In her mind she expected Grant to get married in a bougie, black-tie event at the Grand Bohemian in Charlotte, with three hundred guests, lavish florals, a towering three-tier cake, and all her closest friends fawning over it in jealousy. Having to attend a forty-person affair in the middle of a national park, among the tourists, was never in her realm of possibilities.
“Because it’s what they want, and it’s their wedding?” I clarify.
“Grant only thinks this is what he wants because that woman’s brainwashed him with her hippy-dippy nonsense,” she argues.
For the record,hippy-dippy nonsenseis socialite speak for Meredith being a massage therapist and holistic healer. Sure, she might pay attention to the phases of the moon a little too closely and try to explain our behaviors based on our birth charts, but my mother acts as if she’s one step away from becoming a Manson Girl, convincing Grant to forfeit his inheritance to a mystical guru.
My mother takes a sip of her wine and grimaces, grabbing the bottle to inspect the label.
From the cheap graphics, I’m certain that this variety must be closer to Two-Buck Chuck than the aged merlot she’s accustomed to, but it doesn’t stop her from chugging half the glass.
“You know we offered to pay for the wedding? Unlimited budget. But no,” she gripes. “She has to be one with nature, whatever the hell that means.”
Thanks to the very long and very loud FaceTime sessions Katherine and Meredith shared, I already knew about my mother’s offer. I also knew that Meredith turned her down, making me respect her even more. Coming from a single-income home, living with her aunt after her parents’ deaths, Meredith doesn’t care about money. She’s never abused the lifestyle Grant has offered her and, ifanything, being together has made Grant more aware of his privilege, forcing him to do something good with it. When I heard that she got him to donate to the Humane Society and help out at one of the local Food Not Bombs fundraisers, I was genuinely shocked.
My mother taps her long plastic nails against the counter, distraught. “I just want the best for my youngest boy. Is that so wrong?”
“I know,” I say, gritting my teeth. Although Grant isn’t hers, she’s given him more care and compassion than she ever awarded me. At first, I thought her overly doting mother act was an attempt to fill the hole that was left after Grant’s mom died of cancer when he was nine, but watching her flaunt him around the club as the perfect son, I realized he was just another symbol of her newfound status. And I was an outdated model she wanted to separate herself from.
“Just know when you and Katherine get married, we’ll do it right,” she states. “That girl, she’ll love my ideas.”
I stiffen at the thought.
Susan adored Katherine from the moment I introduced them, fawning over her as if she were the Duchess of Sussex. From brunching together to shopping sprees and monthly dinner invites at the lake house, my mother and Katherine became instant friends. To Susan, Katherine was everything that Susan would want in a daughter-in-law: natural beauty, an appreciation for designer goods, and a penchant for kiss-assery that I could never achieve even if my life depended on it. The only plus side to their close-knit relationship was the fact that my mother started to pay attention to me. She checked in more often, sent gifts I actually appreciated on my birthday, and started including us in family vacations.
I knew better than to start treating her like a real mom, but when we accompanied the family to Aspen for the holidays I started to believe that Susan had actually changed. Sitting around the fireplace, drinking whiskey, opening gifts, and eating cookies as a family was comforting in a way I’d never expected. And I foundmyself absorbing her adoration like a body with a vitamin deficiency. And I was certain that as soon as she found out Katherine and I were broken up, she’d revert back to the cold, distant mother of my youth.
“You two have been together, what, three years now?” she asks, taking another gulp of wine. “That’s twice as long as I was with George.”
I refrain from pointing out that she’s omitting the two years of overlap between him and my father as I pour my own glass of wine. The taste is sour, and I swallow it back.
“I can block off a weekend in December at the club for an engagement party,” she says, her expression giddy. “That would give us plenty of time to plan a fall wedding. Can you imagine the foliage up at the Biltmore?”
Clearing my throat, I try to think of anything to change the topic—the fall J.Crew catalog, George’s new boat, how Martha’s Vineyard is overrated, but before I can say anything, Adrian barges in, saving me.
“Sorry,” he says, realizing he didn’t knock. “Meredith told me you were in here.”
“No worries, man,” I say, out of my chair and across the room faster than he can blink. “Bring it back in one piece?”
“And with a full tank of gas,” he states proudly, handing over the keys.
“Great. I’ve been itching to go to the park.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” my mother asks, her judgmental glare cutting me from across the room.
“There’s plenty of time for me to go get a quick hike in,” I lie, hoping to use the lack of service as an excuse to get out of this afternoon’s activities.
“Hudson,” she says, her voice dripping with condescension. “I’m not having you show up to dinner covered in dirt and wearinghiking boots. Especially after Meredith’s been gushing about the new photographer she’s flown in. Apparently, they’re better than the original one they hired, which makes no sense because I don’t know how one doesn’t hire the best to begin with,” she says, finishing off her glass. “Nevertheless, if these are the only family photos I will get before that woman takes Grant away from us, you will be in there.”
“They’re moving to Asheville, not Alaska,” I argue, reiterating the fact that it’s only a two-hour drive from Charlotte. But Susan has been sensitive about it since Grant made the announcement at our last family dinner.
“Just be at the boat at four o’clock sharp,” she warns, as if I’m not the most punctual member of the family.
Accepting my fate of being stuck at the ranch, I turn to Adrian. “In that case, can I use your shower? My hot water is on the fritz.”
“Please tell me you’re joking?” my mother interjects, digging through her bag to retrieve her phone. “I’m calling my travel agent to move everyone over to a better facility. How are we expected to look our best if there’s not even running water?”
“The water runs,” I correct, silently praying that she finds new accommodation—far, far away.
