44 Charles Street

She sat next to Chris’s mother in church, with Chris next to her and Ian between them. His siblings and their families were on either side. She had the feeling that his mother could tell if she was praying or not, or faking it, and she had X-ray vision. Francesca had changed into a black suit to wear to church, and she felt overdressed. His mother was wearing a navy blue twin set and gray skirt. Francesca couldn’t think of a single outfit she’d brought that seemed right. They had a kind of sporty but formal style. But his mother was extremely polite and very pleasant. His cousins seemed nice, and his father very jolly. And his siblings were distant but friendly. His grandfather had been governor of Massachusetts. They were a daunting lot. She couldn’t imagine telling any of them that her mother had been married five times. His mother would have fainted. His parents had been married for forty-four years, to each other and not a whole collective. Francesca recognized that these people were the real deal, old-fashioned American aristocrats. It was a closed world, and Chris was the only one who seemed different. They were the definition of Old Guard.

It was stressful being there, but by late afternoon Francesca had started to relax. Several people had gone to play tennis at their club, or squash. The children had been whisked away somewhere. It snowed, so no one played golf, and they were expected to be downstairs for cocktails at six-thirty sharp. Dinner was at seven-thirty, and since it was Christmas Eve, it was a fairly formal event. The children would be eating at a separate table in the hall, adults in the formal dining room. And they were going back to church at eleven-thirty for midnight mass. His mother said it was optional, which Chris said meant you had to be there under penalty of death. Nothing Chris had said to her before had prepared her for these people. They were the rock-solid foundation of the establishment. Chris had none of their stuffiness, but these were his roots. He was worried they would scare her off. And he kept watching her for signs of panic but so far there were none. What she had noticed more than anything was that they weren’t warm. They were perfectly behaved and polite to everyone. They were nice to the children whenever they were around, but there was no sign of affection or warmth. No one was laughing, no one was hugging, there were no family arguments. They were all intelligent and very polite, and watching them made Francesca feel sad, especially for Chris. What was missing from what she saw around her was love.

Francesca was in the living room at exactly six-thirty in a black cocktail dress that looked demure enough, with heels that were too high, and an evening bag that was too jazzy, with rhinestones on it, a gift from her mother from Paris. She wore her hair in a bun, which seemed right. His mother wore a plain black dress with a high neck and long sleeves, and her regulation pearls that she wore with everything, and that Francesca suspected she probably slept in. The fantasy of their two mothers together nearly made her choke.

“How did you and Chris meet?” his mother asked her over cocktails. Francesca had no idea what to say to her. He was living in my house didn’t sound like the right answer.

I’m his landlady … I run a boarding house … In church? There was no right answer. Chris had warned her not to say she lived at 44 Charles with him.

“We met through friends.” Chris had been listening, and wandered by to fill in. Francesca smiled silent thanks. She was constantly afraid to do or say the wrong thing.

Chris’s father asked what kind of work her father did, and she said he was an artist. She mentioned his name, and they were impressed by that, which was a relief. And she mentioned that her mother was in Gstaad for Christmas. They looked a little shocked by that. Her father being in Sun Valley was okay. They knew it and liked it. But a ski resort in Europe sounded like Sodom and Gomorrah to his mother.