Page 13 of One Last Goodbye

“Wonderful! You’ll meet Dr. Strauss as well.” Her face hardens slightly. “And I believe Frederick’s secretary is flying in from London as well.”

“Oh, how charming,” Hugo says, making no attempt to hide his sarcasm. Catherine flashes him a look, and he clears his throat and says—without sarcasm—“We really would love if you’d join us.”

I smile sweetly. “I would love to. If it’s all right with Mr. Jensen, of course.”

He tenses slightly. “Of course.”

There’s a moment of strained silence between us. Catherine breaks it. “Well, we have a lot to do before dinner, so we’ll leave you to it. Children, go upstairs and wash, please.”

“But we’re not dirty,” Olivia protests.

“Wash,” Catherine commands.

She rolls her eyes and stomps into the house, slamming the door behind her. Ethan follows, barely more than a wraith, as he opens the door and floats across the threshold. Catherine laughs and flips her hand. "Children have so much attitude at that age, don't you think, Mary?"

There are so many things I want to say, but I restrain myself. “Growing up is a difficult journey.”

"Well, put. Anyway, we'll see you there. And don't worry about dressing up. This isn't a formal dinner."

She is American, so she probably means what she says. Still, after Catherine and Hugo disappear into the house, I use the side entrance to head to my room and change into a slightly nicer outfit. Perhaps it’s an echo of my British heritage, but I’d rather be overdressed than underdressed.

I must admit, I look forward to this dinner with some excitement. Catherine has brought her lover home with her, and based on the way she speaks of this mysterious secretary, I have a feeling that Frederic is doing the same. I believe I will have achance to examine more closely the sources of the tension that is dividing this family.

***

I am glad that I changed. The Jensens might be American, but they have the same definition of informal that my British employers had. Mr. Jensen and Mr. Van Doren wear exquisite silk suits, while Catherine and the two other women present wear elegant evening gowns. My sensible blouse and skirt are not so fancy as their dresses, but they are formal enough that I don’t feel ashamed or out of place.

Ethan dresses nicely as well, but I notice that Olivia wears a hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers. Catherine glares sharply at her and whispers for her to change. Olivia's response is to offer her mother the teenager's favorite finger.

And now I must step in. I am, after all, her governess. I’ve been lenient so far, but this is too much. “Olivia,” I say quietly. “Please go upstairs and change into something more appropriate for dinner.”

You would think I had slapped the girl. She looks at me in shock, and when I hold her gaze, her face reddens, and her lip trembles. She stalks out of the room and slams the door behind her.

The assembled guests do a creditable job of acting like they’ve noticed nothing. Ethan casts me a reproachful look, and I return a smile. He looks away, clearly angry with me.

I sigh inwardly. I’ll have a conversation with the children tomorrow. It was a mistake not to lay some ground rules at the beginning.

“You handled that well,” a voice says.

I turn to see the older of the two female guests smiling at me. I say older, but she is probably ten years younger than I am. Sheis rather plain-looking with short brown hair and an average face and figure, but her gray eyes are sharp as daggers. She extends her hand. “Dr. Eleanor Strauss. I’m the family therapist.”

And you're having dinner with the family? How professional of you.

I am woman enough to admit that my dislike of therapists is personal. So, I control my visceral contempt and take the compliment. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“I’ve told Catherine and Frederick for years that the children need a firmer hand. I’m glad to see someone’s finally providing it.”

“Compassion must include proper guidance,” I reply. It’s as neutral a response as I can think of.

“Yes, indeed.”

Any further conversation we might have is interrupted by Frederick. “Mary! I want to introduce you to someone. She’s from England, just like you!”

Imagine that, I think drily. Outwardly, I smile and extend my hand toward the younger woman, who clings nervously to Frederick's side. "Mary Wilcox."

“Veronica Baines.” She takes my hand briefly before sliding it back into Frederick’s arm.

Her head is so close to his shoulder that she might as well lean on it. For God's sake, these people could at least hide their affairs in front of their children.

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