I sip my wine and methodically go through the drawers of the desk, but most of the documents are at least five years old. I do make one interesting find, though. Medical bills and records for an infertility specialist. Not exactly a big surprise when an older man is trying to knock up a younger wife. Still, I might be able to use it. I tuck the papers into my purse just in case.
I slip back out into the hallway and nearly run into one of the caterers coming through a back door. “Spanx,” I complain. “They never stay up.”
She laughs. “Yeah, I finally said screw it and stopped wearing them.” I give her a high five.
After ditching my empty wineglass, I venture back toward the main crowd and finally spot Rhonda, the birthday girl.
She must dress for church like she’s putting on armor, because she looks softer tonight. And younger. She really is just a few years older than Steven, and it makes sense that he stiffens when I call her his stepmother.
The jewel-green wrap dress she’s wearing shows off her tight figure, and her makeup is more natural, though her mouth gleams with bright-red lipstick. There’s no stiffness to her smile tonight, and I suspect the drink she holds isn’t her first.
I wait until the gray-haired woman Rhonda is talking to drifts away, and then I approach. “Happy birthday, Mrs. Hepsworth.” She turns to me with a blank smile. “I’m Jane,” I remind her. “Steven’s friend.”
“Oh, of course. Jane. Thank you.”
“This is such a beautiful house. Thank you for the invitation. I’m honored.”
She lifts a shoulder, because she wasn’t the one who invited me, after all. “Glad you could make it. Let me get you a drink.” She raises a hand to one of the circulating caterers and snags a glass of red for me.
“I’m not sure I should, Mrs. Hepsworth.”
“Oh for God’s sake, call me Rhonda. We’re the youngest women here.”
I nod and take the wine. She’s right, of course. It’s her birthday, but these are all Robert Hepsworth’s contemporaries, aside from the few children I’ve seen. Has she been isolated out here by her husband, a beautiful bird in a beautiful cage? It would make sense after the way his first marriage ended. He’s not going to trust his tight young wife to wander the world free and easy.
“So you’re dating Steven?” she asks.
“Yes.” I sip my wine carefully, as if I’m not used to drinking.
She studies me for a moment, offering no praise for her stepson.
“It’s so hard to find a good, upstanding man these days,” I prompt her.
“Oh, indeed,” she says, her smile spreading. “So very hard.” She knocks back the rest of her wine and reaches toward another tray passing by. The caterer slows so she can exchange the empty glass for a full one; then Rhonda raises it in a tiny toast. “To the Hepsworth men,” she drawls. “So upstanding.”
She’s definitely drunk, and apparently not one hundred percent happy with her husband. I use her offer of a toast to gulp half my wine. She does the same.
“Steven hasn’t brought a girl around in quite a while. You must be pretty special.”
“Oh, I’m not sure, but . . . but I like to think he—”
“You’re vulnerable,” she says. “A little lost.”
“What?”
She laughs and waves her glass. “Nothing.”
Well, she’s got Steven’s type pegged. Now I know why he doesn’t seem to like her much. “Mrs. Hepsworth—”
“Rhonda,” she snaps.
“Rhonda. Yes, I—”
“Jane.” Steven says my name from behind me like a command. I’m supposed to snap to attention, and I do.
Despite the beer in his hand, he glares at the wineglass in mine. “I was just toasting Rhonda’s birthday,” I say quickly.
His angry gaze bounces between the two of us. “Happy birthday, Rhonda,” he grinds out.
“Aw, thanks, Steven. So thoughtful.” She tosses back the rest of her wine and hands him the empty glass. “I’d better go check on my husband.”
“She’s really nice,” I say as soon as she’s gone.
Steven sets Rhonda’s glass on a table and rounds on me. “I asked you not to drink here.”
“Rhonda handed me a glass and asked me to drink with her, and I didn’t want to be rude.”
“You didn’t want to be rude to her, but you’ll be rude to me by drinking?”
“I hardly had any. See?” I jerk the glass up too quickly and a little red wine sloshes over to land on the front of my white sweater. “Oh no. My sweater!”
“Now you’re a sloppy drunk. At my dad’s house. Great. Take that off before someone sees you.”
“I’m not drunk,” I assure him. “I only had a few sips.” I struggle to undo the buttons of the sweater, nervous in the face of his angry disappointment. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t want to be rude on her birthday, that’s all.”
Once I have the sweater off, his eyes rake down my dress. “Great. You look like a fat slut, and I can’t even take you home because we just got here.”
Oh, Jesus, I’m a size ten. This guy really needs to get a grip. “Please don’t say that,” I whisper.
“I asked you to wear your sweater and not drink. That’s it. Two simple things.”
“Maybe Rhonda has a sweater I could borrow.”
“As if you’d fit into hers.”
“Steven, please don’t be mean.”
His eyes snap to mine as if he’s heard that before. Meg probably said it a thousand times. “You’re being mean to me,” he growls.
“I’m sorry.” I’m pleading now, reaching for his hand. “I’m sorry. The wine was just an accident. Please don’t be mad. It’s a nice party, and your dad is so sweet, and it’s such a good night.”
His shoulders soften a little. I’m saying all the right things, begging for forgiveness, complimenting his father, accepting responsibility.
“It’s November,” he mutters. “Why are you even wearing that dress?”
“I wore it for you. I thought it was pretty. That’s all.”
He nods and seems to simmer down. “At least it’s not showing half your ass.”
I slide a little closer. “We were toasting to you, you know.”
“Who?”
“Me and Rhonda.” That startles him. He frowns in the direction she went. “We were toasting the Hepsworth men.”
He presses his lips together in a tight line and glares out at the room. Not what I expected.
“Was she part of the church? Is that how they met?”
“Yeah. She started working in the church office when she graduated from community college.” Aw. A traditional May-December boss-and-secretary romance. How sweet and old-fashioned. Steven raises his bottle to his lips, but it’s empty.
“Let me get you another beer, sweetie,” I murmur. I take his empty and trot off to the kitchen to get my man a beverage. The birthday cake is sitting on the island. I count thirty-five candles. Steven is thirty-two. That means his father married a twenty-three-year-old when Steven was twenty, and she took a position of authority in the house. Steven obviously thinks she’s some sort of grasping bitch, and she thinks he’s an asshole. No reason they can’t both be right.
I was going to spend the night at Steven’s tonight, but I’ve screwed that up. Damn it. I want to move this relationship along, but he’s already gotten the pleasure of degrading me about my looks and behavior. I can’t be too easy a target or I’ll be boring. It’s a tightrope of misogyny.
Sex and humiliation are motivators for him, but his father’s approval is the biggest one, and I can use that too. I find the pastor near a huge fireplace, and the fire is roaring. It’s a cool night, but there are too many people packed in here, and he’s sweating.
“Pastor Hepsworth, I was just getting Steven a beer. Would you like something to drink?”
His eyes slide over my shoulders, noting the change in wardrobe, but he doesn’t leer. In fact, he offers a kind smile as he swipes a hand over his brow. “What a lovely offer, my dear. I’d love a whiskey soda.”
“I’ll be right back!”
I veer in Steven’s direction to deliver the beer and a beaming smile. “I promised your dad a drink, so give me one second, baby.”
He blinks. “My dad?”
Hurrying away, I find the makeshift bar at the corner of the dining room and ask for a whiskey soda, heavy on the whiskey. While I wait, I spy Steven making his way over to his father, though he has to stop every few feet to greet various guests.
He’s all charm again, playing the very important deacon of United in Christ Church. I make it back to the pastor before Steven arrives.