“It’s nothing compared to Harry’s work in food security and education reform,” she says proudly.
I glance at Harry, who seems completely exasperated. Without the last name, you might never know Harry was a bajillionaire. Sure, he smells like money—it’s impossible not to when you’re practically bathed in it from infancy. But while his father and brother drink fifty-year old scotch and drive custom-built Maseratis, Harry prefers Pacifico and seems horrified when his baby brother’s photos find their way into Glam Magazine. Honestly, I feel a little bad for him. Because despite growing up with this, right now he looks as uncomfortable as I do.
“It was imperative for Arthur and I to pass down our generosity to the next generation, his mother continues, waving her hand as if trying to swat a very slow, invisible fly.
“If only it had worked forbothmy children.”
I jump as Matthew practically slams his fist against the table.
“I’m a philanthropist too,Mother.”
“Oh yes, I forgot,” she says pointedly. “Dressage for orphans. What a noble endeavor.”
“It’spoloforrefugees,” Matthew spits back. “Horses are very therapeutic.”
“Right. A leftover from that British girl you were chasing in college. What was her name? Kendall? Kiki? Honestly, I can’t keep up. Matthew never brings them home, you see,” Patricia drawls, addressing me and Jules. “Too embarrassed of his poor mother to introduce them.”
Matthew takes a very long slug of his scotch while I shove a piece of bread into my mouth whole and give silent thanks that nobody wants my opinion. You could cut the tension at this table with a butcher knife.
But unfortunately, Patricia uses the awkward silence to hit me with every almost thirty-year-old’s favorite question.
“What about you, Stella? And are there any young men in the picture? Or, perhaps, not so young?”
Did this woman do a background check on me? I try not to look like I’ve just checked the outstanding balance on my student loan payment.
“Mom, please. Stop prying into people’s private lives,” Harry pipes in again, this time more frustrated.
“What? I’ve heard an alarming number of professors end up dating their students.”
I nearly choke on my bread. That would be a yes on the background check.
“Stella’s very focused on work,” Jules answers for me. “And her standards areimpossible.”
Well, maybeoneof those things is true.
“I prefer the term carefully curated,” I interject.
Patricia laughs dryly.
“Lord, you sound just like Harry,” she says in exasperation. “I’m not sure he met a woman even remotely up to snuff until his late twenties. You know, when he went off to college andstillhadn’t had a girlfriend, Arthur and I worried he might be a…” she lowers her voice to a whisper. “Homosexual.”
“Here we go.” Harry slaps down his fork a little too loudly, covering up my choke of astonishment. “God forbid someone be gay in this family. You really ought to listen to yourself, Mom.”
“Oh, stop it, Harry. You know I have no problem with the gays. I just don’t need to hear about their exploits.”
“Then here’s an idea,” Harry bites back sarcastically, “don’t ask.”
“The gays’.” Matthew half-whispers as he drains his drink. “Clearly no problem.”
I cringe and kick Jules’s foot beneath the table as Patricia waves them off.
“There was one lovely girl who just adored him at school—Claire Figgins, of the Charleston Figgins?” she offers, undeterred, as if I have any idea what line of quasi-oligarchs she’s talking about. “We always hoped he’d come to his senses and make a move. She would have been such a good match for him. But alas.”
I stiffen, my eyes darting to Jules with a look that says, is this really happening? But Jules is staring so intently at her food, the forced smile on her face amore fragile than an antique vase, that I can’t get her attention. I guess she wasn’t wrong to think Patricia’s still sizing her up.
“It’s a good thing he didn’t, or we might not be sitting here with you, Jules!” Arthur mercifully interrupts. Despite being on his fourth glass of scotch, apparently he’s not too drunk to notice the tension created by his wife.
“Cheers to that,” Harry puts one hand on Jules’s as he raises his glass, and I lift my glass to back him up.
