“Ha, yes, my husband’s communications director mentioned that I was a regular in the society pages on the Hill and back at home in Orange County. We were a power couple. I’m afraid I’ve been too busy to look at them myself, but I’m sure I’m the media darling du jour because of Dick’s sudden death. The widow sympathy, I suppose. Sooner or later they’ll point their cameras in another direction,” Amelia says through tight lips.
I’m glad she didn’t add that the press likes her better than Roxy. I know she wanted to.This is going well, I think, feeling the familiar tension of one-upmanship fill the room. These two are born sparring partners, have been since college. The term “frenemy” springs to mind. I have no idea if Amelia still enjoys drinking as much as she did back in the day, but in our undergradyears, she was rather notorious. I don’t read the society columns, for obvious reasons, nor have I ever been photographed for the party pages. Roxy and Amelia both appear regularly in their respective cities, I’m sure.
Roxy and Ryan lead us into a thoroughly remodeled and modernized kitchen, nothing like the one in my college memories, thank goodness. The original terra-cotta tiles have been meticulously restored, and the cabinets, no doubt inspired by Spanish Colonial design, are rich dark wood, with carved details and wrought iron hardware. The warm color palette is a nod to an earlier era, with earthy tones like terra-cotta, muted blues, and olive greens. Sunlight floods in through the windows, accentuating the gleaming stainless-steel appliances and the polished granite countertops. The backsplash features what must be hand-painted tiles in vibrant colors and geometric patterns. Open shelving displays a curated collection of vintage cookware, adding even more character to the space. I’m captivated by the charm of the kitchen and decide that maybe everything will be fine.
“Hey, wait a minute,” Amelia says. “This place feels familiar.”
My shoulders find my ears again as my neck tenses. Ryan touches my shoulder.
“I’m certain you’ve never been here, Amelia. It was a family estate until we bought it,” Ryan says. “I know your husband did a lot of fundraisers out here in the desert, so maybe it reminds you of one you attended.”
“No, it’s not a place I’ve been for a fundraiser. I know, it feelslike—oh my God, that place we stayed during senior year, that horrible trip,” Amelia says. Her face has drained of color, and as she leans back against the kitchen counter, her black linen dress seems to crumple with her. “Now I do need that drink.”
“And we’ll be happy to oblige you. But I’m surprised you remember much about that trip. You hit the margaritas pretty hard, if memory serves,” Roxy says airily.
“It was spring break. Margaritas were practically a requirement. And I was hardly the only one in the bar,” Amelia says with a huff, her New England accent coming through when she is angry like it did in college. Brett chuckles beside her until she narrows her eyes at him.
“Well, in any event, Gentry House might share some design elements with where we stayed,” Roxy says, “but this place has never been a hotel, always a private residence. Ryan bought it for me, to save it from being torn down. It was such a lovely surprise. He’s so thoughtful,” she says, placing her diamond-encrusted right hand over her heart. “So romantic, too, don’t you think? I mean buying this whole place and fixing it up, all for me.”
“Whatever floats your boat, I guess,” Amelia says. “It’s a little creepy how much it looks like that spring break hotel. Much nicer decor, but the same feeling in every room I’ve seen so far. I mean the entry foyer was like the hotel’s; this kitchen is nicely redone, but the bones are the same. You do see that, don’t you? But glad you’re happy with the surprise,” Amelia says, shaking her head, clearly as stunned as I am with their choice of a second home.
Ryan walks over to what must be a vintage wooden tray bearing a dozen or so orange-colored, fizzy-looking cocktails in festive crystal glasses. Each drink is adorned with an orange slice and a white-and-orange-striped straw.
Ryan hands one to me. “Aperol spritz, Roxy’s favorite. Of course.”
Of course. Whatever Roxy wants, Roxy gets. I accept the cocktail with a smile.
“Cheers, Beth!” Ryan says before turning to fetch some more Aperol Spritzes.
“Cheers,” I say as Zach, who looks just like his dad, and Celeste burst into the room, holding hands, blissfully unaware of the tension of the moment. They only have eyes for each other. It has been a whirlwind courtship. When Zach popped the question, I was been shocked.
“Are you sure about this? It’s so soon,” I’d said to Celeste when she called me with the good news.
“Mom, when you find Mr. Right, you know it,” she’d answered. She turned on FaceTime and showed me the huge diamond engagement ring. “Isn’t it gorgeous?”
I had to admit it was, but why the rush? “It is. And you are too. But you’re in law school and, well, you’re young, honey.”
“Mom, why can’t you be happy for me?” she’d said, her face falling into a frown.
I’d taken a deep breath. I should be happy for her; I knew that. Fate works in mysterious ways. I smile at Celeste now, so happy, sipping an Aperol Spritz, Zach’s arm wrapped around her shoulders.
“What a reunion,” Brett says as he grabs a drink from Ryan and slaps him on the back. “Who would have thought I’d be here with all of you popular people. It’s great.”
He continues to annoy me, but I’m not sure why. I guess it’s the good-old-boy, jock act. He’s too old for it.
“If you were hoping for a college reunion, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. This is a celebration for my daughter and the Gentrys’ son,” I say to Brett as I feel a headache brewing behind my eyes. I need to lighten up, I know I do. “We are all here for them. This is their weekend.” I press my fingers against my temple hoping to dull the pain.
Celeste is by my side, welcome drink in her hand. “What’s wrong, Mom? Are you OK?”
No. “Yes, I’m fine. I want to make sure the guests of honor don’t get overshadowed by silly sorority talk. Cheers to young love!”
Ryan meets my eyes and mouthssorry. I shrug. What else can I do? I’ll need to get over the shock of the setting. I knew I was coming back to the desert, but I didn’t realize how triggering Gentry House would be, how similar it would feel to the place I never wanted to see again.
Celeste squeezes my hand. I smile at my daughter. My only choice is to focus on her happiness, on her future, accept the things I cannot change, and try to forget about the past.
8
Roxy
