Chapter 3

3

Catherine stands on her parents’ doorstep with Ted beside her, buzzing a little with nerves. She rings the doorbell. It’s always like this—wondering how everyone is going to get along, hoping for the best. But she’s not going to allow anyone to ruin the day for her.

She and Ted have a lovely home in Aylesford, but it’s nowhere near as impressive as this. They have the kind of house two professional incomes—a dermatologist and a dentist—can afford. Her parents’ home, where she and her siblings grew up, is more of a mansion. As the eldest, she would like to have this house when her parents are gone. She would like to live here, in Brecken Hill, in comfort and wealth, and host her siblings for holiday dinners, her own children around her. This is what she fantasizes about—and in her fantasy she’s never very old. Not much older than she is now. Certainly not as old as she would be if her parents lived a long life and died of natural causes. But then that’s the point of fantasies; by definition they are never realistic. She wants the house and everything in it—the dishes, the antiques, the art. Her parents have never promised her the house, or even hinted that they would leave it to her. But they wouldn’t leave it to Dan—he wouldn’t want it anyway. Jenna would probably trash the place, or if she didn’t, her friends would. Her mother would never inflict Jenna and her lifestyle on their wealthy neighbors, Catherine is sure of that.

The door opens and her mother is there, welcoming them in with a smile. She’s wearing black trousers and black heels, a white silk blouse, and an orange-and-pink Hermès scarf around her neck. Catherine briefly studies her mother’s face, looking for signs of what she herself will look like when she’s older. She sees watery blue eyes, good skin, well-cut hair. Her mother has aged rather gracefully—but money helps.

“Hi, Mom,” she says, leaning in to embrace her mother. It’s a polite hug rather than a heartfelt one.

“Hi, dear. You’re the first,” she says, turning to greet Ted. “Come on in. I’ll get you something to drink.”

She bustles into the dining room to the right of the foyer, saying, “What would you like? Champagne?”

Her mother always serves bubbly on holidays. “Sure,” Catherine says, taking off her spring coat and hanging it in the closet as her husband does the same. They never take off their shoes.

“Ted?”

“Yes, sure,” he says, smiling agreeably.

He always starts off well, Catherine thinks; it’s only after a bit of time that he begins to feel the strain.

Sheila pours champagne into flutes, and they take their fizzing glasses across the wide entry hall through to the living room on the other side and sit on the plush sofas, the spring sun slanting through the large bay windows. The view out over the lawn is lovely, Catherine thinks every time. And the gardens have begun to bloom with daffodils and tulips. She would do more with the garden, if it was hers. “Where’s Dad?” she asks.

“He’s upstairs, he’ll be here in a minute,” her mother says. She smiles tightly, lowering her voice and putting her champagne flute down on the coffee table. “Actually, there’s something important I want to talk to you about, before your father comes down.”

“Oh?” Catherine says, surprised.

Something passes across her mother’s face, uneasiness perhaps. Catherine’s not sure what, but it puts her on guard. And then the doorbell rings. That can only be Dan, she thinks. Jenna is always late.

As if reading her mind, her mother turns her head toward the front door and says, “That must be Dan.”

She gets up to answer the door while Catherine raises her eyebrows at her husband. “I wonder what she wants to talk about?” she whispers to Ted.

Ted shrugs and sips his champagne. They wait until Dan and Lisa join them in the living room, Catherine and Lisa quickly hugging, while the men nod greetings. Dan and Lisa sit down on the sofa opposite, while their mother fetches them glasses of champagne. Catherine thinks Dan looks more tense than usual. She knows he’s been struggling. She wonders if her mother is going to let them in on whatever the secret is too. But when her mother rejoins them, she directs the conversation to the general and superficial, and Catherine follows her lead.

The doorbell rings again a few minutes later—three short, sharp bursts—announcing Jenna. Their father has still not appeared; Catherine wonders uneasily if something’s wrong.

They remain in the living room, listening to her mother and Jenna at the door. “And who have we here?” her mother asks.

Great, Catherine thinks sourly. Jenna’s brought someone. Of course she has—she almost always does. Last time it was a “girlfriend,” and they’d wondered through the entire gathering if she was just a friend, or perhaps a lover; it was hard to tell. They’d all been a little uncomfortable as Jenna and her friend draped themselves over each other, and they’d never really found out. Catherine makes a face at Ted and listens.

“Jake Brenner,” a man’s voice answers, deep and confident.

“Welcome to our home,” her mother says, overly polite, a trifle cold.

Then Catherine hears the heavy tread of her father coming down the elaborate front staircase. She stands up and takes a big swallow of champagne, gesturing at Ted with her chin to get him on his feet. He stands reluctantly, switching his champagne flute to his left hand. Together they move toward the foyer.

Catherine acknowledges her father first. As he reaches the bottom of the stairs, she steps forward and hugs him. “Hi, Dad, Happy Easter.”

Her father hugs her briefly, and, as she steps back, he says his hellos and reaches out and shakes hands firmly with Ted. There’s nothing warm about it; it’s rather formal. Dan and Lisa hang back in the living room and attention shifts to the couple standing at the door. Catherine notices the heavy black eyeliner around Jenna’s eyes and the new purple streak in her hair. Even so, she’s a striking beauty. Tall and lean in her customary tight black jeans, heeled boots, and black leather biker jacket, she looks like something out of the edgy New York music scene, and Catherine briefly feels the usual stab of irritation—or maybe it’s jealousy. Catherine could never pull that off. Then she reminds herself that she would never want to. Catherine has her own look—tasteful, classic, expensive—and she’s happy with it. It reflects who she is.

Jenna is a sculptor, and a good one. But she’s not serious enough about it to be successful. She’s more like a talented dilettante, a party girl looking for an excuse to hang out in New York City. She knows her parents are afraid that the New York art scene will ruin her. None of Jenna’s works are on display in her parents’ house; they find them too obscene. Catherine knows her parents are in an awkward position—they want to be proud of their talented daughter, they want her to be successful, but they’re embarrassed by what all that obvious talent produces.

Jake looks like somebody Jenna would like. Dark and sexy and in need of a shave. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt and a battered brown leather jacket. Catherine can smell the weed coming off the pair of them from her position at the foot of the staircase. Their father gives them both a stony stare.

“Hi, Dad,” Jenna says breezily. “Jake, meet my dad.”

Jake just nods laconically, spliffed out, doesn’t even step forward and offer his hand to shake. He’s tall and lean, like Jenna, and, Catherine thinks, far too laid back for the situation. He has no manners.

“Come with me. There’s champagne,” Sheila says, heading into the dining room.

Fred Merton glances at Catherine as if to say, Who the hell is he and what is he doing in my house? Then he greets Dan and his wife.