by Megan Mulry
“It’s just dinner, Bron.”
“I know.”
“And Devon can’t wait to meet you.”
“I know.”
“So we’re good, right?”
“Yes.”
But her voice was small.
They walked down the steps into the golden, welcoming light of the intimate restaurant. Max could feel the shiver of anxiety coming through Bronte and did his best to hold her in check. She was exactly like the young foal he had jokingly compared her to, flipping her chestnut hair nervously over one shoulder, tightening her grip.
“Careful you don’t grind your purse into dust, Bron.”
She looked down at her own hand as if it belonged to someone else and realized she was holding the slim black clutch so hard that her fingernails were white and she was probably leaving permanent indentations in the patent leather.
There were only nine or ten small tables in the restaurant. Devon stood up so quickly he almost overturned his chair in his enthusiasm.
“You’re here!” He sounded as though his jovial excitement may actually offset Bronte’s rapidly solidifying dread. He was a little bit shorter than Max, maybe an inch or two over six feet, but while his older brother’s charm had a formal, chiseled quality, Devon’s looks, though equally engaging, were marked with an open, frivolous ease. His hair was thick and wavy like Max’s, but a lighter, sandy hue. His eyes were gray and sparkling, like Max’s.
Before Bronte had a chance to speak, Devon had wrapped her in a firm bear hug that seemed more suited to a college football tailgate than this excruciatingly difficult first family meeting. He gave her a brotherly pat on the back and whispered, “It’s all good.”
Max was air-kissing his mother without actually touching her as Devon began to sit back down in the seat he had been in when they arrived.
“No, darling, Bronte is sitting there.”
The duchess speaks.
Her voice was, well, beyond description. Bronte had never heard anything like it. It was deep, almost to the point of husky, but somehow retained a piercing accuracy. It was like Lauren Bacall with a knife to her throat.
Bronte stood perfectly still, her hands clasped in front of her, holding on to her Anya Hindmarch for dear life and suppressing a momentary giddy desire to kick up one heel, grab a corner of her skirt, and spin like a marionette.
But she didn’t.
Max stepped out from behind his mother’s chair. He took Bronte’s hand in his and formally (very formally) introduced, presented really, his mother to Bronte.
The formalities dispensed with, the four of them sat, adjusted napkins; Bronte straightened her silverware. Max sat opposite Bronte, thinking to himself that his mother had obviously set out to separate them, even here at the table.
Devon dove into the conversation.
“How was your first day in London, Bron? Lots to do? Business? Pleasure? What do you think of Max’s little Fulham fixer-upper?”
Bronte was taking a sip of her water and looked quickly at Max before turning her full attention to Devon. She swallowed.
“Full… yes… no… yes… lovely.” She smiled for the first time in what felt like hours.
“I know! I have a terrible habit of talking excitedly right over people. But I am excited to meet you. We all are, right, Mother?”
“Of course, dear,” Sylvia intoned. “Thrilled.”
Again with the voice.
Why hadn’t Max warned her about the voice? It was perfectly unassailable. Of course, she hadn’t just said “thrilled” in the most sarcastic, insulting tone imaginable—or had she? That was the villainy of it: the appearance of complete innocence forming an impenetrable shellac over pure malice.
Max watched as Bronte smiled genuinely and turned to his mother. “Likewise, Duchess, it is my pleasure to finally meet you.” As much as Max had assured her that was the proper form of address, it still rang false to her American ear. She kept having to stop herself from calling her something totally inappropriate, like “Your Highness.”
“Finally?” Sylvia said softly, turning to Max. “Has it been more than a week or two? I didn’t know.”
“Yes, Sylvia. It has been well over a year since Bronte and I first met.”
“I am so far removed from the Sturm und Drang of your comings and goings these days, Maxwell.” Of course her German accent would be perfect. “I must have forgotten you telling me about your new friend.” Thin smile.
Devon put his hand on Bronte’s forearm, willing her to devote the rest of the evening’s conversation to him. Let the two of them hash this out, his confident touch seemed to say. “So tell me more about your day. The weather has been so unaccountably fabulous.”
Max watched as Devon kept Bronte wrapped in a lively discussion of their lunch at Bluebird and the happy coincidence of seeing their Aunt Claudia there. At the mention of her sister, Sylvia’s eye twitched, almost imperceptibly, but Max caught it and had a momentary vision of licking his finger and marking a point for his team on the imaginary scoreboard that was always near at hand when his mother was around.
“Yes, Mother. That’s right, we bumped into Claudia walking Amis on the King’s Road earlier this afternoon.” He spoke in muted tones, trying to keep their conversation separate from Devon and Bronte’s, to better delay any unnecessary fracas between the two women. “I’ve invited her and Uncle Bertrand to Dunlear for the weekend.”
“Charming. You will all have a splendid time.”
“We will. Won’t you be there?”
“Why would I be there, Maxwell?”
“Because it is the first anniversary of Father’s death and I had assumed you would want to be there to honor the occasion.”
Devon and Bronte had just come to a pause in their upbeat conversation at the words “Father’s death,” so the syllables fell like bricks into the middle of the dinner table.
The waiter arrived—right as Max finished the rest of the sentence—and handed a stiff linen-white card with the evening’s fixed menu printed in a beautiful pale-green script. After confirming that no one had any allergies and handing Max the wine list, the server headed back toward the well-lit kitchen at the rear of the subdued yellow dining room.
Devon tried to pick up the thread of their previous humor, but his attempt felt forced and vague. Bronte smiled weakly and tried to soldier on, describing her impressions of London and her reminiscences of her first backpacking visit many years before.
Max forged ahead with his mother, trying to maintain his patience as she spoke.
“Maxwell, dear, I am in possession of both a calendar and a memory, so, yes, I am well aware of the year that has passed since your father died. And no, I will not be going to Dunlear to participate in some sort of ritualized show of sentimental group affection.”
“As you wish, Mother. I had merely hoped it would be a time for us to be together as a family. I am pretty sure Claire and Lydia will be there, as well as Abigail if I can get her to return my calls anytime in a given thirty-day period. And Devon and Bronte.”
“Why would Bronte be there?”
At the mention of her name twice in rapid succession, Bronte could no longer feign jovial interest in Devon’s chatter. She put her hand briefly on Devon’s forearm to let him know she was turning her attention briefly away, and she stared meaningfully into Max’s eyes.
The various shades of gray, steel, slate, and blue that she had seen there in the past were gone. His eyes were so cold, nearly glacial. She almost didn’t recognize them, or him. He blinked, coming back to himself, smiled at Bronte, then turned to his mother.
“Because we are engaged to be married.”
A beat of silence.
The glass of water that had been on its way to the duchess’s lips was carefully put back. “Congratulations.”
“Is that all you have to say, Mother?”
“Is that not the appropriate response, Maxwell?”
“Entirely appropriate, Sylvia.”
“Very well.”
“Very well.”
The soup course arrived just then, and all four of them began eating simultaneously, with the focus and commitment usually reserved for open-heart surgery. The waiter pulled the cork out of the Pouilly-Fuissé that Max had ordered and poured a small amount into Max’s glass. Max tried it, nodded, and then the waiter filled all four glasses with a generous pour. Bronte wanted to guzzle the entire glass and wipe her mouth roughly with the back of her forearm.
But she refrained.
Now that the cat was out of the proverbial bag, Bronte just wanted to make it through the meal without collapsing face-first into her baked cod with summer vegetables. Had she been able to fully appreciate it, she suspected the food would be really superb. The pea soup had been a whipped, foamy, spring-green concoction, unlike anything the muddy, clumpy name had formerly conjured in her mind. The dollop of crème fraîche on top tasted like it had come from a dairy farm that morning. The cod, what she could remember of it, was also rich and succulent, with a gorgeous, honey-brown sauté. Dessert was a spectacular fruit something-or-other. Bronte thought she would be able to enjoy all of it, but while every initial bite hinted at greatness as it entered her mouth, each mouthful turned to wet cardboard as it slid down her throat. The verbal lacerations that passed for Sylvia’s dinner conversation were nearly enough to put Bronte right over the edge.
Bronte knew that this woman must have hosted state dinners for her husband and carried the weight of countless social engagements squarely on her shoulders; she was never at a loss to initiate a topic. But even Bronte could tell that the duchess’s patience was being tried by having to devote hours of her valuable time to an American working girl.
“Please tell me about your family.”
Bronte answered in robotic compliance: father died… mother retired… then she reached for her wineglass with her left hand and saw the color drain from Sylvia’s perfectly preserved complexion.
“What a lovely ring.”
“Thank you.”
It took all the concentration Bronte had to continue the movement of bringing the wineglass to her lips and to actually take a sip of what might as well have been battery acid, then very carefully put the glass back in its place. Putting that glass back in its place, as the duchess’s eyes were inexorably glued to the canary diamond, was a slow-motion hell that Bronte would relive for the rest of her life.
“Max, you didn’t tell me you were going to the vault.”
“I didn’t think I needed to check with you before going, Mother.”
“Of course not.” Fake, tinkling, light laugh. “You are the duke and that vault is under your purview, as are all of your father’s rights and responsibilities. No need to be defensive.”
“I was hardly being defensive.”
“Of course you were. I was challenging your authority, after all.”
“Let’s not verbally assault one another on Bronte’s first visit, Sylvia. It’s so unattractive.”
“Maxwell, please don’t be dramatic for the benefit of your”—slight turn, hint of a sniff—“affianced bride. No one is assaulting anyone. And you know I dislike it when you call me ‘Sylvia.’”
“Yes, I do know.”
“Fair enough. Let’s try to enjoy the rest of our meal, shall we?”
“Yes, let us try.”
Max took the final spoonful of soup, placed his utensil between the bowl and the charger, picked up his napkin, and wiped his lips.
From there on out, Bronte became quite adept at using her right hand only. Luckily, fish was the main course, so she could use the side of her fork to slice it and then stab at the food without having to resort to the use of her knife. By the end of two grueling hours, she was on the verge of breaking down. Not just sobbing—more like willy-nilly running through the streets with arms waving and teeth gnashing.
The duchess, on the other hand, managed to look as though she had just had a splendidly charming dinner from which she hated to tear herself away. Bronte had to confess a grudging admiration for the woman’s ability to reflect absolutely none of her true feelings through her appearance.
Sylvia rose from the table and placed her napkin on her chair. Her sons both stood. Bronte froze. Her mother’s voice was clanging in her mind: “A lady never stands.” Was there a mother-in-law exception?
“Very well. I must be off. Thank you for inviting me to dinner, Maxwell. Devon.” Slightest pause? “Bronte.”
Sylvia glanced at each of them in turn as she said their names, nodded infinitesimally, then stepped away from the table and crossed the restaurant.
All three watched—Devon turned where he stood to see her—as she walked up the steps and out to the street level. When the outer door had shut firmly and several more seconds had passed, Bronte picked up her barely touched glass of wine (forming her left hand into an unwieldy fist around the stem of the delicate crystal), downed it in its entirety, then raised it as if it were a stein at Oktoberfest to intercept the passing waiter.
“Another bottle of the Pouilly-Fuissé, please.”
Devon picked up his glass, smiled, and chugged in filial solidarity.
Max looked at both of them and shook his head in mock disparagement.
Devon started to laugh, slowly and in low tones at first, then unable to refrain, he had to put one hand over his mouth and one hand over his middle to keep from embarrassing the people dining nearby with his guffaws. Bronte looked at Max and smiled, then got up and walked around to his side of the table, took his face in her hands, and kissed him deeply.
She pulled away an inch or two to see the softness had returned to his gray-wolf eyes.
“That’s better,” she whispered.
She took the seat in which Sylvia had been sitting, scooted it closer to his, took hold of one of Max’s hands, and laced her fingers through his. “I’m having second thoughts.”
Devon stopped laughing instantly.
Max just smiled and started shaking his head again.
“What kind of second thoughts?” Max asked.
“Well, remember how I said I didn’t want a prenup, except to say I definitely didn’t want anything and all that, you know, putting everyone’s mind to rest and all that? Well, I don’t think I want to put her mind to rest. Is that wrong?”
Devon started laughing again and this time the people at the neighboring table smiled at Max and Bronte with a look of empathy that implied, “Aren’t you nice to spend the evening with your mentally handicapped friend?”
The three of them spent another two hours together and enjoyed a few more bottles of wine, with Bronte helping them laugh over every bitter proclamation Sylvia had uttered. The restaurant was totally deserted and the chef-owner, Lucinda Birch, ended up coming out of the kitchen to see how their meal had been.
Bronte was rosy-cheeked and confessed she would have to come back for another meal because this one had been utterly lost on her bitter palate. Ten minutes later, Lucinda came out of the kitchen with a bowl of steaming pasta in a saffron sauce with three sautéed scallops placed elegantly on top.
“Try this. It’s lovely with the Pouilly-Fuissé. The recipe is from one of my favorite cafés in Marseilles.”
They invited the chef to join them and poured her a glass of wine. Bronte took one bite and thanked all points in the universe for the return of her taste buds, then turned to the woman-angel-chef who had prepared the dish and asked, “Will you be my mother-in-law?”
Lucinda smiled. “Would that I could! I think there’s something in the books about mothers-in-law having to be the mothers of your husband, but maybe that’s just a story I heard.”
Bronte loved this woman. Something about the saffron and the wine and those three perfect scallops, and the wine. This woman was an earth goddess of some sort. A genius of love. The love of food perhaps, but still, love nonetheless.
“Are you enjoying the pasta, Bron?” Max was leaning on one elbow.
�
��Mmmm-hmmm. Why do you ask?”
“Just the fact that you are swooning with your eyes closed while you eat it. Other than that, no reason.”
She opened her eyes and swallowed the last bite of saffron bliss. “I think you had better take me home.”
Devon and Lucinda were enjoying a friendly debate about farm-raised versus wild salmon as Max helped Bronte get up. She wasn’t slurring exactly, but her tongue felt a tiny bit too thick for her mouth, so she decided to wave her thanks to Devon and Lucinda.
“The best!” was all Bronte could get out as Max grabbed his briefcase and guided her up to street level, where he hailed a cab. Her head rested against his shoulder during the ride home, and she couldn’t wipe the easy grin off her face. She vaguely remembered him helping her across the cobblestones, into the house—their house? she wondered—and up the stairs, where he undressed her in a gentle, matter-of-fact fashion, then tucked her soundly into bed.
Max went back downstairs, barefoot, with his shirt untucked. He went into the kitchen and poured himself a huge glass of ice water, then stepped out onto the cool, misty terrace at the back of the little house and turned to look up at the night sky. No stars in London, he thought.
He took a deep, satisfying swallow of water and sat down on the stone bench near the wall of climbing ivy. The city sounds were muffled by the moisture; a horn seemed distant and irrelevant. The slight squeak of a car’s breaks nearly dissolved as it trailed over the garden wall. The unexpected ring of his cell phone in his pocket brought him back to himself.
Devon.
“So I’m just getting in a taxi and heading home… that went well tonight, don’t you think?”
“You are either facetious or demented or blind… which is it?”
“Honestly, it was hardly a blood bath. Sylvia hadn’t had time to assemble her army. She was a lone wolf. What could she do? And Bronte is, well, as you of all people know, the bomb. So what are you worrying about?”
“Who said I was worrying?”
