We approached the elevator and a third man opened the elevator door manually. Did no one do anything for themselves around here? We stepped onto the elevator and the operator closed the door. He used the lever to move the elevator by hand, taking us to the correct floor without even asking which one. When the elevator bumped to a stop, he adjusted the level and then opened the door. “Have a nice day.”
Jo smiled. “Thank you.”
The hallway was better decorated than many homes I’d seen. The plush carpet was wall-to-wall up here. Narrow wood tables decorated with large arrangements of fresh flowers were pushed up against the wall on both sides. There were only three doors.
“Our place is at the end of the hall. Well, my mom’s place.” Jo took my hand in hers. My collar felt tight and I wondered if this was a good idea.
Jo twisted the knob and pushed the door open. The muted sounds of conversation drifted our way.
“We won’t stay long. I need to get in some practice before my match. My mother organizes these things every year, trying to show off her tennis-playing daughter. I think she’d lose her mind if I said no.”
“I imagine that she’s very proud of you.” Jo was smart, talented, and beautiful. Any parent would be happy with her accomplishments. I had no family to share in mine. Sometimes I thought it was for the best, but other times I wondered what it might be like had things been different.
“I guess I’ve always seen it as her trying to show off.”
“Who all will be here?”
“Friends of my mother’s. Relatives. My sister’s at school. She won’t be here.”
Jo paused in the doorway. The foyer opened up into a living area with a huge expanse of windows that framed an incredible city view.
“I don’t see my mom. She might be in the kitchen.” Still holding my hand, Jo pivoted to the right.
Her hand squeezed mine hard as we walked through the dining area to the kitchen. Jo poked her head in. “Hi Mom.”
An older woman with perfectly coiffed hair moved toward Jo. “Darling! I’m so glad you’re here.” Not a single gray hair showed anywhere. She didn’t look like a woman who could have a grown adult daughter. She pulled back and gave me a questioning look.
“Mom, this is my friend Zane.”
Jo’s mother reached out and enfolded my hand in both of hers. “I’m so pleased to meet you,” she said politely. She turned back toward Jo. “Please, mingle with the guests. Your Aunt Frances is here and I know she would love to see you. I need to wrangle a little bit with the caterer.”
Jo led me out of the kitchen back toward the crowd mingling in the living room.
“Your mother’s nice.” I meant it. Though she’d been decked out in what looked suspiciously like a designer outfit, I’d seen her genuine affection for her daughter.
“She is nice. Usually. Sometimes. I don’t know. We don’t care about the same things.”
“I think that’s pretty common with parents and kids.”
Jo looked surprised for a moment. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” Jo scanned the area. “I see my Aunt Frances. We might as well get that over with.” Jo led me across the room where a small, elderly woman was ensconced in a chair, sitting as if it were a throne.
Jo paused several feet away from the chair. Her aunt looked up. Her makeup was thick. Her blush had been applied with a heavy hand. Her hair was like a stiff, gray helmet with wavy sides.
“Aunt Frances?” Jo held out her hand.
Her aunt grasped it. “Joella, how nice to see you.”
“Aunt Frances, I’ve asked you to call me Jo like everyone else does.”
“Joella is a perfectly good name. It’s the name of my dear departed sister. Don’t show disrespect to your grandmother by refusing to use her name.”
“It’s not my intent to be disrespectful. Aunt Frances, I’m so glad you could be here.”
“Why wouldn’t I be here? I come to all your mother’s events. She comes to mine as well. I don’t have as many as I used to, of course, but my invitations are as coveted as ever.”
“I’m sure they are. Aunt Frances, this is my friend Zane. This is my aunt, Frances Barrow.”
Her sharp eyes bore into mine. “Zane who?”
I took her hand gently and turned on the charm. “Zane Ryan, ma’am.”
She pulled her hand away and sized me up. “I seem to recall some Ryans in Newport. Are your people from Newport?”
“No, ma’am.” Newport? What the hell?
She pursed her lips. “Are you one of the Boston Ryans?”
I struggled not to laugh. “No ma’am. I’m from Texas.”