Well then.
We had a plan for the start of the day.
And it was promising.
Regrettably, however, as such things had a way of going when my family was around, this promise wouldn’t continue.
We were at the breakfast table.
Which shouldn’t be misconstrued as the dining room table.
The breakfast room was smaller, the table more intimate, and there were a lot of big potted plants.
We were here because we were instructed to be here after Rix answered a knock on our door and got this news from Dad’s housekeeper, Cassandra, who shouldn’t be confused with Dad’s cleaner. Nor should she be confused with Dad’s personal assistant who was not his work personal assistant (of which, there were two), but his home and life and social personal assistant. And she shouldn’t be confused with Dad’s handyman, maintenance man, groundskeeper. Who obviously would not be confused with Dad’s personal chef.
Honestly?
Outside of serving him on the rare occasion he was home and answering the door, I had no idea what Cassandra did.
But I didn’t have to do anything but adhere to her orders from Dad as communicated through her that we were to meet him at the breakfast table for “coffee and a light meal prior to the brunch.”
Brunch was at eleven-thirty.
We were to be at the breakfast table at eight-thirty.
It would be good to have something to tide us over.
And definitely good to have coffee.
Therefore, that was where we were.
The breakfast table.
And we were ready for the most part for brunch (which meant Rix was looking handsome in his cashmere pullover, his sports jacket still in our room, I was in a gray pencil skirt with a green, ribbed, crossover-front sweater and green suede pumps with a string tie at the front of the ankle, my matching green shawl-style cardigan also back in our room).
I was pouring coffee from a silver service while Rix watched like I was performing brain surgery.
The table was set and tendered beautifully presented croissants and breakfast pastries, half-cut grapefruits with fanned slivers of strawberry in the middle, a bowl of prepared melon, an arrangement of cheeses and cured meats, rolls, a filled toast caddy, molded butter in the shape of fall leaves and acorns, and pots of different jams and marmalades.
All of this was positioned around an elegant, squat arrangement of mums, dahlias and winterberries.
“I see there’s an art to that,” he remarked.
“Sorry?” I asked, finishing with his china cup and moving the pot over mine.
“Just sayin’, baby,” he said softly, “you’re the shit.”
This was nice, though I was confused by it, thus giving him a puzzled smile when Dad strolled in.
“Good. You’re here,” he said, rather than good morning.
Rix shot me a look which I interpreted and understood, considering it wasn’t us who wasn’t turning up to stuff.
“Morning, Dad,” I replied.
“Darling,” he said, bending in and touching his lips to my cheek.
He then rounded Rix, slapping him heartily on the back, as if the fifteen minutes they spent in each other’s presence made them best buds, and he was entitled to touch Rix physically.
This made Rix’s jaw twist.
I pressed my lips together.
“Rix, sleep well?” Dad asked, taking his seat and shaking out his napkin with a snap, like the man he was, born heir to the throne he currently inhabited.
“Yeah, Edward,” Rix answered.
“Ned, Rix, call me Ned,” Dad murmured. “Alex, my love, please pour for me.”
I poured Dad’s coffee.
The second I put the pot down, whether to make a point, or just Rix being Rix, he picked up the plate of pastries that was sitting between him and Dad and offered it to me.
I took a chocolate croissant.
Rix took an almond one and set the plate down.
“I’m delighted you managed to escape the tedium of last night, for the most part. Though tedious, I’m also glad you made an appearance, for your sister’s sake. She’s a difficult woman, but family is family,” Dad announced.
There was nothing to say to that, so no one said anything.
Then Dad turned to Rix, “How’s Jamie?”
This seemed more of an important question than that question would normally seem to be.
“He’s fine,” Rix answered cautiously.
Dad nodded, reaching for the toast caddy. “It’s good you’ll have time with them.” His attention shifted to me. “Darling, especially you and Dru. Her intentions are kind and noble. Her actions are detrimental to the goal.”
“What are you talking about?” Rix asked my question.
However I just didn’t know what Dad was talking about, but Rix’s tone bordered on surly.
Dad looked to him. “She’s twenty-one years old and lives with Jamie.”
Before Rix could comment on that, Dad turned to me.
“She’s clever, an exceptionally talented flautist and pianist. It’s my understanding, even if she’s still in school, she works with some recording artists. I’ve no idea her financial situation, though I do know Jamie can and would purchase a flat for her so she didn’t have to concern herself with the ridiculous rent required by this city to live anywhere decent. I understand why she won’t leave. She’s still in school, perhaps she shouldn’t. You stayed home with me when you were in school. But she’s by his side at every event. And she’s his daughter, not his date.”