if they figured out that Nolan’s parents booked themselves at a luxury hotel, they’d flip out.
Joanna Jean patted her husband’s hand. “We had to fly six hours to get here. From North Carolina. I’m so glad that flight is over! Now we can relax on our vacation. I simply cannot wait to sightsee around here and go shopping. We already bought Nolan this tie from our hotel lobby.”
She lifted his tie, twisting it back and forth so we could see the exquisite shimmery material, pulling it at just the right angle for me to see the Hermès label.
My mom skimmed the menu. “Waaaa! This place too fancy. You can buy two Red Lobster senior citizen dinner for this meal price.”
“Well, hopefully no one will order the Dom Pérignon.” Nolan Senior chuckled and wiped his eyes.
My parents, on the other hand, didn’t laugh. My mom asked, “What is that? Is that the fancy steak that taste bad because there is no fat?”
“No, Mom, that’s filet mignon. He’s talking about a champagne.”
All this time I assumed my parents were clueless (and a tiny bit endearing) on bourgeoisie things because they had lived in the outskirts of a major metropolis in the South for a long time, but apparently that wasn’t the case. Joanna Jean and Nolan Senior lived in the suburbs in the South, too, and they sure seemed to know a lot about fancy champagne and first-class hotels, even though they lived in an even more rural area than my parents.
“Nolan, before we forget, thanks so much for letting us use your frequent-flier miles to upgrade to first class. They gave us lunch and provided the cutest bottles of ketchup.” Joanna Jean brought her Louis Vuitton shoulder bag to her lap. This leather masterpiece from their new spring collection had to have set Nolan’s mom back at least four grand. It was the same one Jane had. Joanna Jean pulled out a tiny bottle of Heinz ketchup that she had swiped from the plane. A truly adorable little bottle.
My mom snorted. “We take stuff all the time from restaurant and hotel. Melody, remember when we take the basket of cheese biscuit at Red Lobster?” I winced, mortified by her outburst. It was totally true, though. A few years ago, they delivered a whole basket of fresh bread to our table just as we paid our check and we didn’t want to see it go to waste. So my mom jerry-rigged a bunch of napkins together to make a giant sack for the biscuits. We ate them all week. It was shameful, but not wasteful, and so delicious.
With her mouth full of sourdough roll, my mom semicoherently sputtered, “Is that real LV bag or fake?”
Joanna Jean ran her fingers through her blunt brown bob and placed her neatly manicured hands over her mouth in surprise. She coughed on the mimosa she carried in her other hand.
“Heavens me, that’s quite a surprising question. It’s real.”
My mom scooted up to the table, stood up, then leaned over to get a good look at the handbag in Joanna Jean’s lap. She sat back down and nodded. “If that is fake, the stitching very good.” My dad nodded, as if he, too, was an expert in counterfeit designer goods.
Social protocol–wise, what are you supposed to do if your mother sort of accuses your work friend’s mom of carrying a fake handbag? It was probably best to move the conversation along in a different direction. Nolan’s parents and mine weren’t going to end up best friends and go on cruises together. If this meal ended immediately, both parties would probably be relieved.
I clapped my hands together. “I think it’s time to hit the buffet. I’ll stay here with Nolan while the parents go up first.”
My parents, as predicted, went straight for the crab legs. His parents went toward the soup and salad.
I whispered to Nolan, “Could this be any more painful?”
He looked around to make sure his parents weren’t on their way back. “Sorry about them saying all that stuff about the hotel and champagne.”
This was my chance to bring it up. “Yeah, so, what’s the deal? Are you guys loaded or something?” I laughed nervously.
“Um, my dad exports tobacco.” He winced. “I know, it’s terrible, so I don’t ever talk about it. But yeah, our family has been in the tobacco business for many generations. My dad’s trying to grow other crops, too, now, but it hasn’t been easy. They live . . . um, comfortably.