“Well, why did you not tell me?” she said, a mock scolding for a son she clearly adored. Martina looked at Mary and Hannah. “You girls must come join us, then,” she said. “While you wait for the tow truck.”
In the living room, Mary and Hannah took their seats on tufted chintz chairs as Martina Kelly’s friends welcomed them, their manicured hands wrapped around wine stems, their berry-colored lips curled into welcoming smiles as they asked their questions. A flat tire, is it? And you know Stefan? And where did you say you were from?
Mary gave the room a lovely smile before speaking, mournful but brave. “We moved here only recently from New Jersey. After our mother died.”
The women offered a collective gasp, their hands covering their hearts. “So it’s just the two of you?” asked Martina, so willing to be won.
Mary nodded.
Another woman, who was seated next to Beth, leaned in. From the similarities in countenance and appearance, Mary took her to be Beth’s mother. “And where is your father, dear?” she asked, her chin lifted, her words as elongated as a snake’s tongue.
Mary’s eyes snapped to hers. “London,” she answered, without pause, the challenge not entirely wrung from her face. “But we don’t see him. His wife prefers her space.” If she noticed Hannah’s confused expression, she didn’t acknowledge it.
Some of the women exchanged glances, intrigued by the turn the conversation was taking and relishing reports of the selfish whims of later wives. Beth took a sip of her wine, her foot slipping out of the back of her heel. And Mary decided that Beth was the perfect name for her, with her slightly upturned nose, ambivalent eyes, and hair like spun white gold. She could be a Blair or a Blake. But Beth was perfect.
“Well,” said Martina, clapping her hands, ready to right the conversation and steer it toward topics more jovial. “You girls must attend the Christmas concert at the Streinbach.” The Streinbach was the very well-regarded performing arts center in town. “They do all the old carols.”
Stefan, who had been leaning against the door frame into the foyer, looked at the ice in his tumbler and gave it a gentle twirl. “The arena also has ice skating on Christmas Eve,” he said. “We used to go every year.”
“We have to go to Willow’s while we’re home, Stef,” said Beth, leaning back in her seat and speaking only to him though he stood across the room. “They do that amazing torrone this time of year.”
“See this?” joked Martina, looking at Beth’s mother. “We have to drag these two back from Boston for the holidays even though they are filled with nostalgia for their home!” As her wine deepened in effect, Martina’s English became less natural.
After the room shared in a requisite charmed smile, Beth’s mother turned back to Mary, the arm holding her glass of wine resting on her knee. “So what brought you to Northton in particular?” she asked, wanting to know more about the beautiful girl who seemed so acquainted with Stefan. “Do you have friends here?”
“Well, not exactly,” said Mary, giving a self-conscious downward smile. “But my father used to live here.”
From the doorway, Stefan looked up.
“Your father?” asked Martina.
Mary nodded. “Yes,” she said. “He grew up here.”
“What’s his name?” asked one of the generic blonds, her lips slick and eager.
It was impulse that throbbed through Mary then, a reflexive response to a challenge. “Robert Mondasian.” She said it without knowing she would. She said it without thought of consequence.
No one emitted a sound, but the shock pulsed through the room. Robert Mondasian was Northton’s demon son. Revered and reviled and known for being charming and abusive and brilliant and narcissistic. He moved to Europe when he was kicked out of his elite boarding school and found his way into the gossip sheets for indiscreet dalliances with lesser royalty. A known womanizer, he used his first wife’s family money to begin purchasing interesting art and was soon reputed to have one of the keenest eyes in the world for emerging talent. The town of Northton was fascinated with him, and the local paper often reported on his doings, though his parents were now dead and he had never returned. Mary had first encountered his name in a magazine of her mother’s. She had read the article over and over, fascinated by him. And when she found out that he and Stefan were from the same town, well, to a girl like Mary, so prone to the quixotic, the grandiose, it all felt somehow preordained.
Finally, it was Beth’s mother who spoke. “I didn’t know Robert had any children,” she said.
“He and my mother weren’t married,” replied Mary.
“Well” was all Martina could manage. She looked at Mary, whose almost unsettling beauty did have something of Robert Mondasian to it. “Your father is certainly an icon in the art world,” she said, recovering. “He has a terrific collection.”
For the remaining time that Mary and Hannah sat in the Kellys’ living room waiting for the tow truck, the women treated Mary with reverence and caution. It was as if they had discovered the kitten that they had been batting about was actually a tiger cub. Stefan looked on, silent and curious. Robert Mondasian’s bastard daughter.
When the conical lights of the tow truck finally shot through the night outside, all the women stood, like hens at the coop door, extending their hands and wishing Mary and Hannah a Merry Christmas. Stefan walked the girls outside and down the driveway to where the driver was inspecting their Blazer, assessing how best to get it up onto his truck. His hands were sunk into his pockets, his breath was white and vanishing. He and Stefan exchanged a few words, and then tow cables were attached to the Blazer. There was the mechanical noise of gears grinding and moving as the Blazer was slowly hoisted up onto the flatbed.
Mary and Stefan stood facing each other in the streetlight-lit darkness. “So, it was really nice to see you,” said Mary.
“How are you going to get home?”
“We can ride in the truck and then walk from there,” said Mary, tilting her head toward the cab of the tow truck. Boosk Avenue was only a couple of blocks away from Spillane’s.
Stefan smiled at Mary. It was a warm thing, his smile. It was a nearby star. “I’ll drive you,” he said, his words near and quiet. “I’ll take you past the ice-skating arena. Show you where it is.”
Mary bit at her smile. “Okay,” she said, then she rested her hand on Hannah’s back. “What do ya say, Bunny?” she asked.
“Bunny?” asked Stefan, questioning Hannah’s unusual nickname.
Mary’s face was soft when she spoke. “That’s what I call her,” she said. She and Stefan looked at each other, their breath finding pace. “Ever since she was a baby.”
As he drove the girls back to Boosk Avenue, Stefan offered commentary on the town, pointing out the best place for omelets and the hill where you could sit on the Fourth of July and watch fireworks burst in the sky, their booms following moments later. “My dad used to take us here,” he said. “Right after dinner so that we could get a good spot.”