“Oh. I’m sorry. Did I get that wrong?” Her smile doesn’t waver as her attention jumps between us. “Let me start again. Polly,” she says, offering me her hand.
“Raif. Raif Deveraux.”
Lavender giggles—nerves maybe—but turns it into a clearing of her throat.
“So lovely to meet you, Raif.” The Whittington matriarch’s handshake is firm.
“Yes, Raif,” Lavender grumbles. “ObviouslynotTod, but I am allowed other guests, you know.”
“Of course you are, darling.” There’s a note of warm chastisement in her mother’s smooth reply.
“I apologize for the lack of notice,” I say with my most charming smile.
“No, not at all.” She glances her daughter’s way. “My home is always open, though Lavender rarely brings anyone home.”
“Except Tod!” calls the younger girl’s voice from behind the closed door.
“See?” Lavender mutters. A look passes between mother and daughter, a whole conversation seeming to take place.
“My contribution,” I interject, offering up the two bottles of Masseto I’d thought to bring along.
“Oh, how lovely,” she replies, taking them from my hands. “Come on through to the kitchen, and we’ll open it.”
So we do.
“You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Whittington.”
As she splashes a liberal measure of the blood-red liquid into two glasses, she pauses and looks up with a kind smile.
I’m not being disingenuous. It is beautiful, if not quite what I was expecting. The country-style kitchen is obviously bespoke and built as much for use as for looks. The butcher-block countertops are cluttered with half-peeled vegetables and cooking utensils.
“Please, call me Polly,” she says, pressing a glass into my hand. “Everyone does. Including my children,” she tacks on a little unhappily.
“Not usually to your face,” Lavender says, pulling open a cabinet to reveal a built-in fridge. She pulls out a can of soda, cracking it open with an obnoxiousness I’m certain has taken her years to perfect. “Who’s for lunch?” she demands, slurping from the can.
Her mother frowns her way. I find myself doing the same, though not for the same reason. She’s still holding her sweater over her ring.
“Primrose, Brin, and El,” her mother says.
One of those names causes a flicker of something inside me. Interesting. For the past few weeks, hearing that name would’ve caused anything from a wave of fury to a lick of resentment. But today, I feel… none of those things.
Cause and effect.
“Heather and Archer might pop along later,” Polly adds, “but Leif and Mimi are in Miami, I think. Or was it Barbados this week? And El, of course, is still in Tokyo. Which leaves—” Her words halt, and in a blink, she crosses the kitchen. “Lavender?” Polly takes away the soda can without relinquishing her daughter’s hand.
“Surprise,” Lavender says weakly.
“Is that—is that an engagement ring?” Polly’s gaze moves my way, but before I have a chance to say something, Lavender draws her attention.
“No, it’s not.”
“Oh, well.” A breath rushes out of her. Relief, I think. Short-lived, whatever it is. “Silly me.”
“It’s a diamond wedding band,” Lavender adds with an upward inflection.
“A what?” This time, Polly’s eyes look like they might fall out of her head as it whips around.
“Ow! You’ve got fingers like crab’s claws, Mum. Let go.”
