Picture Imperfect

by Mary Frame

  Gwen and I? Not so much.

  “Thanks for spending time with her while I’ve been on the road and busy with games. It means a lot to me,” he adds.

  I nod and mumble something that sounds like you’re welcome.

  If only he knew.

  Chapter Twelve

  A good snapshot keeps a moment from running away.

  –Eudora Welty

  GWEN

  BRENT AND MARC PICK me up at eight o’clock sharp on Thanksgiving morning. The day before, Marc came over with dinner for my neighbor Martha and a new lock for my door.

  We had been exchanging emails again. I’d happened to mention how I felt bad leaving Martha on her own over the holidays. I didn’t ask him to do anything, but he brought over some precooked, fancy Thanksgiving feast for one from a restaurant they work with. It even has heating instructions on it. Then he stood in my doorway and installed a new lock himself.

  “You didn’t have to do all of this,” I told him.

  “I wanted to.”

  The thing is, he really did. I had been working late all week, taking jobs that foot the bills and also spending time at the Endangered Language Alliance for my project. But he had other obligations, too. And still, he manages to take care of everyone, Brent, his dad, his business, a bunch of kids that aren’t even his, and now me.

  And I’m going to be in a car with him for over two hours.

  Him and his brother.

  His brother that I’m dating.

  Fake dating.

  Brent meets me at the front door of my building and I follow him to where the car is parked. Marc is there, opening the trunk of the Porsche. I bring my bag over and set it in the back.

  “This is all you have?” he asks.

  “We’re staying for one night, right?” I shade my eyes from the morning sun and squint at him. I only packed one extra outfit for tomorrow, yoga pants to sleep in, and my toiletry items.

  “Yeah. There’s Brent’s bag.” He gestures to a giant suitcase next to my little bag. Beside it is a small backpack that must be Marc’s.

  I laugh. Brent’s suitcase is at least three times the size of my little sack.

  “Hey, I have to fly out early tomorrow for practice,” Brent protests.

  “I’m just messing with you, bro.” Marc shuts the trunk. “You want shotgun?” he asks me.

  “I’ll take the back seat. That way I can sleep.”

  “Smart lady.”

  Brent gets behind the wheel and Marc gets in the passenger side. Then we’re off.

  We haven’t even made it out of the city before they start bickering over the music. Brent wants to listen to reggae and Marc wants to listen to classic rock.

  But eventually Brent gets his way—not shocking—and while the Hudson disappears from view, Bob Marley starts singing about three little birds pitched by his doorstep.

  The first leg of the trip goes by quickly while I ask them about our destination and what to expect. We’ve already discussed that Brent and I have to keep up the charade in front of the Hamiltons. No one can know it’s all a ruse.

  “You guys grew up in Kent?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Brent answers. “There’s a few boarding schools nearby that Dad wanted to send us to, but Mom didn’t want to be far away so they bought a house there. That way we could go to the fancy school but still live at home.”

  There’s a world of unspoken truths in that statement—that perfectly describes their relationship with their dad vs. their relationship with their mom. Something I had already gotten a sense of from all of their previous comments, or lack thereof in Marc’s case. And that was before I met their dad.

  “The Hamiltons were your mom’s best friends?”

  “Jenny and Dan lived next door to them growing up,” Marc says. “They have three kids. The guys are close to our age, but Janice was a surprise—she’s still in high school. They’re pretty awesome. One of their sons, Luke, should be there with his wife, Becky, and their son, but Ian is finishing up medical school in California.”

  “How old is Luke’s son?”

  “Becky just had a baby boy, Colin, a few months ago.”

  They ask about what my family does for the holidays and I explain that my parents have never really been into Thanksgiving, but that all changed when my sister hooked up with Sam. Sam’s family really gets crazy for Thanksgiving, and every other opportunity to get together and eat a bunch of food. I think they even celebrate Flag Day.

  “Seriously, they have like thirty people to their house for dinner. I don’t know how Sam’s mom does it. He has two brothers and a sister, and they all have spouses, then there’s grandparents and cousins and kids running around like hooligans. It’s crazy.”

  “Sounds like fun,” Marc says. “I’ve always wanted to have a big family. Instead we have to ingratiate ourselves with our neighbor’s clan.”

  Brent nods. “And we can’t even get Dad to recognize our birthdays, let alone hang out with us over the holidays.”

  Marc glances over at him sharply, surprised. At the comment, or at the fact that Brent said it out loud?

  “Has he always been like that?” I ask.

  “When Mom was alive,” Marc angles his head toward me so I can hear him better, pointing the unscarred side of his face in my direction, “Dad was around more. I don’t think he necessarily wanted to go to family functions, but she would force him into things. And I think once he was there he had a pretty good time. Ever since she died, he kind of gave up.”

  “That’s sad.”

  Brent gives a small laugh. “I don’t think he’s sad spending time on the beach with his latest swimsuit model.”

  Marc nods. “Yeah, I don’t know. He acts like he’s happy, but he doesn’t seem happy. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Um. No.” Brent clicks on the blinker and checks his blind spot before merging into the next lane.

  “I’m kind of worried I’m going to end up like him,” Marc says, the words quiet.

  Brent laughs. “You will never be like that guy.”

  “I don’t know. I mean, maybe he never wanted to work at Crawford and Company. He was forced into it by his dad and he felt like he couldn’t leave, and that’s why he clings to it so much now. He gave up everything for it.”

  “Is that what you feel like? Like you’ve given something up?” Brent asks.

  Marc shrugs. “I don’t know anymore. When I see the future spread out before me and it involves a corner office with a ton of paperwork . . . I don’t know if I want that to be my life.”

  “Maybe not the rest of your life, but someone has to take care of Dad. And who would run the company when he’s gone?”

  It’s clear to me in that moment that although Brent doesn’t mean anything by the words—and he’s not wrong, it is a family business, and he really is concerned for his dad—he also doesn’t realize the implications of what he’s asking of Marc.

  “You’re right,” Marc says quietly before turning his gaze out the passenger window.

  Marc is a rock, Brent told me.

  Marc is the rock because there is no one else. He steps up and does what he has to do for his family. And for everyone else around him. With little to no regard for himself.

  My chest squeezes for him, for this scarred man who hides so much of himself.

  I speak up from the back seat. “I think you should do whatever will make you happy. Screw the company. Screw your dad. You can find someone else to manage it. Why not just have ownership interest and sell half of it or something? Don’t corporations do that all the time?”

  “It’s not that easy,” Brent says.

  I frown. Brent’s so used to Marc handling everything and acting as a buffer for their dad. What about what Marc wants?

  Marc changes the subject, turning the conversation over to football and Brent’s teammates. They chat about people I don’t know and eventually I doze off, listening to the drone of the tires on the pavement and the soothing sound of d
eep voices.

  “WE’RE HERE.”

  I blink my eyes open and find both brothers turned in their seats watching me.

  “Oh, sorry.” I wipe my eyes and try to tamp down the embarrassment at being so vulnerable in front of two hot guys.

  “You’re cute when you sleep.” Brent’s crooked smile is all sweetness and charm.

  “You drool.” Marc’s deadpan makes me chuckle.

  Brent hits him in the shoulder but Marc winks at me and then they both slide out of the car.

  I stretch for a minute before unfolding myself out of the back seat.

  We’re at the top of the driveway, parked near a detached garage. The Hamiltons’ house is a large two story with a white picket fence and a deep front porch. A bunch of trees surround the expansive property. They probably look amazing when they’re full of leaves, but they’re bare bones right now.

  Marc grabs my bag, but Brent takes it from him and carries it up the steps. Which makes me think . . . “About those sleeping arrangements?”

  “We’ll have separate rooms,” Brent assures me.

  I nod in relief, glad we aren’t expected to keep up the charade that far. Why didn’t I think of this before?

  “Unless,” he adds with a brow wag, “you get lonely and need company.”

  Marc hits him in the shoulder.

  I follow them up to the front door and Brent knocks. “No need to get punchy,” he says to Marc while rubbing his arm.

  “I promise to restrain myself unless you totally deserve it. Which you did for that douchebag comment.”

  I smile, secretly pleased that Marc is so concerned with my honor.

  The door swings open.

  “Brent!” A dark-haired teen girl in a flimsy tank top and yoga pants flings herself into Brent’s arms.

  “Janice, how are you?” Brent hugs her, awkwardly patting her back and not so subtly trying to extricate himself from her embrace.

  Marc steps past them into the entryway and I follow his lead. “Nice to see you, too,” Marc says drily but Janice doesn’t notice.

  I can’t help but giggle and then take a moment to glance around. From the vaulted entryway, it’s clear the house is tastefully decorated. There are cream-colored walls and white wainscoting, thick rugs that cover the hardwood floors, and pictures of kids peppering the walls. The whole setup emanates security and home.

  “Who’s this?”

  Brent has managed to disconnect himself from Janice and she’s eyeing me with more than a little hostility. “I’m Gwen, Brent’s girlfriend.” I stick out a hand.

  “Nice to meet you.” Her handshake is limp. “Hi, Marc.” She finally acknowledges him with a wave. No hug.

  “Where is everyone?” Brent asks her.

  She aims her bright smile at Brent. “They’re in the game room setting up for the championship.”

  “Championship?” I ask.

  “Every year we have an Uno contest,” Marc explains.

  “There’s a whole setup with a chalkboard and a tournament bracket and everything.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Boys! You made it.” A woman comes into the entryway from the back of the house. She’s petite with dark hair like Janice, except her beaming smile is aimed at all of us and not just at Brent. She hugs Marc first, then Brent, and then she hugs me, too. “You must be Gwen, I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “You have?” Marc asks.

  “Well, I’ve heard a little about you from Brent and the rest I’ve read online.”

  I grimace. “That’s a little scary.”

  “Oh, I only believe the good stuff,” she assures me. “Let’s not keep you guys by the door all day. I’ll show you where your rooms are so you can put your bags down and get freshened up. There’s brunch—omelets and waffles and fruit—it’s all in the kitchen if you guys are hungry.”

  “That sounds amazing.”

  We follow her up the wide staircase that leads from the entry to the upper floor and she talks the entire time. “I’m putting you guys in the boys’ old rooms so you’ll be sharing the connecting bathroom, and Gwen, you get the guest room.” She keeps going, talking about how they’re smoking a turkey for dinner and how big Luke’s babies are getting.

  We stop in front of my room first and I escape inside with a quick thanks, shutting the door behind me. I toss my bag and then myself on the soft-looking comforter of the queen-sized bed.

  This is going to be interesting.

  I SPEND ABOUT TWENTY minutes gathering my wits and getting comfortable in the guest room before I head downstairs.

  I find Jenny in the kitchen, where she introduces me to her daughter-in-law, her son Luke’s wife, Becky. They look like they’ve stepped out of a Lands’ End catalogue in coordinating sweater sets and mom bobs, but Becky’s smile is genuine and she greets me with a hug, just like Jenny did.

  “It’s so nice to meet you. Are you hungry? We ate brunch already but we saved some for you and the guys.”

  “I’m starved actually. I skipped breakfast.”

  Jenny shows me a side table where they’ve set up a little belgian waffle station with different toppings, along with fruit and an assortment of pastries.

  “This looks amazing. Thank you for going to all this trouble.”

  Jenny waves a hand at me. “It’s nothing. Here, let me show you how the waffle maker works.”

  She helps me create a stack of waffles covered in chocolate sauce and strawberries and whipped cream.

  Marc and Brent come downstairs and pile up plates of their own, so I don’t feel too self-conscious stuffing my face in front of Becky and Jenny.

  I listen and eat while they all catch up on happenings around the neighborhood and within their respective families. Jenny asks me questions occasionally about my own family and what they’re doing for the holidays so I don’t feel like the odd man out.

  Once we’ve finished eating, Luke comes into the kitchen. He’s a handsome guy, with dark hair and square-shaped glasses. He has a sleeping baby strapped to his chest, a chunky little guy wearing a onesie covered in cartoon turkeys. Luke kisses his wife on the cheek before coming over to shake my hand.

  Jenny gives me a tour of the house—which Brent and Marc decide to crash. After she shows me around the house, I meet Dan in the backyard where he’s watching the smoker, which basically involves him sitting on a lounge chair bundled up in a coat and beanie with a beer in his hand. He greets me with as much warmth as the rest of the family, though. And that’s the part of the tour where we lose the guys.

  “Does it really need to be watched?” I ask Jenny when we’re back in the kitchen, just her, Becky, and I.

  “No. It’s what he likes to pretend to do, when really he’s out there sneaking cigars with the guys.”

  “Kind of like what we’re doing in here,” Becky laughs. “Minus the cigars.”

  There’s not much work to be done in the kitchen. Jenny already made pie and prepped all of the side dishes for dinner.

  “And now,” she says, “we hang out in the kitchen pretending there’s so much to do when really we just talk and drink mimosas.”

  “I can get behind that.”

  Luke comes in then and hands the baby off to Becky before disappearing back outside.

  “We take turns,” she tells me.

  “Your son is so beautiful.” I watch him yawn in her arms, his little mouth stretching and his tiny fingers reaching.

  “Do you want to hold him?”

  “Can I? Let me wash my hands first. I haven’t held someone so tiny since my niece and nephews were little.” I put my mimosa down and wash up before holding out my arms to take him.

  She gently hands him over and I make sure to take care with his head, adjusting until he’s safely in the crook of my arm, watching me with big eyes and attempting to grab at my hair.

  “Watch out, he’s strong. He’ll pull those beautiful blonde locks right out.”

  “It’s fine, I’m used t
o it.”

  “I bet you’re a great aunt,” Jenny says, her smile widening. She winks at Becky.

  Becky laughs. “What she’s trying to say is you’ll be a great mom when you and Brent get married and have super-hot babies.”

  Heat fills my face. “We’re not getting married. We’ve barely started dating.”

  “Yeah, but he hasn’t brought anyone home since Bella,” Jenny says. “And don’t tell anyone, but I never liked that girl. Too insecure. Too much of a pushover. I bet one of her friends convinced her to break up with Brent and she followed like a lemming. You’re much more assertive, I can tell.”

  “You were best friends with their mom, right?” I’ve been itching to get more information on Marc’s mom and his childhood.

  She nods. “I know I’m like a second mom to those boys, but Cindy’s shoes are hard to fill.”

  “Brent and Marc have talked about her. It sounds like she was an amazing woman.”

  “She was,” Jenny agrees. “She did more for those kids than anyone could imagine. She worked to keep them down-to-earth. Even though they had money to live in the biggest of mansions, they grew up here. Just next door. It was important to her that they had a normal childhood, not like their dad.”

  “Mr. Crawford didn’t have a normal childhood?” I ask.

  “He grew up in the city. Cindy always felt like having all that money thrown at him his whole life made him a bit broken somehow. His parents cared more about appearances than anything else. And they fought like crazy, both passionate and hot-tempered. They never got along with each other. I think it gave Albert a distorted view of what a real relationship should be like.”

  “That’s kind of sad,” Becky says.

  “They loved each other a lot, but Albert’s dad sort of poisoned him against her.”

  “How so?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “It seemed to me that he was jealous, since his own life had been all about the business and not about his family. He resented that Albert tried to have the best of both worlds. Anyway, Cindy always made sure Marc and Brent weren’t just thrown to tutors and given everything they wanted. And she showered them with affection and love. Any material things, she made them work for. Her own family was poor, which was another point of contention between Albert and his father.”