During Faith’s weekend visit, Rachel and Matt had executed a carefully choreographed avoidance routine in which they were never together in the same room with her for long. By Sunday they’d run out of excuses, and Faith wouldn’t accept the campaign or the gala as a reason for skipping an Abbott family dinner. The fifteen-minute drive was torture. Matt announced that he was in the mood for car karaoke, something they hadn’t done since Faith was twelve. He cranked up Billy Joel to earsplitting levels and warbled “Piano Man” while Faith lip-synched along out of pity.
All of the Abbotts had dressed in their usual uniforms to attend the dinner in Faith’s honor. Matilda was the unimpressed academic matriarch, dressed in beige layers from head to toe, as though her massive brain couldn’t be bothered to deal with color coordination. She never wore jewelry or accessories because, like everything else, they made her bored and impatient. She greeted Matt and Rachel with a half-hearted gesture that could have been either a wave or dismissal. Faith, however, was given eye contact and asked whether she was old enough for a cocktail.
Ben was the emo poet who was too busy pondering the mortal coil to greet anyone. He stood in a dark corner, wearing a dark suit, and watched them all through dark eyes and an even darker expression. His glass was filled with whiskey that he sipped slowly while glowering at his older brother. He tried to catch Rachel’s eye, but she avoided his gaze, and was relieved when Faith finally coaxed him into playing a game of chess.
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.