Summertime Guests - Wendy Francis Page 0,21
own grandchildren? Riley elaborated.
“Actually, my dad sells washers and dryers. Maytags.” And the expression on Marilyn’s face had dropped so swiftly that Riley had been tempted to reach over and physically lift the woman’s chin up off her chest. But Marilyn recovered swiftly, shifting her expression to one of mild surprise.
“Oh, really? How nice,” she’d said evenly, while reaching for the bottle of Cabernet sitting on the dinner table. It would have been so tempting for Riley to add I know! I always had clean clothes as a child! Can you believe it? It was great! but she suspected that even Marilyn would pick up on her sarcasm. Tom grabbed her hand under the table, squeezing it in solidarity.
Riley understands that, for her future in-laws, money is no object. (How very nice for them and especially for Tom while growing up!) But she also recognizes that the only reason the Cantons are well-off is because Tom’s father works as an attorney at one of Boston’s most prestigious firms. The whole superiority card Marilyn likes to play is ill-gotten. Because Marilyn’s job as an elementary schoolteacher certainly didn’t cover the bills, their sprawling house in Newton where Tom grew up, their new tony brownstone on Newbury Street. Raising her eyebrow at Riley’s upbringing is most definitely an example of the pot calling the kettle black.
“Okay,” Riley says now, instantly wary. “Is something up that would require a midweek get-together with your parents?”
Tom shoots her a sideways glance. The Harvard Bridge stretches out before them, and they bound up the steps until they’re on the bridge proper. “Why do you always assume the worst, Ry? Maybe she just wants to cook a nice meal for us during the week so we don’t have to think about it.”
“Maybe,” Riley allows, wondering if Tom really believes this. When they crest the bridge, the Prudential Center and the slender finger of the John Hancock Tower come into view, a sight she never tires of, no matter how many times they’ve run this route. “I suppose you’re right,” she says, striving for affability. Arguing about Tom’s mother doesn’t fall high on her list of priorities at the moment, especially on a Sunday morning that typically ends with a brunch of eggs Benedict and sex back at their apartment.
“Look, I know she’s been a little overbearing these past few weeks with the news of the engagement and all, but I honestly think she’s excited for us and wants to help. Now that she’s retired, she’s looking for something to fill her hours. Maybe you could give her a couple of jobs to do, stuff that you don’t care too much about?”
Riley grins. So her fiancé does understand the awkward dance that she and his mother are involved in! Riley wants a simple affair with only their closest friends and family in attendance, which Tom agrees would be ideal. Marilyn, however, keeps hinting that they should aim big and consider every possibility.
Riley would be glad to cede a few nuptial tasks to her mother-in-law, jobs like coming up with centerpieces and party favors, so long as Riley and Tom retain the ultimate power of approval. More than a few of her friends have already warned her about the giant time-suck that wedding planning can be, which is precisely what Riley wishes to avoid. She’s not the type of girl who spent her childhood clipping wedding-dress photos from magazines, and she would just as soon get the day over with so that she and Tom can get on with the rest of their lives. An elopement is still not entirely out of the question, at least in her mind.
So yes, Marilyn’s helping out might not necessarily be such a bad thing. If only Riley weren’t so concerned that her mother-in-law might lose her shit and turn it into the wedding of the century.
“Sure,” she says finally when they reach the end of the bridge and turn right, heading back into Cambridge. “I’m sure I can come up with a list of jobs for her. No problem.”
EIGHT
At the elevator on Wednesday morning, the 9th of June, a couple is already waiting, the down button illuminated by a faint yellow glow. Claire exchanges smiles with the tallish young woman who’s dressed in a sharp, white tennis skirt and a dark blue top, a racket case in one hand. Her yellow hair hangs down her back in a thick braid. On her right bicep hovers a tiny tattoo, a delicate Chinese