Chapter 59

Well, I don’t know what I was hoping for. 

I take a sip of my wine, which goes down smooth and lacks the acidic after-taste that all the three-dollar bottles Mom sometimes snags from work seem to have. 

“Oh, it’s nothin’ crazy,” she says, but clutches Rick’s hand in hers. “But it was romantic. We met in California. Venice Beach. Almost five years to…well, next week actually. It was right after the holidays. I was lyin’ on the beach, wearing this little red bikini. You remember that bikini, Rick?” 

Rick grunts something too unintelligible for me to make out. 

“And, so, he came up to me, wanting to bum a beer from, well…” She turns bashful. “I’m not exactly proud of this, but I was there with another man. Nobody serious. Just some guy I was seeing at the time. He had a time-share right on the beach he got to use during the off-season and treated me to a trip. Honestly, I don’t even remember his name.” Her eyebrows scrunch together. “Robbie? No. Not Rhett, either. It was –” 

“Ralph,” I cut in. “His name was Ralph.” 

Mom blinks. “Right. Ralph. That’s it.” She chuckles. “Poppy’s got a much better memory than I do.” 

“Well, you left me with Ralph’s cousin for five days.” It slips out a little more sharply than intended. 

“Was it five days?” Her forehead creases even more. “Honey, I think you’re exaggerating. It was, like, two days. If that.” 

“It was five.” 

Her smile’s primed to cut like one of the knives on the table. “If you say so, honey. Anyway, back to the story…” 

I grind my teeth in frustration as Mom recounts Rick’s shameless pickup lines on the beach. 

She can’t seriously think it was only two days. 

Then again, I do have a better memory than Mom – if only because mine’s not selective. 

And I certainly remember that holiday more than others. I spent Christmas Eve helping Ralph’s cousin, Reba, make jello shots for the block party she was throwing – and then promptly snuck off to watch bad cable on the futon in the basement when her guests started to get too rowdy. 

“...come a week later, and he’s road-tripping his pickup all the way down to Mobile,” she finishes with another googly-eyed stare in Rick’s direction. “And we haven’t looked back since, have we, Rick?” 

“Right,” Rick mutters, and at her expectant look, adds, “Haven’t look back once.” 

Mom sighs. “And, of course, he’s really stepped up for Poppy too. Been there more for her than her actual father ever has.” 

And here’s my least favorite topic – Rick’s non-existent paternal instincts. 

Don’t say anything. 

Don’t say anything. 

Just survive the dinner. 

Adrian puts a hand on my thigh and squeezes, a silent gesture that suggests, while my mother may be oblivious to the tension radiating off me, he isn’t. 

It calms me down. 

Marginally. 

Again, the waiter has impeccable timing, returning to take orders and offering a momentary lapse from Mom waxing poetic about Rick. Adrian orders the whitefish, Mom and I opt for filet mignons, and Rick decides on a thirty-four ounce tomahawk, which reminds that I’ll need to sit here and watch him eat thirty-four ounce tomahawk. 

“He’s the glue that keeps our family together –” 

And she’s at it again. 

“ – though we’ll be empty nesters soon as Poppy traipses off to New York to draw her ‘lil pictures.” Another laugh. 

I roll my eyes. “They’re more than ‘little pictures.’” 

“Oh, honey, you know I’m just jokin.’” As always, her tone’s as sweet as sugar to disguise the bite of her words. “Your drawings are real cute. Honest.” 

I bristle, but this time, it’s Adrian who jumps to my defense. “Actually, Poppy’s an amazing artist. I’ve seen her work. She’s a true natural talent.” 

By that, he means he cornered me in my dorm room, flipped through my sketchbook, and then stole it. 

Strangely enough, the memory of it doesn’t spark any anger – just the realization that trying to get Adrian in trouble and confronting him at the pool might as well be a million years ago. 

“Oh, of course she is.” Mom takes a generous sip of her wine and giggles. “Well, except for –” 

My stomach twists. “I don’t think we need to tell that story.” 

Mom stretches one hand toward me. “Oh, come on, honey. It was cute. Everyone thought it was really cute.” She addresses Adrian next, her brown eyes sparkling with mirth. “So, one of our old neighbors, this nice little old lady named Ms. Shelby, knew how much Poppy liked to draw and commissioned her to do a painting for Mr. Shelby. It was supposed to be a recreation of their wedding photo. An anniversary present or somethin.’ Planned to pay Poppy and everythin.’” 

I have the sudden urge to walk into the kitchen and ask them to butcher me for dinner instead. 

“Well, Poppy spends weeks workin’ on this thing. She’s so diligent about it, won’t let anyone see it till it’s done,” Mom explains. “But finally, she presents it to Ms. Shelby and…” 

My face floods with heat. 

I’m watching a car crash. 

My car crash. 

“Well, lovely as some of her art may be, that one was not.” Her shoulders shake with barely contained laughter. “I mean, really, you should’ve seen Ms. Shelby’s face when she saw that painting. The proportions were all off – Mr. Shelby had a head the size of a watermelon, the body of a pencil. Ms. Shelby’s nose was massive, and Poppy forgot to include her grandmother’s broach in the drawing, but somehow, managed to paint every single one of the woman’s wrinkles.”

“For the record, I was ten,” I interject. “And had never actually painted anything in my life.” 

“That poor woman,” Mom finishes. She’s dabbing at her eyes now, drawn to the point of tears by my embarrassment. “Never said a bad word about it. I mean, her face said plenty, but not a word. She paid Poppy and everythin.’” 

This spurns another round of chuckling from Mom and Rick, but I’m not watching them anymore. 

With my stomach tied in knots, I’m watching Adrian. 

And he’s not laughing. 

He’s smiling, of course. The same polite smile that’s slipped beneath the defenses of Dean Robins and Professor Ayala and countless other authority figures. 

But his eyes, trained on my mother, are dead. 

“What a charming story,” he says. 

“See, honey?” Mom turns to me. “You take yourself too seriously with this ‘artist’ thing sometimes. It’s okay to lighten up.” 

“Well, she has a right to,” Adrian tells her. “In a couple months, I suspect she’ll be accepting an offer from Harvard’s Art School.” 

Silence blankets the table. 

Mom blinks at me, her amusement fading. “What?” 

Fucking great. 

The scent of sizzling fat and melted butter assaults my nose as the waiter drops in again, this time bearing our orders. 

Mom doesn’t spare her filet mignon a glance, too busy gaping at me. 

I finish off my glass of wine. 

“Another bottle, Mr. Ellis?” The waiter asks. “We’d be more than happy to pull something else out of the cellar. A 2004 Bordeaux maybe?” 

Adrian waves him off, the waiter disappears, and the tension returns ten-fold. 

“Poppy, is this true?” Her entire face has creased like a crumpled napkin. “You’re going to Harvard?” 

I shoot Adrian a glare. “Nothing’s set in stone.” 

“All but stone,” Adrian retorts. He doesn’t look the least bit remorseful about dropping an atomic bomb right on tonight’s tenuous peace. “Come fall, your daughter’s going to be a Harvard student.” 

I kick him under the table. 

Rick grunts. “Hey, who kicked me?” 

Whoops. 

“Harvard…” Mom repeats. “You’re going to Harvard.” This time, there’s no quip, no backhanded compliment to follow. 

“Or Pratt,” I add. “I haven’t made a decision.” 

“And this is…” She finishes her glass of wine. “For your art stuff?”

“Yes.” 

“Jesus…” The full-strength of her southern accent leaks through as she processes the news, but I know better than to think I’ve rendered her completely speechless. If Mae Davis excels at anything, it’s taking good news – but especially my good news – and poking holes in it. 

I ready myself for the puncture wound.

She addresses Rick next, her only clear ally left at the table. “And here I didn’t realize you needed to go all the way to New York or Harvard just to learn how to draw some pictures. ‘Specially not with all that natural talent, but…” She finally glances in my direction, a smile splitting her face. “Congratulations, honey. That’s great news. I’m real happy for you.” 

I exhale sharply. “Thanks.”