When we got home, I couldn’t help but notice that my car was still conspicuously absent from the driveway. This was not good. A girl who was eight months pregnant didn’t need to be driving around this worked up.
“Viv,” I said, “could you please get the biscuits we made out of the guesthouse freezer?”
“Sure, Gransley!”
I walked into the kitchen, where Sloane was cooking up a storm, and sighed. This was supposed to be a subtle lesson in entertaining for my daughters. I had set the wide-plank table on the front porch with my hand-painted Anna Weatherley china, my great-grandmother’s monogrammed linens, the English sterling silver. We had gotten out the crystal, the intricately carved sterling candlesticks that I saved for special occasions, and Caroline, before she found out what was happening, had created six stunning flower arrangements in silver goblets and lined them down the table. They were a mix of blue hydrangeas, bells of Ireland, sweet peas, and a couple of gardenias she had found blooming in a particularly sunny spot. It was going to be all flowers and candlelight, a perfect table that made me wonder why I didn’t entertain more.
“I’m going to bet that Caroline is no longer in a celebrating Emerson kind of mood,” Sloane said.
I heard the front door open, and a familiar, deep voice called, “Hell-o-o!”
I looked at Sloane accusingly.
“Oh, right,” she said. “I might have forgotten to tell you . . .”
She didn’t have to finish the sentence, because Jack appeared in a sport coat with a bouquet of hydrangeas that I assumed were for me.
I looked from Jack to Sloane. “Someone want to get me up to speed?” I took the flowers and said, “Thank you.” But the look I gave him was cold. His judgment should have been better. I had let it go that he put the crib together. But I could not have been clearer with Jack about being around my family.
“Your lovely girls invited me to dinner,” Jack said. “I hope that’s OK. They promised me they would fill you in.”
“You would think they would have, wouldn’t you?” I paused. “Jack, there is some turmoil around the Murphy home right now.” I turned to lead him out the door, trying to keep my composure. “I think we should take a rain check.”
I heard the front door open again and braced myself. “I have the best news!”
It was Emerson.
“I am too thin!” she yelled. “Ice cream for everyone!”
She stopped dead in her tracks when she reached the kitchen. “Oh, hi. Sorry, Jack. A little actress life here.”
He held his hand up for Emerson to give him five. “I’m always up for ice cream.”
My heart raced. I didn’t want them high-fiving. I didn’t want my daughters getting attached to him. I didn’t want them getting to know one another. I wanted Jack to go.
She ran in place and squealed, “I’m reading too thin on camera. I get to gain three whole pounds!”
I looked at Vivi. “Please don’t ever be like this.”
She shook her head.
I was so relieved. My child did not have an eating disorder! She was having ice cream!
“First,” Sloane said, opening the oven, “let’s eat.”
“Ohhhh, I smell tipsy cake,” Emerson said, inhaling. “Even better.” She looked around. “Hey, where’s Caroline?”
“Oh,” I said. “About that. Someone may or may not have told her that you were playing Edie Fitzgerald.”
By the look on Emerson’s face, you could tell that she was no longer all that interested in ice cream. “Oh, no,” she said. “I wanted the chance to explain.”
“With all due respect, sugar,” I said, “you should have told her way before now if you wanted the chance to explain.” It suddenly made sense why Emerson hadn’t wanted us to come to the set. She wasn’t being modest; she had something to hide.
“OK,” I said again. “Jack, we’ll see you later.”
“Mom,” Sloane said, looking at me incredulously. “It’s fine. Quit being so rude.”
Dinner was a little strained. Well, actually, very strained. We were all on edge about Caroline’s whereabouts but trying to act casual for Vivi’s sake. I was caught in a place between mad that Jack had ignored my wishes, irritated that the girls had gone behind my back, and positively over the moon that he was sitting beside me at the table.
The food was so delicious it made up for the weirdness. Sloane had made a beautiful salad with prosciutto, peaches, mozzarella, and thyme from our box garden out back. She had created a lovely cold chicken, perfectly marinated, with thinly sliced avocado and tomato, and paired it with my mother’s green bean casserole topped with fresh Georgia peanuts instead of crispy onions because it was Emerson’s favorite. And my great-grandmother’s tipsy cake, which we got to eat with the stunning mother-of-pearl dessert forks that were a priceless wedding gift from my in-laws, topped it off.
In the midst of our salads, I saw Emerson watching someone. I turned to see a man walking down the street. I realized it was Mark, whom Emerson had started dating her sophomore year of high school, and I had wished she hadn’t, simply because you know that something that starts when you’re fifteen probably isn’t going to last. I had adored him. Mark’s great-grandparents had partnered with my grandparents many times in the shipping industry. They had been dear friends. Mark was still in the family business, which, to me, said a lot about him and how much he valued tradition. Plus, he was sweet to her and nice and would make good-looking grandchildren. As he made his way to the front gate, Mark seemed taller than I remembered, but then again, it was possible he had grown in the last ten years. He had a head of sandy-blond hair and blue eyes, not clear like Emerson’s but dark navy blue. He was wearing freshly ironed khaki shorts with a Vineyard Vines shirt tucked in and a UGA belt. He was very Southern, not like those men Emerson was always taking up with in LA, with their skinny blue jeans that looked like they belonged on a teenage girl. Mark was darling. But I had a feeling that if he was barking up this tree, he might get his little heart hurt.
Sloane raised her eyebrows at Emerson, who wiped her mouth, stood up, and said, “Come in, come in,” motioning toward the still-closed gate. She stood on her toes to give Mark what could only be described as a rather awkward hug. “How are you?” she asked.
“Sorry to interrupt dinner,” he said.
“Oh, not at all,” I said. I pointed toward Jack. “Jack, Mark. Mark, Jack.”
Jack stood to shake Mark’s hand.
No one said anything for maybe two seconds, but it felt painfully long. “Mark, please come join us,” I said, breaking the silence.
“Oh, that’s OK,” he said.
“No, really,” Emerson added. “I was going to take the kids for ice cream after dinner. Come with me. We can catch up.”
He grinned, finally relaxing. “That sounds great.”
“Sounds great to me, too!” Vivi chimed in.