“Should I have worn my bonnet? Brought a parasol?”
“I know. You should consider yourself warned—everything including the house is pretending to be something it’s not,” he said grimly.
“Dude, your stepmother’s house is pretty. I feel like we should rent it out to the BBC for their next miniseries,” she said, “are those torches? Like, seriously, fucking torches?” she hissed.
“No, they’re gas lights,” he said of the pair of lamps flanking the door, “for that Victorian England look.”
“Or Jack the Ripper vibe,” she muttered, and he laughed.
The double doors swung open, and a uniformed butler admitted them, referring to her husband as Mr. Brandon.
“Should I call you that now? Mr. Brandon?”
“Please don’t.”
He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and led her down the length of the entryway and into a vast dining room with wood paneled walls and a table so long you could probably play basketball on it. Lena was already seated at the head of the table, a suicide blond with a smile as tight as her low-cut black dress. It definitely put the L in LBD, Marj thought, trying to keep her eyes studiously off of her new mother-in-law’s cleavage.
“Margaret, so good to finally meet you. I say finally but, truly, it has only been a handful of hours you’ve been with my stepson, no?” she said coolly, extending a perfectly French manicured hand.
“It’s Marjorie, Lena,” Brandon said tightly.
“Ah, yes. Such an old-fashioned name,” Lena said with a feral smile.
“Indeed. The name means pragmatic, thorough, strong-willed, practical, and stubborn at times,” Marj said, taking Lena’s icy limp hand in greeting.
“It also means, you have a receptive nature and may bear burdens for others.”
“Did you look it up?”
“Of course I did, dear. I know everything about you.”
Marj smiled, pretending it didn’t bother her.
Was she doing this all right? Had she greeted her the right way? She had decided it was smart to pick a euphemism, and hers was indeed. It was what she intended to say instead of ‘go fuck yourself’ for the duration of this dinner. A servant pulled her chair, and she sat at her mother-in-law’s left, across the table from her husband. If he’d been beside her, she could have whispered to him, held his hand, trailed her foot up his trouser leg suggestively. Deprived of this comfort, she took to looking around.
There was plenty to see. Deep carpets, expensive furnishings, a sideboard displaying a fortune in Baccarat crystal. Lena’s perfume made Marj’s eyes water. It was at the same time cloyingly sweet and sharp, rather like the woman herself. Marj sipped her water and waited.
“Your wedding was a surprise,” Lena began.
“When it’s right, you just know,” Brandon said decidedly.
“And when it’s desperation to foil the just execution of your father’s last will and testament, that shows as well,” she replied.
The door opened, and two men entered, solemn in designer suits.
“I’m sure you remember Simon and Randolph, Brandon. They were your father’s attorneys before he passed away,” she said by way of introduction.
“Good to see you, Randy, Simon,” Brandon stood up, shaking hands affably, “I’m so glad you could come to dinner. Gives you a chance to meet my wonderful wife, Marjorie. I took a page out of old Dad’s book and chose a bride from the office pool. Although I admit I was squeamish about seeking one twenty years younger than myself,” Brandon said.
Marjorie had to force herself to stand primly and not fist bump Brandon in triumph at his dig on Lena and his dad’s May-December (Social Climber-Sleazy Old Dude) romance. The two attorneys shook hands with her and welcomed her to the family. It seemed really weird that the dead dad’s lawyers considered themselves family. Then she had a sudden thought that maybe they were Family with a capital F like in Mob movies. Seized by that possibility, she managed to watch her mouth for a while. Thoughts of cement galoshes and being stuffed in the trunk of a Cadillac stopped her from snarking at the WQ and her band of merry men.
Supper was, frankly, disgusting. A plate of snot on the half shell was set before her, and she smiled wanly, trying not to smell it.
“Don’t you like oysters, darling? We’ll have to develop a taste for the finer things, won’t we?” Lena said with a superior laugh.
Marj just smiled.
Lena nodded to one of the…footmen or whatever they were, and he took away Marj’s plate of slime. She was given a plate of bitter greens dressed with, she was guessing, straight vinegar, but she ate it in solidarity with Brandon, who had favored her with a half smile. He talked football with Randolph, who had also attended Princeton apparently. She filed that away as information she might need—the name of his alma mater. She also made a mental note to have a snack before she came to Lena’s for dinner the next time.