, and our baby is dead.”