It’s the stress, I reminded myself.The stress is getting to you. And the lack of sleep.
“So wonderful to have you this evening,” Ethel greeted us as the butler led us into a formal sitting room. I hoped Tess didn’t feel underdressed. But really, maybe Ethel was overdressed. She was wearing a full-on beaded evening gown for the occasion.
“Thank you for inviting us,” I said.
“We’ll have cocktails and hors d’oeuvres before supper. Please help yourselves. What would you like to drink?” Ethel asked me. “My late husband had an excellent collection of scotch. We have a nice Macallan.”
“Yes, neat, please,” I said.
“Are you girls ready to go back to school?” she asked, bending over to talk to my sisters.
“No,” they chorused.
Ethel raised a thin eyebrow.
“They’ve already completed their workbooks,” I said, starting to grow concerned. Ethel couldn’t think that I had allowed the girls to lounge around during their suspension. “They are caught up on their schoolwork and homework, and they’ve been doing some reading.”
“Oh, what are you reading?”
“Jessica Simpson’s new memoire,Open Book,” Enola said.
For fuck’s sake. What the hell was Tess doing with them?
“Aren’t you also reading some classics?” I prodded.
“Yes,” Enola said happily. “We’re reading Jane Austen.”
“Mr. Darcy is so dreamy,” Annie swooned, clasping her hands together.
I thought Ethel was going to faint. She knocked back her drink and grabbed onto the back of a chair.
“My daughter had an obsession with romance heroes,” she said. “That’s one of the reasons she ran off.”
“They’re just reading for fun,” I assured her hastily. “They don’t actually believe any of the romance nonsense, do you, girls?”
“It’s not nonsense. It’s beautiful; it’s art,” Tess argued.
“You mean like that painting you have hanging up in the living room?” I said more harshly than I intended.
“How about we all go on an outing to the Metropolitan Museum of Art?” Ethel suggested. “They have so much wonderful artwork.”
“We should find some art for the condo,” Enola told me. “Tess found her painting at a thrift store.”
“We are not buying paintings at a thrift store.” I scoffed. “Our brother, Archer, collects art. I’m sure he’d be happy to help you all choose some investment pieces.”
Next to me, Tess’s back was ramrod straight, and she wasn’t saying a word, just stoically chewing on her hors d’oeuvre. I suddenly felt slightly bad. We had been disparaging her choice of art.
I would make it up to her later.
“You can choose some art you like too,” I told Tess. But she just stoically continued to chew, her jaw working furiously. I hoped it was because the food was good, but she was probably angry with me and ignoring me.
I peered at her face.
Wait, what was she eating?
21
Tess
