The Art of Scandal(60)
Almost an hour later, Herman appeared, wearing the Russian doll of Abbott costumes—the starched shirt and tailored pants of a powerful patriarch, beneath a gray cashmere cardigan with a rolled collar that shouted, “Dad!” at the top of its lungs. With his steel-colored eyes, and gash of a smile that bared all his teeth, he looked like a shark trying to convince everyone he was a guppy. The room quieted and leaned in at his arrival.
“I’m so glad you all could be here,” he said. “We need to get together more often. Thank you, Faith, for giving us an excuse to do that.” He bared his teeth again. “I think the food is ready. Matilda?”
She sipped a vodka tonic while gazing at the faceless figures in a large Tomoo Gokita hanging above the fireplace. Long, awkward seconds ticked by before she realized everyone was staring. “I’m sorry, what?”
“The food,” Herman said.
“What about it?”
“Do you think it’s done?”
She stared at her husband for a long beat. “I think you should ask the person who’s cooking it, don’t you?”
Herman’s eyes narrowed. Matilda’s face remained placid and serene. Rachel stood with a raised hand. “I’ll go check.” It was the best way to handle these dinners. Keep your hands full and try to look busy. Herman protested but Matilda cut him off with a bored drawl.
“Oh god, let her do it.”
Rachel moved down the hallway, putting the escalating argument between Matilda and Herman about whether he was merely sexist or a raging misogynist behind her. She spotted an abandoned cart covered with silver serving dishes and raised a lid to reveal a brothy soup. She took a picture and sent it as a reply to Nathan’s earlier text asking what she was eating for dinner.
Nathan: Could be the lighting, but I’m pretty sure that needs salt.
Rachel: Ha ha. Well, what are you eating?
“Are you texting Julia?” She jumped at the sound of Ben’s voice. He stared at her phone. “Is that why you’re sneaking back here?”
She dimmed her screen. “I’m not sneaking. And no. Though I did hire her. I told her everything and she’s working on it.”
He relaxed. “Everything? Including the deal you struck with my brother?”
“What the hell are you two doing?” Ben flinched and turned to face Matt. Rachel closed her eyes and willed the ceiling to cave in. When she opened them, Matt was frothing at the mouth. “What did you tell him?”
Rachel started to speak, but Ben cut her off. “She needed help. You were railroading her.”
Matt laughed. “Is that what she said? Rachel, tell him whose idea this was.”
She opened her mouth, but Ben spoke over her again. “I’m sure she didn’t force you to fuck someone else.”
“That’s not—you know, I don’t have to explain myself to you. This is between me and my wife.”
“Don’t call me that,” Rachel hissed, and then looked at Ben. “And while I appreciate your help, I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.” She heard footsteps and looked over their shoulders. Faith turned the corner and stopped short at the sight of them gathered around the cart.
“Um, the Russian woman with the apron said dinner is ready. Also, who is she? And why am I a little afraid of her?”
Rachel spent the next three courses dodging Matt’s eyes while he did his best to avoid his brother’s glares. Matilda and Herman were too busy offering unsolicited advice about which Ivy League graduate program Faith should attend to notice the tension.
Matt wanted Faith to take a break. “You’ve been in school a long time, sweetheart. It’s okay to live a little.” He patted her hand, and Faith leaned over to rest her head on his shoulder. Watching him continue to excel at being a loving stepfather was torture. Rachel looked down at her barely touched plate, searching for something to stab with her fork.
Matilda filled her wineglass to the rim. “Is that what you called postponing the bar exam, Matt? Breathing?” She leaned back in her chair. “It looked more like hyperventilation.”
Herman touched her arm. “Tilda—”
“No, Dad, let her vent,” Matt said. He gestured toward her glass. “Finish your wine and keep recycling the same boring stories. I’m waiting for the part when you admit to preferring those grad students over your own children.”
“That’s not true,” Matilda said. “All of you are tedious. They’re just better read.” She stood up, grabbed the wine bottle, and walked out of the room.
Matt looked at Ben. “You should go after her.”
Ben blinked, like he’d been asleep the whole time. “Me? Why?”
“You’re her favorite.”
“That’s a low bar. And you’re the one who called her a drunk.”
Faith kept her head bowed to hide her grimace. She used to compare their dinners to Real Housewives reunions. Rachel’s theory was that the Abbotts needed to argue because without it they wouldn’t know what to say to each other. Rehashing petty conflicts was the closest thing to a love language this family had. One of the many gifts of shedding the Abbott name would be avoiding a front-row seat to the way they tore each other to pieces.
She pulled out her phone to check the time and saw Nathan’s reply. His name on her screen was like a beacon guiding her to an Abbott-free shore.