Chapter 6 - The Uninvited Guests
The foyer smelled of burned sugar, overcooked poultry, and excessive pine-scented aerosol spray—the unmistakable olfactory signature of an upper-middle-class domestic catastrophe desperately concealed.
From the dining room to the right of the grand staircase, the muffled sounds of dinner conversation drifted out: the clinking of silver against china, the forced, high-pitched laughter of my sister Ainsley, and the deep, booming, patronizing baritone of a man who could only be Arthur Pemberton.
"...well, in Charlotte, we simply don't see that kind of municipal overreach," Arthur was saying. "If a development doesn't yield fifteen percent cap rate within the first eighteen months, the board simply shelves the project. It’s a matter of fiscal discipline."
"Fascinating, Arthur, truly," my mother’s voice cooed, strained to the point of snapping. "Richard has always said the exact same thing about his commercial portfolios, haven't you, dear?"
"Oh, absolutely," Dad grunted, though his voice sounded hollow, like a man who was on his fourth scotch and counting the minutes until execution. "Discipline. That’s the Carter motto."
I closed the heavy front door behind me. The latch clicked shut with a sharp, metallic sound that echoed down the wide hallway.
The conversation in the dining room stuttered.
A moment later, my mother appeared in the arched doorway of the dining room. She was wearing her emerald green silk hostess gown, but her hair was fraying around the pins, her pearl necklace was crooked, and her face was coated in a thin sheen of perspiration. In her hand, she clutched a linen napkin stained with cranberry sauce.
When she saw me, her eyes didn't fill with motherly affection. They narrowed into two cold, frantic slits.
"Wesley," she hissed, stepping quickly into the foyer and pulling the pocket doors halfway shut behind her to block the view of the dining table. "Where on earth have you been? Do you have any idea what kind of afternoon we’ve had? I had to send your father to three different stores to find a turkey, and it was frozen solid! We had to microwave the defrost cycle! The stuffing is ruined!"
"Good evening, Mother," I said, remaining standing beneath the crystal chandelier I had paid an electrician $400 to repair two months ago.
"Don't you 'good evening' me!" she whispered viciously, looking over her shoulder toward the dining room. "Where are the bakery pies? Did you bring the dessert?"
"I didn't bring anything, Eleanor," I said clearly.
She flinched at the use of her first name. It was the first time in thirty-four years I had ever addressed her as anything other than Mom.
"What did you just call me?" she whispered, her face draining of color.
Before she could continue, the pocket door slid fully open.
Ainsley stepped out, looking radiant and utterly fake in an ivory cocktail dress that probably cost more than two of my mortgage payments. Beside her stood Brooks Pemberton—tall, square-jawed, wearing a bespoke tweed blazer, his hair slicked back with expensive pomade.
"Wes!" Ainsley exclaimed, her voice pitched unnaturally loud for the benefit of the people still sitting at the table. "You made it! We were so worried your hospital shift ran late! Brooks, you remember my brother, Wesley? He’s... well, he’s the family caregiver. Always running around helping people."
Brooks extended a broad, soft hand, his smile polite but undeniably condescending. "Wesley. Good to see you again. Tough break with the holiday shifts. Someone’s gotta keep the respirators running, right?"
"Something like that, Brooks," I said, shaking his hand with a brief, bone-crushing grip that caused his smile to waver slightly.
"Where is little Luna?" Brooks asked, peering around me into the empty foyer. "Ainsley said she might come by for dessert. My mother brought a lovely little coloring book for her."
"Luna is at home," I said, looking straight at Ainsley. "Eating prime rib and enjoying her Christmas with people who actually love her."
Ainsley’s smile froze. Her eyes flashed with immediate, venomous panic.
"Wesley," she said through clenched teeth, her voice dropping an octave as she stepped closer to me. "What are you doing? Stop being dramatic. We have guests."
"Yes, you do," I said, looking past her into the formal dining room.
Seated at the long mahogany table, which I had polished with beeswax every November for four years, were Arthur and Beatrice Pemberton. Arthur was a silver-haired patriarch with the florid complexion of an old-money country club golfer; Beatrice was draped in cream cashmere, wearing diamond studs the size of acorns, looking at the dried, leathery turkey carcass on the silver platter with visible distaste.
My father sat at the head of the table. When his eyes met mine, his fork stopped halfway to his mouth. He looked terrified.
"Richard," my mother called out, her voice trembling with forced cheerfulness. "Why don't you and Wesley go into the study? You know... to finish that little administrative matter we discussed? Brooks and Arthur and I were just about to move to the drawing room for coffee."
"Yes!" Dad said, practically leaping out of his chair, knocking his wine glass so violently that a splash of dark red Cabernet stained the damask tablecloth. "Yes, the study. Wesley, come with me. Let's get this taken care of right now."
Ainsley looked at Brooks with a dazzling, rehearsed smile. "Babe, why don't you take your parents into the drawing room? Dad and Wes just have to sign some boring family property tax papers for the new year. It’ll take five minutes."
"Sure thing, darling," Brooks said, kissing her temple. He walked toward the dining room, calling out, "Mother, Father, let's let the Carters handle their family logistics. The fire in the drawing room looks magnificent."
I stood motionless in the center of the foyer as the Pembertons filed out of the dining room. Beatrice Pemberton gave me a stiff, polite nod, murmuring something about the cold weather, while Arthur didn't even look at me, treating me like an unobtrusive member of the household staff.
Ainsley lingered until they had turned the corner into the drawing room. The moment they were out of earshot, she spun on me, her fingernails digging into the sleeves of her ivory dress.
"You listen to me, you miserable psycho," she hissed, her face contorting with pure hatred. "You almost blew this. If you say one word about the seating, or the food, or any of your pathetic, martyr grievances in front of Arthur Pemberton, I will make sure Dad writes you out of this family forever. Do you hear me? You sign those papers tonight, or you are dead to us."
I looked down at my younger sister. I looked at the diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist—a gift from Dad three years ago, paid for with the money I had given him for the city property tax lien.
May you like
"Let's go into the study, Ainsley," I said quietly. "You’re going to want to be in the room for this."
***