Read Online Loose Screws by Karen Templeton - Free Book Online Page B

their guests will think than they are their own preferences. The moneyed, the monikered, don’t give a damn. And now, as Phyllis leads us out onto the patio, her back ramrod straight, her voice carefully modulated and devoid of even a trace of a New York accent, I realize that describes my ex-almost-mother-in-law, as well. As gracious and naturally friendly as she is, her fear of being exposed as a poseur—White Plains masquerading as Scarsdale—is almost palpable.
    Her insecurities do not bother me. If anything, they make her more human. More accessible. In her place, I imagine I would feel much the same way. I mean, wouldn’t you? Unfortunately, it’s Phyllis’s very insecurities about her background that brand the Munsons as phonies in my mother’s eyes.
    Phyllis touches the uniformed maid lightly on the arm, whispers something to her. The woman nods, disappears through a second set of French doors leading, if I remember correctly, to the kitchen. The terrace is open-air, although deeply shaded at this time of day. I’ve never been out here before, I realize, I suppose because it was eithernighttime or too cold, the other times I was here. Now I glance out across the “yard”: if there are other houses beyond the dense growth bordering the property on all three sides, they are undetectable. A pool, flanked by dozens of urns and pots overflowing with brilliantly colored annuals, shimmers below us. I somehow doubt it’s ever used.
    Oh, yes, I’m well aware I’m having lunch in The Land of Make Believe. I don’t care. That doesn’t make it less peaceful, or tranquil. Besides, after two hours in my mother’s company, I’m desperate.
    We sit. Concetta bustles about, setting the extra place, deftly serving the first course, fresh fruit segments in a serrated cantaloupe half, followed by deli sandwiches on fresh rye. Nothing fancy or pretentious. We make excruciatingly brittle small talk, for a while, until Phyllis unwittingly gives my mother the opening she’s been waiting for.
    â€œIt must be very comforting, Ginger, having your mother around at a time like this.”
    I can sense my mother’s coiling for the attack, but unfortunately I can’t get hold of a rock quickly enough to stop her before she strikes. I try glaring, for all the good it does.
    â€œAnd maybe,” Nedra says, “if you’d taught your son that social prominence is no excuse for cowardice, there wouldn’t be a ‘time like this.’”
    â€œNedra—”
    â€œNo, Ginger, it’s all right,” Phyllis says quietly, even though her face is now a good three shades darker than her blouse. Her left hand, braced on the table in front of me, is trembling slightly; I notice her diamond wedding set is askew, too large for her sticklike finger. I feel sorry for her—I’m at least used to my mother. She isn’t.
    â€œGregory has embarrassed all of us, Mrs. Petrocelli. I assure you, he wasn’t raised to be inconsiderate, or to act like a coward. The last thing I would do is insult your intelligence by trying to make excuses for him. Both his father and I are deeply ashamed of our son’s actions—” she looks at me, reaches for my hand “—and cannot begin to convey how badly we feel for your daughter. Both Boband I truly love her, and are heartbroken at the idea of not having her as our daughter-in-law.”
    Wow. I knew they liked me, but…
    Wow.
    My mother seems equally stunned. Which is a rare phenomenon, believe me. Although I’d like to think my glaring at her had something to do with it, as well. You know the look— if you ever want to see your grandchildren again, you will apologize? Okay, so there aren’t any grandchildren. Yet. But I believe in planning ahead.
    Then I noticed something else in her expression, a slight pursing of the lips, the merest narrowing of the eyes. An expression that