Even the tartare was surreal. It was a little tiny plate of heaven.
But the conversation among the Caldwells was rapid-fire insults, complaints, gossip, and accusations.
Grant’s grandmother lit a cigarette at the table.
His father said, “Mother, you can’t do that in here.”
“Why not?” she asked, crankily, blowing smoke in his direction.
“Because it’s not 1977.” He pushed his chair back. “Come on, I’ll take you outside on the back patio.”
“It’s freezing out there.”
“It’s sixty degrees. You’ll be fine.” He pulled her chair back. “Leah, why don’t you join us? You can bring your wine.”
I froze, startled to be singled out. My glass was halfway to my lips. I had changed into another stunning outfit, this one the all winter-white Chanel, and I had ordered chardonnay on sheer terror that I might spill. Grant’s mother had informed me white wine with beef was tacky, but I’d just used it as an opportunity to tell her about the frozen rosé machine I wanted for the wedding. That had clammed her right up.
But now Grant the second wanted me to go outside and that felt slightly threatening. I looked to my Grant for a cue on how to proceed.
Yep. My Grant. I said it.
He nodded, like he was certain I wouldn’t be murdered by his father or permanently disfigured. To be honest, his father definitely seemed easy to deal with. Chill. Casual. Unconcerned.
“Sure,” I said, because what the hell else was I going to say? I stood up and did in fact take my wine with me.
Grant’s father had his highball glass, no question about that.
He guided Gigi and me to the back patio, where he ensconced her in front of an outdoor gas fireplace. He called a staff member over to turn it on and tipped the guy. Then he lit his mother’s cigarette and gestured for me to go around the other side of the double-sided fireplace.
“I can’t take the smell of cigarettes anymore,” he explained. “Funny thing is I smoked for forty years.”
I made a noncommittal sound, wondering why I had to be out there.
He took a sip of his drink and gave me a smile. “You and Eddie aren’t really engaged, are you? I saw your face when he dropped that bombshell. You were shocked. Plus, you don’t have a ring on your finger.”
Which was precisely why I had told Grant not to spring anything on me. My reaction time had been too slow. Damn. Maybe I needed more improv classes.
“It was spontaneous,” I said. “There wasn’t time for a ring.”
“I’m not buying that,” he said. “I can see that you care about my son, but as of right now, you have no plans to marry him.”
That would be annoyingly accurate. How did the pickled Grant the second ascertain that? Was he secretly in possession of a psychology degree?
“So, what is holding you back?” Grant the second asked me.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re holding back from committing to Eddie.” He leaned against the stone fireplace, crossed his ankles, and took a sip of his cocktail. Or rather, his glass of gin. “What are you afraid of?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that. I was holding back, but he wasn’t supposed to be able to see that. My acting skills definitely weren’t up to snuff this weekend. Maybe because I was, you know, busy falling in love with Grant for real.
So the problem was, I didn’t want to give that away. But I couldn’t give away that this had all started out as a contract, whose terms I didn’t read.
Which made me wonder how that worked. Was I still getting paid for this weekend? We had really muddied the water. And by muddied I meant “had dropped an entire oil tanker into a river” kind of muddy.
“Don’t be scared to share with me,” Grant the second said. “I drink a lot. I probably won’t remember half of what you say.”
Somehow, I doubted that. He was using alcohol as a smokescreen so no one would see how astute he really was. I was starting to wonder if the bottle he drank from at the house even had gin in it or if it was just water.