CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
HANK
Two weeks later...
I drive, and Elliot sits scooched down in the passenger seat as we head toward his parents’ home, cruising across a neighborhood of mansions not far from downtown. I’m in a casual suit with suspenders, and Elliot wears a pale blue, feminine suit that flows at his wrist with a light fabric.
It’s been a chaotic two weeks with fallout from the scandal dominating my time at work, and Elliot’s been buried in an onslaught of new opportunities and professional challenges. He’s managed to keep on top of his old clients and develop some freelance opportunities, too, but we’ve both been in a whirlwind.
The invitation to dinner from his parents came as a surprise, and Elliot and I both are uneasy. Darryl Peterson hasn’t mentioned Elliot once at work, and he hasn’t reached out to his son otherwise, either. But Elliot is approaching this dinner from a very different place than the last time he saw them, arriving as himself instead of hiding away in a defensive retreat.
Whatever his parents want, we’ll face it together.
“You’re going to see my childhood home,” Elliot says from his ducked position. “I wish my bedroom were still there to show you, but they turned it into a guest room the moment I left.”
“I’ll still be glad to see where you grew up.”
“Assuming this entire thing isn’t an ambush.”
Some nerves stir in my belly as I pull through and park in the rear of the squat, ivy-covered mansion. It’s dinner at my boss’s home and a bizarre version of meeting the in-laws, all rolled into one.
We walk up a wide staircase and enter a foyer with antique furnishings and dim lights, where Mr. and Mrs. Peterson join us. Greetings are stiff but polite. I’ve met Elliot’s mother at a work event, and she has a similar demeanor to his father, formal, distant, and practiced. They lead us to a sitting room where tea is brought out with a tray of crackers, and on some antique furniture likely worth more than my vehicle, Elliot’s hand slips into mine.
Darryl Peterson glances at the affection like we’re letting off a stink-bomb in his mansion before clearing his throat and looking away. “We thought it best to have you over for dinner,” he says, “in an attempt to keep some peace.”
Elliot an I exchange a look. At least this visit isn’t hostile.
He clears his throat and continues, clearly struggling. “Mr. Hansley has an interest in hiking,” he says to his wife.
She nods at me. “That must be healthy, I suppose. An excuse to travel all over the world.”
I manage a smile. Global travel hasn’t fit my budget, though. “Mainly around Seattle. But we’re blessed with plenty to appreciate in our backyard.”
“And what about your family? Are they in finance?” she asks.
“My parents own an upholstery shop,” I say.
There’s a moment of awkward silence where no one knows what to say, interrupted finally with the announcement that dinner is ready.
Dinner provides plenty of opportunities to discuss the history of the cutlery, drapery, and the table. After desert, I think that we’re in the clear. It’s been awkward, but we’ve managed to avoid discussing any sensitive matters, everyone’s careers left out of the picture. This could even indicate that my job is safe. Right as I’m ready to release a sigh of relief, though, Elliot’s dad asks me to join him in the den for a brandy.
I glance to Elliot for help or approval, I’m not sure which, and he nods. “Dad loves his brandy after dinner,” Elliot says. As we all shuffle our seats, he leans close to whisper in my ear. “I guess he decided you’re the man of the relationship.”
“Lucky me,” I whisper back.
Only slightly unnerved, I follow Darryl Peterson into another big wooden room with high ceilings, this one featuring several mounted elk heads. He talks about currency exchange rates while he fixes us each a drink, and we sit in opposite armchairs.
“As I understand it, your relationship with my son is serious. Do I have that right?”
I swallow. “Yes, I believe it is,” I answer and take a sip of the brandy.
“Although this is not a scenario I would have chosen to have with one of my employees, I can see that there are benefits,” he says. “A discreet man will be good for my son, and family can be trusted, so you’ll be especially valuable to me at work. I handle sensitive information, I’m sure you know.” He clears his throat lightly. “Understand?”
My nerves prick up. I hardly want a relationship where my boss is expecting me to keep my boyfriend in line, and he makes it sound like we’re organized criminals. Whatever secrets he wants me to keep at work, I’d likely rather not know.
“I’m glad that you are open to our relationship,” I say carefully, and my thoughts suddenly flicker to the article I read in the newsletter, the retiring accountant at the forest service. The life and career she was describing call to me.
When I reach my retirement, will I want to write an article like that? Or will I be left reflecting on strained interpersonal relationships instead, decades caught between my boss and Elliot? That would trouble both my career and my relationship.
