My Fake Fiance's Secret Baby

Trays well loaded with food and big cups of orange style drink, we returned to the table followed by Aden and Camilla. Much of the talk around us was about Dixie. Much of it veering between the venerating and the damning. Shae and Aden seemed to really look up to their grandmother, despite most of their family seeming to be scandalized by her and her legendary antics. If anything, it warmed me to Dixie without having met her and made me look forward to the opportunity.

We were partway through dessert when Dixie finally showed up in all her finery, including a silk neck scarf and augmented by a pair of dark Jackie-O glasses that looked like they could have been from the First Lady herself.

“Am I fashionably late?”

“No, just really late,” Diane huffed.

“Terribly sorry, the blasted flight was delayed, wouldn’t you know?”

“I’m not surprised,” Chester said, earning a smack in the head from his wife.

“Anyhoo. I want y’all to meet Victor,” Dixie said, giving a sort of signal.

A handsome, slender man in his 60’s dressed as though he was a teenaged delinquent —from back when “delinquent” was a word that people still said — stepped up to Dixie’s side.

“’Allo,” he said, raising a hand in greeting.

“Everyone, I want you to meet Victor Pierre, my new boy toy, we met at a cafe on the banks of the Sine. A bit cliché I know but very romantic none the less.”

“Oui,” Victor agreed, beaming.

“English, darling,” Dixie whispered.

“Yes,” Victor corrected.

“How old is he?” Diane demanded tactlessly.

“A mere pup of sixty and dynamite in bed,” Dixie replied with a mischievous grin.

“Mother!” Diane scream blushing furiously as the rest of the family gasped.

All but Shae and Aden, that is. Shae bursting out in laugher as Aden broke into a polite golf clap. Taking me by the arm, Shae got up and almost ran to her grandma, towing me along with her.

“Oh, hello dear,” Dixie said as she saw Shae approach.

“Dixie, I’d like you to meet Chris. He’s my new fiancé.”

There was an awkward pause as Dixie looked me up and down for a good minute, as though sizing me up. Finally, she gave an approving nod.

“Yes, he is much better than that last loser you were dragging around,” Dixie declaimed.

“Hey!” Ellis protested from his spot at Diane’s table.

It was about that time that Chester cleared his throat, and Dixie whirled around to look at him like she might pounce at any moment. I wouldn’t have put it past her either. She looked pretty damn spry for an eighty-year-old.

“What kind of fool invites an ex-husband to a reunion?” Dixie asked, looking straight at Diane.

“Shae and Ellis belong together. It hath been ordained by God!”

I just crossed my arms and glared at Diane. There were things I could have said, but I was trying to win them over, and besides which, from what I understood, tar and feathering was rather an unpleasant experience.

“Oh, horsefeathers,” Dixie said, standing up for us, “you’re a social climber darlin’, not a Bishop.”

Another gasp made its rounds among the assembled party. Apparently, that was the first time they had seen anyone talk back to Diane and lived. Though I guessed there were legends of such miracles occurring.

“Which table is yours, dear?”

“Follow me!” Shae gushed.

It was a bit tight, but we managed to squeeze Dixie and Victor Pierre in at our table I spoke to Victor Pierre in French for a while to put him at his ease. He really didn’t seem comfortable with English.

“So, Chris, what is your family like?” Dixie asked politely while sipping a very spiked orange drink.

“Musical. The whole lot of them.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, my mom, Gwen Stewart-”

“The soprano?”

“Exactly.”

“So, your daddy is Scott Stewart, the composer?”

“You’re on a roll,” I said with a smile.

“Any siblings?”

“My brother Chase.”

“From Dante Street Massacre?”

I was a bit surprised by that one. I didn’t know a lot of octogenarians who were into European influenced Symphonic Metal. Dixie really was full of surprises.

“You must be musical too, yeah?” she asked.

I laughed embarrassedly. “No, not really. I mean, I like it, but the genes must have skipped over me.”

“Oh, what are you into.”

“Art.”

“Oh, what kind of art?” Dixie asked, getting really interested.

“Illustration mostly. Pencil and ink, of course. I’m old school that way, though I also like painting.”

She clapped her hands. “What a coincidence! I just got back from a master painting class in Paris!”

“You don’t say,” I said, feigning surprise.

“It’s true! I even have my smaller portfolio! The bigger one had to be shipped separately, damn TSA!”

“No argument there,” I said.

Dixie reached into her purse and pulled out a roughly 9×11 portfolio book, laying it on the table between us. Switching into professional mode, I took up the portfolio and started going through it. I couldn’t help but wonder if Dixie was trying to shock me or if the collection was some kind of test. The majority of the paintings were nudes of older men. Not my favorite subject in the world, but I stayed profession, taking note of the materials and Dixie’s overall technique.