As soon as they notice me, everyone stops talking abruptly.
“Sorry, am I late?” I ask, suddenly terrified I miscalculated something. “I swore the itinerary said seven.”
Patricia sets down her champagne.
“Dinner isservedat seven, dear. Cocktail hour starts at six-thirty.”
I swallow. So much for my attempt at exemplary oldersister. I sit down in the only empty chair, where a little bronze placard with my name engraved flanks a set of approximately one thousand gold-rimmed plates. Thank baby Jesus, I’m sitting next to Steven. Unfortunately, I’m also sitting right across from Patricia, which puts her at the perfect angle to see right through my facade ofnothaving just jumped her captain in the elevator. She looks like she’s making a mental note of my transgression to add to a long-running tab.
Don’t be weird,I instruct myself. They’re just people, Stella. Don’t be?—
“Stella, are you alright?” Patricia asks me, and the tower of cards that is my sense of decorum threatens to crumble. “You’re gripping your fork like a murder weapon.”
I look down at my hand to see that I have, in fact, latched on to one of my approximately thirty-seven gold forks quite aggressively.
“Fine,” I cover nervously, earning an eyebrow raise from Jules. “Just a bit of a headache.”
“Well, that’s no surprise,” she says. “You really shouldn’t wrinkle your forehead like that. Terrible consequences down the line. How old are you? Thirty?”
“Twenty-eight,” I feign a smile.
“Oh, my. Well, it’s too late to get an early start, but you really ought to consider Botox. I wish they’d had it when I was your age—could have avoided this whole mess!”
She points aggressively to the barely visible wrinkles around her eyes- probably the only thing her facelift couldn’t hide. She says it as if aging is somehow offensive.
“Best to start before things get away from you. I have an excellent doctor in Brentwood—I’m happy to pass along his number.”
I look to Jules, hoping to convey the depths of my despair, but she just gives me that eyebrow-shrug she’s so famous for.
“Sure,” I smile, ready to stab out my own eyes with the offending utensil. “Thanks.”
“So. What do you do for work, Stella?” Arthur asks me as Gia hands him a fresh cocktail.
“Honestly, Arthur,” Patricia butts in. “You’ve only heard this a thousand times. She’s an art teacher.”
Patricia nearly screams the last two words as if Arthur is deaf instead of just ancient.
“I’m a fellow at Carver University,” I answer him. “I’m working towards my PhD in Art History.”
Liar.
“I’m sure that’s quite time consuming,” Patricia offers. “It must be, since you weren’t able to commit to this trip until last week.”
“Mom,” Harry cuts her off. “We’re just happy you came, Stella. It was important to all of us that thewhole familygot to join in on this trip.”
At least someone at this table is standing up for me. I give Harry what I hope is my most winning smile while I grip spoon number three so hard my hand starts to go numb.
“Of course, you mustn’t feel guilty,” Patricia says. I wasn’t. “Maybe some of your work ethic will rub off on my vagabond of a youngest son.”
Matthew laughs, but I think it’s more to avoid throwing his plate in his mother’s face than from actual amusement.
“You know, we support quite a few philanthropic endeavors in the art world,” Patricia muses, taking a sip of her dry martini. “I’m sure Harry’s told you?”
“I noticed the Monet in your bedroom. It’s a beautiful piece,” I tell her.
“My mother is quite heavily involved with the California Commission for the Arts,” Harry tells me.
Patricia glares at Matthew. Or, at least, I’m pretty sure that’s what her face is doing.
