Page 68 of The Write Off

“So, what are my safe topics?”

I glance at her quizzically.

“What would you like me to talk about? The economy?”

“No.”

“Politics.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Give me a topic, Logan. A direction to head in. I don’t know anything about real estate or sailing or anything else country club people talk about. I can’t promise I won’t embarrass you, but I can promise I’ll try not to.”

My head jerks in her direction. “Rilla, I don’t want you to do anything except be yourself.”

“Are you sure? Have you met me?”

“Believe me, Rilla. I’m much more worried about them embarrassing me.” I think of the way they treated my last girlfriend. The pointed comments and compliments that felt like thinly veiled insults. And they approved of her.

“They can’t be that bad.”

“They can and they are.” I sigh. “My parents are not like yours. They are elitist and cold.”

“I think you’re underestimating just how lovable I am.” She winks at me and I smile despite my growing sense of impending doom.

I squeeze her hand again as our exit comes into view. “Never.”

Chapter 34

Rilla

I don’t know what fork to use.

The salad has arrived and I don’t know what I’m supposed to eat it with. I stall, taking my time to place my cloth napkin on my lap, hoping someone else will start eating before I do. Both Logan and his father ordered the soup, so unless his mom decides to stop talking long enough to put something in her bird-like mouth, I’m out of luck.

The small one? It’s probably the small one, right? A person wouldn’t eat steak with that tiny pronged device. But is it too small? Maybe it’s there in case we order dessert later. Or perhaps you’re not supposed to use that one at all. It’s a decorative fork used to identify people who shouldn’t be here.

Unable to delay any longer, I pick up the small fork, waiting for some kind of alarm bells to sound, alerting everyone in this over-priced restaurant that I don’t belong here. When nothing happens, I breathe a sigh of relief. With the delicacy of a surgeon extracting an appendix that’s about to blow, I pierce the fork through a slice of tomato and bring it to my mouth, making sure to chew with my mouth closed.

I know Logan told me to be myself, but from the moment he introduced me to his parents I’ve been desperately trying to be anything but. His mother looks like she could be on European currency. Given Logan’s age, I think she should be nearing sixty like my mom, but she could easily pass for someone in her forties. Her skin is smooth and taut, no trace of laugh lines. Considering she hasn’t smiled once since we’ve been introduced, maybe that’s not so surprising.

His dad, on the other hand, looks like I imagined. He’s not quite as tall as Logan, but he has the same strong features. His hair, though peppered with white and gray, looks as though it was once the same dark brown. His eyes are also similar, but colder than his son’s.

“The ballroom was already booked, but Marguerite–you remember Marguerite Rutherfurd, Logan. You went to school with her son, Patrick. Marguerite was able to persuade the hotel to cancel the other event and give us the room instead. The whole thing would have been an unmitigated disaster, otherwise. I mean, can you imagine? Being forced to change venues on such short notice?”

“Where did you say you were from, Ms. Pine?”

I’d like to reply that I didn’t because they have not asked Logan or me a single question since we sat down, but something about this man’s demeanor tells me that would not turn out well.

“I grew up in Maine. Portland.”

“What do your parents do?”

“My father was a partner in a law firm. He retired last year. My mother was an elementary school teacher before she had my brother and I.”

“And your brother? Is he a lawyer as well?”

“No, Josh went into education. He’s a teacher here in Boston.”

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