44 Charles Street

“The only way to get through these dinners is to get blind drunk and keep smiling,” one of his cousins told her in a whisper as they headed to dinner, and she laughed. The suggestion had a lot of appeal, but she wouldn’t have dared do it. You had to be alert to field their questions. They wanted to know where she’d grown up, where she’d gone to school, whether she went to boarding school, whether she’d ever been married, and of course she didn’t have children, and where did she spend her summers? Maine was good. Running an art gallery was questionable, but since her father was an artist, it was forgivable. His sister and brother spoke to her from time to time. She felt like she’d been playing tennis all night by the time they finished dinner, and she collapsed in her room for a minute, before they went to church again. They were so much more impressive than she had expected, and being face to face with them was even dicier than she had imagined. Particularly his mother. The thought of his mother in the same room with hers made her feel faint. It was a frightening prospect that meant that if she ever married him, they’d have to elope. There would have been no way to have her family and his under one roof, let alone at a wedding. Only Avery would have passed muster. Her father was much too racy and unconventional too. He hadn’t gone to Harvard, he hated sports, and knew nothing about football. And introducing her mother to this very proper conservative group was out of the question. They were as white-bread, pure, holy, church-going, and athletic as it got. And they were successful, social, and important on top of it. There didn’t seem to be one rebel in the group, except Chris, who was a renegade by their standards and no one else’s.

Chris burst out laughing when he saw her sprawled out on her bed before church, looking like she’d run a marathon, and exhausted. She had ten potential outfits spread out on her bed for upcoming events.

“Having fun yet?” he teased her. “Don’t mind my mother. She’s a little like Scylla and Charybdis, or whoever they have posted at the gates of Hell these days, but when you get past her and she gives you her seal of approval, you can pretty much do what you want. All you have to do is show up for meals on time and not do anything to seriously annoy her.”

“She’s your mother. I don’t want to offend her.” Francesca couldn’t remotely imagine ever getting his mother’s approval.

“It’s rude to ask people that many questions. She should be worried about offending you. Start asking her stuff, like where she went to school. She loves that. She went to Vassar when it was an all-girl school. She’s very proud of it.” It was an easy entree to a benign conversation with her.

“I’ve never been to church twice in one day in my life,” Francesca said with a look of desperation. “If God sees me there, He’ll throw me out, and the whole congregation will be hit by lightning.” He laughed, grateful for her patience.

“It’s good for you. Brownie points in Heaven,” he said, as he pulled her off the bed. “Speaking of which, I’m sorry to do this to you, but it’s time to leave for church.” There were twenty of them going to midnight mass. Francesca couldn’t remember their names or who they were, except his siblings, with whom she had nothing in common. They were just Harleys to her, en masse. The only one who stood out to her was Chris. She was almost angry at him for bringing her here, but staying home alone in New York would have been depressing too, and she loved him. So here she was, on her way to church again, for the second time that day. Her father would have laughed, and even her mother would have been amused. Thalia hadn’t even gone to church for her last three weddings.

Francesca dozed off in church during the homily. And afterward they all went back to the house, and then mercifully everyone went to bed. The vice patrol in the form of his mother said goodnight and went to her room after wishing everyone a merry Christmas, with the emphasis on the “Christmas,” not the “merry.” Francesca noticed that no one kissed, and fathers and sons shook hands. There were no bear hugs in this group.

Chris was in Francesca’s room half an hour later. She was thirty-five years old, and she felt fourteen and like a juvenile delinquent. She was afraid to wind up in juvenile hall, or detention, or jail.

“Merry Christmas, baby,” he said as he kissed her then, and he handed her a box he had carried in his jacket. It was a long slim box from Tiffany’s, and when she opened it, she saw that it was a gold bracelet with hearts on it. He put it on her arm and kissed her. She had bought a gray cashmere scarf for him, and he loved it too.