"We actually met in a club. A bar. We started chatting and found out that we had a lot in common."
"And when was this?" she asks, taking a sip of her mojito.
Her pristine white linen suit is something that a model out of Town & Country magazine would wear. In fact, if she exudes anything, it's that kind of New England old money charm.
Even her voice has just a tinge of that kind of Kennedy-esque accent that we're all so familiar with.
"This was a few months ago," I say, realizing that I haven't answered her question.
She doesn't clear her throat or bother with asking it again. She just waits and isn't afraid in building that tension.
That kind of confidence and intensity is quite disarming, and now I can see why she and Marguerite don't get along at all.
"And you've been dating ever since?" she asks, focusing her gaze on mine.
She narrows her eyes and I notice that she barely has a single wrinkle around her eyes. She doesn't even have any crow's feet.
At the same time, she has not been stretched thin and stretched out like a lot of the plastic surgeon nightmares you see walking around here and in Manhattan.
"We stayed in touch a little bit, but we actually ran into each other on the beach here and sparks flew."
"Oh, I see. Summer love." She nods approvingly. "Are you staying at one of the nearby cottages?"
She uses the word "cottage," even though the homes are more than 5,000 square feet. This is a common attribute of someone who comes from old money. Everything is an understatement.
"My friend and I actually rented a place a few streets away."
"That sounds like a nice trip," she says, leaning back on the couch and crossing her legs around her ankles.
"You have a wonderful son, Mrs. Langston," I say after a deliberately long pause that makes me feel uncomfortable.
She raises an eyebrow. I decided to go with Mrs. Langston because Adele seems too familiar, and she hasn’t told me which name she prefers.
"I appreciate the sentiment," she says slowly. "But you can call me Adele, like everyone else."
"Okay. Whatever you prefer," I say, sitting up straight and crossing my legs in front of her at my ankles, avoiding doing it at the knee.
Of course, I'm not familiar with any of these rules, but I do remember that this is what a little girl entering society was taught to do in Titanic.
"I appreciate you telling me that about my son. I know that he's very special, but can be quite difficult to have a relationship with."
I nod.
"Is that what your intentions are?"
"I don't have any intentions," I say, shaking my head.
"What do you mean? You just told me that you care a lot about him."
"Yes, I do, but we're not defining this relationship right now. We just met up again this weekend and he is a wonderful man, so I just wanted to say that to you."
I figure this is the best way to go around telling her that we're basically hooking up without making me sound like I'm not wife material. The truth is that Dante and I are getting closer and closer every day, but the things that we haven't talked about can fill volumes.
“So, Dante says that you live in Cape Cod?" I ask.
“On Cape Cod,” she corrects me. “Yes, I have a house on the beach, kind of like here. Not as many tourists. More land. It's very private."
"That sounds wonderful," I say. "I actually would love to spend more time in a place like that."
"Oh, really?"
"Well, my work is in the city, but that's why we came out to the Hamptons, just to get away from the concrete, have a little bit of nature, the ocean. I love wildlife."
Her eyes light up. "I actually sit on the board of trustees of a number of animal causes," she says.
"Oh, that's wonderful." I nod. "I love animals, too. Actually, it's why I don’t eat met."
Her eyes narrow, and suddenly I feel like I've made a terrible mistake admitting something like this.
Most of the time, people aren't particularly bothered, but she is someone who is very judgmental and, let's say, stuck up, and I wish I had thought about it more before letting the words just slip out of me.
"That's wonderful to hear, dear," Adele says, nodding her head in approval. "I am as well."
She gives me another small smile out of the corner of her lips, and I feel like I've won some sort of elusive award, at least for now.
"Where do you want your bags?" Dante asks, coming in, drenched in sweat. When I turn around, I see that he's weighted down with five bags: two under his arms, two in his hands, and one around his neck.
"You could have made separate trips," Adele and I say, almost in unison, and I laugh a little, and even more when I look at the annoyed expression on his face.
"Upstairs in my room, of course." Adele points.
"Let me help you." I stand up, but she stops me.
"No, he can handle it. We're having a wonderful conversation."
I sit down as Dante makes an expression in his eyes at me of total bewilderment. I make us a second round of mojitos and she tells me about the fundraiser gala that she hosted for the Woods Hole Animal Society.
"I had planned it for over a year and we raised close to two million, which ... I don't know how familiar you are with philanthropic causes ... is quite a significant number."
"No, yes, of course. It's a lot, especially since animal causes tend to be not as popular as certain diseases and those kind of events."
"I couldn't agree more," she says, leaning closer to me. "It's not that I'm against raising money for people. I participate in every event that my friends invite me to. But when it comes to this cause, it's very hard to get people to care, or to get a lot of money like they do for something else."
Since I get an in on the conversation topic, I let her go on and on. When Dante comes back down the stairs, I see how surprised he is by his mother's attitude and just the sheer number of words that she's saying. He goes over to the bar, pours himself a cognac, and sits down in between us.
"Well, this is not how I thought today would go," he says, taking a big gulp.
"And why is that?" Adele leans to one side of the couch, unbuttoning the top button of her suit.
"You and Jacqueline getting along, after-"
"Let's not talk about that," she cuts him off. "What happens in private should stay in private, but, you know, a summer night, you two thought you would let yourselves loose. I understand. I've been young once."
"Young?" Dante leans closer to her. "The last man you married, what number was he again? That was barely two years ago, I think."
"Oh, please. What Dante's trying to insinuate is that I should be punished for being a romantic. But I refuse to think like that. Weddings are wonderful, extravagant affairs, and I don't see why I should be penalized for having more than one."
"Or five," Dante adds with a laugh, taking another big gulp. It's all in good jest, and Adele seems to take it that way.
We talk for a little while longer, and then when the time feels right, I look at my watch and tell her that I'm going to head to bed.
I try to make the escape as slight as possible and planned it a few conversation topics ahead, but all of my worry seems to be for no reason because she just smiles at me, gets up when I get up, and gives me a warm hug. "I'll see you tomorrow morning for breakfast, of course."
I hesitate. "I was actually going to go back home."
"No. Don't be silly. Dante's room has plenty of space, a king-sized bed. Besides, you were going to sleep over before I showed up. Let's not pretend otherwise."
I nod. "Thank you, Adele."
I hesitate a little bit before saying her first name, still feeling rather uncomfortable. But she pats the back of my hand and I give Dante a small peck on his cheek and leave the two of them alone.
24
Dante
"Well, that's new," I say, sitting back on the couch.
My mom brings her eyes up
to mine and I try to read into what she's thinking. "What are you talking about?" she asks innocently, shrugging, even tossing her hair from one side to another.
"What was all that?" I ask. "You and Jacqueline. Why are you being so nice?"
"Am I?"
"Yes, you know that you are." I nod.
"Well, she seemed like a nice woman. Do you like her?" she asks, taking a sip of her mojito.
"Of course I like her. That's why she's here."
"I'm just asking because catching you two in that compromising position out back felt more like a one-night stand to me."
I can't read my mother, which has been a problem of mine ever since I was a kid. Whenever I get to the point where I feel like I know what's going on, it changes and she changes, and we're off again.
"Frankly, I thought that you would be a little angry, pissed off, but thanks for making her feel welcome," I say. "I really appreciate it."
"Well, to tell you the truth, it was a pleasure to meet her. Educated with a good head on her shoulders, polite, quick on her feet. I like that."
I smile. I should keep it to myself, but despite all this time, my mom still takes me by surprise. And it's not that I'm looking for her approval any longer.
I'm not.
It's just that, you know, she's still my mother, and it's nice that she's proud of me.
"So what's going on with you two?" Mom asks, relaxing a little bit.
I can tell by her posture that the cocktails are kicking in and she's going to turn in for the night soon.
"Well, we met a few months ago and just ran into each other again this weekend."
"Yeah, that's what Jacqueline told me."
"And it's been great. I'm really serious about her, Mom."
She raises an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Yeah. I mean, I like her a lot."
"Serious how?" she asks.
"She's just very ... I don't know, she keeps me on my toes. She challenges me. I feel very comfortable with her. I guess all the things that people talk about when they say that they're in ..." I let my voice trail off.
The word that I'm looking for is "love." The truth is that I do love Jacqueline. I just haven't put it that way quite yet, and I definitely don't want to say it to my mother.
"Being in love is very serious, Dante. I know. I've been in love a number of times."
At this point in my life, I find that humorous, but when I was a teenager, not so much.
"You know, I thought that you'd be angry catching us out there like that."
"Is that something you really want to talk about?" Mom folds her hands on top of her knee.
She's been sitting all this time, and yet the suit hasn't wrinkled even a little bit. I wonder if it's afraid of her.
"No, I guess not. We can just pretend it never happened."
"That would be better," she says. "I've had a few cocktails now, and I'll be turning in for bed. I have a new novel waiting for me."
Mom has always been an avid reader. She devours the books and reads across genres and styles. She stays up to date on what's popular, what's on the charts, and she reads obscure literary fiction and short story collections as well. "The entertainment that books provide are far superior to television," used to be her go-to line.
When I get back to my room, I find Jacqueline under the covers. But as soon as I shut the door behind me, she pushes outward and I see that she's been watching something on her phone.
"What are you doing hiding underneath there?" I ask.
"I don't know. Just felt like I needed a warm hug."
"I think everyone who's ever interacted with my mother had that same feeling," I say, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
I take her hand in mine and intertwine our fingers.
"She really likes you."
She sits up, surprised.
"And I don't say that lightly. She really likes you," I say. "It's uncanny, and actually, it's making me question whatever it is that we have."
"What are you talking about?" Jacqueline leans forward, clearly not getting my sense of humor.
"Okay, not really, but it's very disarming, to say the least," I clarify. "Mom has never been a big fan of most women. And she has hated Marguerite for so long that I was just certain that she would hate you as well. But my, my, my, you have managed to make an impression."
"Holy shit. Really?" She puts her hand over her mouth.
"Yes."
"Are you sure?" she asks, mumbling through her hand.
"That's what she told me."
"Even after she caught us almost doing it?"
I nod. "Yeah, it's shocking. I have no idea what happened, but whatever you said, whatever you did, keep it up."
"I just tried to be polite and nice and told her about myself."
"Well, one thing's for sure, tomorrow morning, Marguerite is in for a big surprise."
The following morning, Jacqueline gets up a little early, takes a shower, washes her hair, and puts on a little bit of makeup.
She doesn't have anything else to wear, and is a little frustrated by the fact that she has to wear the same black dress.
She begs for me to drive her over to the cottage so she can change, but I insist that that's just going to make her look either like she's desperate to make a good impression, or like she had packed a bag and brought it here intending on a longer-term stay.
Heading downstairs, I wear shorts and a short sleeve button-down shirt, just dressy enough for a family breakfast to not make it look like I'm eating in my pajamas, but not really much above that.
In the kitchen, we find Mom sitting in a long silk robe with a newspaper open in front of her.
“Huh, I didn't realize that those are still getting delivered."
Mom straightens it out to show me the front page. It's the local Hampton Times.
"Just trying to see what's new in the neighborhood. Hi, Jacqueline," she says, waving to her.
After a brief hello, Jacqueline goes to the fridge to get some orange juice, offering to get my mom a glass as well.
The two of them sit on opposite sides of the table, and Mom puts down the paper and immediately launches into telling Jacqueline about the newest fundraising goal for her new foundation.
And then, looking at them from the outside, it suddenly occurs to me why Jacqueline has made such an impression on my mom. Marguerite has always been tense. She took some etiquette classes, but even in employing them and putting them into practice, there's something unnatural and awkward about it.
But Jacqueline is a chameleon.
She sits up straight, even though she often slouches. She crosses her feet at her ankles. She doesn't put her elbows on the table, and she looks Mom straight in the eye.
She listens actively, comments slightly, and lets Mom lead the conversation. Not necessarily to suck up, just to fit in.
That's when I realize that Jacqueline has quite a gift for acting like she belongs somewhere.
And if she can make this impression on my mother, someone who is notoriously impossible to please, as her six other husbands would attest, I wonder how good she could be infiltrating Vasko’s operation.
25
Dante
When Lincoln and Marguerite come downstairs, I immediately see the smile on Marguerite's face vanish.
She tenses up, and everything about her body language starts to work on the short circuit in my mom's presence. There are brief hellos, polite and very curt, distant, though Lincoln smiles a little more and tries to make nice.
"Have you two met?" Mom asks Marguerite, who nervously twists a strand of her hair around her finger.
"Yes. Yesterday.” Jacqueline smiles. "We actually had breakfast together. Dante made waffles."
"Dante knows how to make waffles?" Mom raises an eyebrow.
I nod.
"Well, I guess we know what we're having for breakfast today."
I laugh, but dutifully walk over to the counter and start to get out all of the supplies
that I need.
I don't mind being busy with this. It actually puts me at ease to do something with my hands instead of walking on eggshells around my mom, Jacqueline, and Marguerite, and even Lincoln, to make sure that breakfast doesn't veer off into one particular direction that neither of us want.
And it doesn't. Everything is pleasant, actually, beyond pleasant.
Mom is in a good mood. She sits next to Jacqueline and gushes about all of the interior design work that she has recently got done on her house. She shows the little cottage and all the details about the interior. She's so much more open and outgoing and friendly.
I realize why she has so many friends in town and why everyone invites her to all of the parties.
This is just a glimpse, the kind that a family gets, a side of someone very popular that lives with you on a daily basis, but the side that you rarely see because you are, after all, a family member.
The whole time, they laugh and practically giggle.
Marguerite sits next to Lincoln with a sour expression on her face. I try to get her engaged. I ask her about her pregnancy and Mom indulges that topic just a little bit to keep everything at bay.
She even offers her condolences for all the nausea that Marguerite has been experiencing.
But as soon as Marguerite says, "Well, I'm feeling a lot better now ..."
"Good," Mom adds, and then shows Jacqueline more of the interior plans that she has for the other parts of the estate. "You know, you and Dante really have to come and visit me sometime. It's marvelous. I have a beautiful library, which I know you'll love."
Jacqueline smiles and her whole face lights up. Not only do they share their love for animals, but also books, and fiction in general. It helps that Jacqueline has a lot of profound things to say about Patricia Highsmith, one of my mother's favorite writers, as well as Thomas Hardy and Nora Roberts.
Like Mom, Jacqueline is a nondiscriminatory reader who loves stories with passion that I rarely see. There are no highbrow/lowbrow writers. There is just a good story and a bad one.
After we finish the waffles, Marguerite helps collect all the dishes and starts loading them into the dishwasher while Lincoln and I have another round of Bloody Marys and start talking about investments around the kitchen island.
Dark Redemption Page 11
