44 Charles Street

She was going to get busy turning Marya’s room into an office for Chris as soon as they got back from Boston. And he was excited about that. They were spreading out all over the house. It was starting to feel like her house again, not having to make space for roommates. Ian seemed to feel it too—he had left a pile of toys in the kitchen, and loved watching TV with his father in Francesca’s bed at night, and climbing into bed with them on Sunday mornings. Chris and Ian had come home.

Chapter 23

IT TOOK FRANCESCA hours to pack the night before they went to Boston. She wasn’t sure what to bring. Dressy, not so dressy, polite suit for church on Christmas Eve? Cocktail dress for dinner? Too sexy? Too short? Too low cut? Too dreary? She didn‘t want to make a faux pas, and was terrified she would. Chris told her to forget it and wear jeans, but she knew that would be wrong too. She expected them to be conservative and stuffy, from everything Chris had said. She was hoping he had exaggerated a little. But she was worried. In the end, she took all the options with her, and had two heavy suitcases for the plane. Chris groaned when he saw them.

“What did you bring?” he asked with a look of dismay.

“Everything,” she said, smiling happily. She had taken no chances and brought it all. And then she appeared with a third smaller suitcase full of presents for Chris, Ian, and Chris’s parents. He managed to get it all in the car. And when they got to the airport, it was a zoo and the flight was late. It was snowing in Boston. They didn’t get out till ten o’clock, and they landed in Boston before midnight. Chris’s father was waiting for them, despite the late hour. He was a tall man like Chris, but had broader shoulders, a deep voice, and a firm grip as he shook Francesca’s hand. He looked like the linebacker he had been at Harvard fifty years before. He gave Ian a warm look and shook his hand, which seemed unusually formal to Francesca, but he seemed like a nice man. They closed the airport in the snowstorm right after they landed, and the roads were covered as they drove slowly into Boston. The two men talked football and politics in the car. Chris had already warned her that he was considered the family black sheep for not going to Harvard and moving to New York. He didn’t mention their objections to her house. He said they couldn’t understand why he’d want to be a graphic designer instead of a politician or a banker. And Kim had been the icing on the cake. So they didn’t approve of him, whatever they thought of her now. It made entering their world somewhat dicey for Francesca.

Chris’s parents lived in Cambridge, on Brattle Street, where the president of Harvard lived as well. All the men in his family had gone to school there, before becoming senators, governors, and presidents. They were an impressive bunch. Chris seemed so humble and unassuming, given the family he came from.

When they got to the house, his mother was waiting up for them. She was a small grandmotherly-looking woman with white hair and gray eyes like Chris. She was wearing a dark gray wool dress, and a string of pearls. There was nothing fashionable about her. She was totally unlike Francesca’s mother. And she showed Francesca to her room herself. Sharing a room with Chris would have been out of the question, even if Ian weren’t there. Chris’s mother had put Francesca in a guest room as far down the hall as possible from Chris. Her room assignment made it clear that there was to be no hanky-panky in their house. Francesca was nervous as Chris winked and left her in her room, after his mother said goodnight. Francesca wondered if he’d be back later. And Ian was sleeping in the room with his father. It was Chris’s boyhood room, and they had a full house, with Chris’s brother and sister and their families and numerous other relatives and their children staying with them. The house was huge. Chris had explained who would be there and she couldn’t keep track of any of them, the second cousins, an aunt, his siblings and their children. It was very confusing, with relatives and in-laws and their children, many of whom had the same first names. Francesca was sitting in her room, feeling a little dazed, when Chris walked back in, and quickly closed the door. Francesca had realized by then that his mother hadn’t spoken directly to her, other than to greet her, and say goodnight.

“My mother is still wandering around. I’ll be back later,” he said quickly, and Francesca rapidly understood that when he was at home, he followed their rules. Breaking them was not an option, even for him. It was one of the reasons he lived in New York, and had gone to Stanford on the West Coast. His parents had considered it treason.

“I take it you can’t sleep here,” she whispered, and he laughed.

“My mother would call the vice squad and have us both thrown out. She’s a very proper woman.”