Devil In A Suit (Book Three), page 4
“Well come inside, I’ve got to check on the lasagna, and I know Frank is dying to meet you.”
As we follow her up the path, Jared shoots me a dazzling smile that actually makes me stumble up the first step into the house. Well, so far, so good.
Inside, my dad is, as I suspected he would be, parked in his chair, a muted Bruins game on the television (he’s always hated the announcers and their “mindless prattle”). But when he hears the door open, he quickly hits the button on the remote and springs up from his chair. He runs his hands over his face, smoothing out his salt-and-pepper beard, before heading over to offer his hand to Jared.
“Nice to meet you,” he says. “Call me Frank.”
My dad has never been Frank to anyone I’ve ever brought home. Any date has always been Mr. Carson, often accompanied by a don’t-even-try-it glare.
My dad isn’t a tall man, just barely 5’9, but he’s solid, and a lifetime of working with his hands has made him look like a formidable opponent in a fight. I know he’s a marshmallow, all gooey inside, but even I can admit that he looks intimidating.
But one look at Jared, standing at attention in his six-foot frame, his shoulders square, pumping my father’s arm with a military handshake and a “nice to meet you, Sir,” and I can see that he’s passed inspection. Something in dad’s eye tells me he trusts Jared immediately.
“Dad, you don’t have to interrupt your game,” I say. Glancing over at the television that I still can’t believe is off.
“Oh, whatever, the Bruins are down by five and I doubt they’ll be coming back tonight. There’s always tomorrow.”
I hear the oven door slam from the kitchen and my mom call out that dinner’s ready. I lead Jared into the dining room, and gesture to the traditional guest seat, the one that faces the window. Dad takes his seat to right, leaving mom to sit at the left, and me with my back against to the window. I glance across the table at Jared and realize that I had nothing to be worried about.
My mom brings out the lasagna, and Jared oohs and ahhs with just enough enthusiasm as to not be overboard. I also happen to know that he’s looking forward to this meal, having worn himself out on pork lo mein and fried rice this morning. And I won’t lie, my mother is an amazing cook. Nothing gourmet, but she makes all the traditional mom food better than anyone else I know. And her lasagna is top notch.
Once all the plates are served, the salad bowls filled, and the wine poured, we dig in. After a few moments of silence chewing, I start to panic. This is what I was worried about. My parents are fine on their own, but get them together and they seem to enter some kind of cone of silence. This is not the impression of a healthy relationship that I want Jared to get.
But then he breaks the silence.
“So, how did you two meet?” he asks between bites of cheesy lasagna (the top perfectly browned, as always).
Mom and Dad glance up, their eyes meeting across the table. I can tell they’re surprised by the question. It’s not one they get asked often, and I doubt it’s one they think about ever unless provoked. Not that I can’t recite the story in my sleep. In church. Their parents introduced them. It was love at first sight.
“We met in church,” my mom says, and I have to stop myself from bobbing my head along with the canned answer.
“Well, actually we met each other before that,” Dad says, and I hear something like mirth in his voice. I look up, and he’s grinning.
“Oh Frank, that’s not a dinner table story,” Mom says, blush creeping into her cheeks.
“You say that like it’s scandalous!” He replies.
“Well it is! We both nearly got arrested that night!”
Now my mouth is fully agape. This is a story I’ve never heard. They nearly got arrested? What?
“Now this is a story I’ve gotta hear,” Jared says. He leans into the table, prepared for a barn burner.
“Well, I had snuck out to meet some of my friends. Susan Lloyd — of course, she was Susan Sheridan then — had heard about a bonfire some of the boys from St. Francis were throwing down by the lake.”
“But you didn’t go to St. Francis,” I say, turning to Dad.
“No, I didn’t. I crashed the party with some of the guys from St. Joe’s,” he says, laughing at the memory.
“And when the St. Francis boys realized what you’d done, stealing their beer and trying to scam on their girls, an outright brawl started,” Mom says.
“The O’Donnells, who lived near the lake, called the police, and we all had to scatter to avoid getting arrested,” Dad says, trading off the story.
“Oh, I would have been in so much trouble had my parents found out. My father would have grounded me through Christmas.” Mom shakes her head, her eyes wide, as if she’s right back there in high school again. “I ran into the woods and threw myself to the ground beneath a massive willow tree, never mind that it had rained earlier that day and the ground was practically a swamp.”
“Turns out she’d found my hiding spot,” Dad adds. “What luck, a pretty girl turns up face-down in the same mud puddle!”
They’re both laughing now, Jared is grinning, and even I’m transported. Suddenly I’m seeing my parents as if for the first time.
“We had to stay out there for gosh, it must have been an hour,” Mom says.
“And what else was there to do but strike up a conversation?” Dad adds.
“He was very charming.”
“She was sharp and very funny. Nearly gave away our hiding place making me laugh like that!”
“And when the coast was clear, he walked me home, all covered in mud, and kissed me just outside the street light, so no one would see.”
“So imagine my surprise, when Sunday morning rolls around and my mother drags me across the parish hall for yet another fix-up, only to find the love of my life standing there in a blue dress, looking even more beautiful than I remembered.”
“It helped that I wasn’t covered in dirt.”
“Ah, I take it back, you were just as lovely when caked in mud as you were any other day I saw you for the rest of our lives.”
“And we’ve been together ever since,” Mom finished.
They’re smiling at each other across the table, and I know that I’ve been wrong all this time. It’s not that they’re locked in a loveless marriage. They’re not roommates. They’re soul mates. I just never paid attention. I never asked the question.
Beneath the table, I feel Jared’s foot meet mine. He taps at my toes a few times. I glance up and see him smiling at me from across the table, and I know it immediately. I want to be sitting across the table from him for many meals to come. I want to tell the story (ok, the cleaned-up story) of our relationship. I want to have history with this man.
And if the look on his face is any indication, he wants a history with me, too.
Chapter 8
Over the past two weeks, I’ve begin to grow accustomed to Jared’s extravagances. He may be a creature of habit, wearing the same designer suits each day, eating the same breakfast each morning, but when it comes to those around him, it turns out that that’s where his money goes.
It started with the key to his apartment on a Tiffany keychain. Then I noticed a drawer full of lingerie from Délicat appeared in his bedroom dresser. His fridge and pantry was soon stocked with my favorite snacks, books on me reading list appearing on the bedside table. There was even a new iPad engraved with my name for me to work on. I was starting to suspect he was trying to get me to move in without actually asking the question.
But this? This is by the far the most incredible thing anyone has every given to me.
It’s a Monique Lhullier gown, special ordered and fitted to my exact measurements. The dress is a heavy silk in fire engine red with a strapless, straight across neckline. It has a slim mermaid silhouette that hugs my hips down to a wide bell skirt. It has asymmetrical draping across the bodice and skirt, with a magenta silk accents peeking out around the bottom.
“This is too much,” I whisper, staring at my reflection in the mirror. Jared appears behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. He already shaved and ready to go, looking very James Bond in an impeccably tailored tuxedo.
“But you said you didn’t have anything to wear,” he says.
“I meant I was going to have to rent something,” I say, running my hands over the heavy silk around my hips.
He steps back. “You were going to rent a dress? Like teenage boys do for the prom?”
“I didn’t realize teenage boys were in the habit of renting dresses,” I reply with a smile.
“Look, I could return it, but frankly I think that would be mean to the dress. No one is going to ever look as good as you wearing it, and that’s just not fair,” he says. He glances at his watch. “We’ve got to get going. The limo will be waiting.”
Tonight is the night of the King Foundation benefit. Jared asked me to accompany him just after the dinner with my parents. I asked him if it would cause a scene bringing an employee as his date — and a fairly junior employee at that — but he brushed me off and told me he couldn’t imagine going with anyone else.
In the limo, Jared wastes no time putting his lips on mine. His hand snakes up to the back of my neck, careful not to muss my hair, which is pinned in a loose knot at the nape of my neck. Still, his lips and tongue are urgent, and I have to remind him that our ride is only five minutes long.
“I can ask the driver to circle the block,” he murmurs into my mouth.
“Maybe on the way home,” I tell him, though every part of me wants to acquiesce.
“Fine, fine,” he grumbles, though there’s a spark in his eye. He takes my hand and threads his fingers through mine, and we ride like that the rest of the way.
The event is being held at the Fairmont Copley Plaza in the Grand Ballroom. Those words might conjure up an image, but nothing I imagined could compare to the sight when I walked in on Jared King’s arm. The wood floor is polished to an impossible shine that only just competes with the gilded accents on the pristine white walls. Gold chairs surround banquet tables topped with elegant ivory linens, silver and crystal and white bone china. A full jazz band in white dinner jackets is arranged on a low stage playing jazz and swing standards. Waiters and busboys in black tuxedos weave through the crowd carrying delicate, bite-sized food on gleaming silver trays.
The room is already filled with the cream of the crop of Boston business and society. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a Kennedy or two in the crowd. All the men are in designer tuxedos, the women in a veritable jewelry box of brightly colored silk and brocade, lace and satin, their necks and arms and ears dripping with priceless jewels.
“This is like a fairy tale,” I whisper.
“Then I guess that makes you my princess,” Jared replies, and all my nerves melt away.
As a waiter passes by, Jared plucks two glasses of champagne from his tray, passing one to me. We clink glasses and take sips. And then I spot him.
“Your father is here,” I say, gesturing to an otherwise empty banquet table in the corner, where the elder Mr. King is seated swirling something dark brown in a cocktail glass.
Jared’s gaze follows mine until he sees him, and then everything in him goes tense. “Damn. I was hoping he wouldn’t show up.”
“I’m sure he’s here for your mother.”
“You don’t know my father,” Jared replies. “He only ever does anything for himself.”
“That can’t be true.”
“He’s never given me any indication otherwise. The man acts like she was never alive to begin with. Like he has no memory of her at all,” he practically spits. He downs the rest of his champagne, depositing the empty glass on a passing tray. Then he holds out his arm to me. “Please, let’s forget about him and have a good time.”
With a final glance across the ballroom, I notice that Mr. King looks like he’s not having a particularly good time. But Jared seems determined to muscle past whatever stands between him and his father, and I decide to agree with him.
We spend the rest of the evening mingling with various luminaries. I trade stock tips with the Mayor, discuss higher education funding with the President of Harvard, and even get an autograph for my dad from a Boston Bruin.
But all the while I keep my eye on both Jared and his father. Mr. King, though he does make the rounds through the crowd, never seems able to relax at all. And while his son is much more adept at pretending, I can tell that he can’t unwind either. I also notice that each manages to keep the other squarely in sight, checking in their whereabouts throughout the evening. For two people who seem intent on ignoring one another, they sure can’t seem to forget the other.
When it’s time for the presentation, Jared and I take our seats at a table down front, where Mr. King is also seated. Again, they studiously ignore each other, though there’s an Arctic chill over the table that tells me neither is doing a very good job.
Luckily, Jared is called up to the stage to make his annual speech thanking donors and talking about the good work their money goes to support. He looks luminous up there in his tuxedo, his dark curls looking just a little wild. His smile is wide, and you can practically feel the crowd leaning towards him. His presence is magnetic, and not for the first time I feel a flood of satisfaction that of all the people this man could choose, he chose me.
The spotlight is on him, the house lights low, as a picture appears on the screen behind him. It’s a picture of a woman in a yellow sundress standing on a beach, the sun shining down on her as the wind whips her dark, wavy hair around her face. Her smile is wide and bright, one I recognize in Jared, and I know right away that this is his mother.
“We’re here tonight not only to celebrate all the good that you’ve done through our foundation, but to celebrate the life of the woman who inspired it all,” Jared says. His voice is warm and full of love. Next to me I see Mr. King begin to shift uncomfortable in his seat. “Though she was taken from us far too soon, her spirit of love and adventure, of curiosity and passion, live on through the research the Ellen King Foundation does to find a cure for cervical cancer. I’m so very sorry most of you never got to know my mother, but it pleases me greatly to know that her spirit is felt here tonight.”
Mr. King rises from his chair quickly, clearing his through, and hurries through the crowd towards a nearby exit. There is just the briefest of flashes in Jared’s face letting me know that, despite the low lights and the spotlight in his face, he saw his father rush from the room. Only I know he couldn’t make out the full view. I know he didn’t see the way the old man’s eyes welled up.
Without thinking, I rise from my chair and follow. I find Mr. King just outside the door, standing in front of a table display for the Ellen King Foundation, the center of which shows the same photo that was just up on the screen. His hands are in his pockets, his chin tucked, but he can’t take his eyes off it.
“I took this picture, you know,” he says, his voice gruff and pained.
“It’s lovely,” I reply.
“It was the summer before she was diagnosed. She hadn’t been feeling well, but she insisted on our annual summer trip to the Cape. She wanted to see Jared build sandcastles. He was only two and just barely had the dexterity to do it. She was insistent. The week after we got back to the city, she went to her doctor. She was gone by the following summer. Worst year of my life.”
I take a deep breath, remembering Jared sitting in my kitchen in Somerville telling me that he’d turned off the part of him that made connections. That he’d had to in order to survive, and I’m realizing now that he’s not the only one.
“You should tell him that,” I say. “He thinks you don’t care.”
His face jerks up to meet mine, a mask of confusion. “Why would he think that?” he asks incredulously.
“Why wouldn’t he?” I ask, trying to be gentle with my tone. The man is clearly still grieving, all these years later, and he’s doing it alone.
He turns back to the photo and goes still for a moment. He closes his eyes tight, perhaps trying to contain the tears that are threatening to fall. Then, without a word, he turns and heads away from the ballroom.
Inside I hear applause, and the band begins to play again, an upbeat number meant to inspire the crowd out onto the dance floor. I know I should get back in there, but before I can make my way to the door, Jared appears.
“Where did he go?” he asks. The smile from the stage is gone, as is the warmth. He’s angry, and I worry what he might do with all that anger. But I don’t have time to intervene. He sees his father’s retreating back heading up the wide, carpeted staircase towards the lobby, and without a word he charges after him. And because I worry that one or both of them might wind up in the hospital or in jail from this encounter, I follow.
“Jared, wait!” I call, barely making it up the stairs in my heels. Jared is using is long legs to take the stairs two and three at a time until he’s reached his father. He reaches out and grabs his shoulder, spinning him around.
“How dare you walk out of that room. The least you could have done was sit there. The very least.”
“Jared, I don’t want to have this conversation here.”
“Well you’re going to have it. Right here, right now. Because you can disrespect me all you want, but you will not disrespect her.”
“What are you talking about? I’m not disrespecting her. I loved her!”
“Like hell you did! You barely batted an eye when she died. You never spoke of her when I was growing up. And you acted like you wished I was gone as well so it could just be you. What you’ve always wanted.”
“That’s absolutely untrue. Maybe I wasn’t a very good father—“
“Maybe?”
“What did I know about raising a child? My father was no treat, and I’d spent my life up to that point being raised by drill sergeants. That’s what I loved about your mother, why I married her and why I had children with her. Because I knew she could be everything I wasn’t. Which was why it was so terrible and unfair that she died. She died, and you got stuck with me.”
