“We’re just going over the guest list before we send out invitations to the Hawthorne New Year’s gala,” Claire tells me. “The theme this year is ‘Golden Years,’ and guests are to arrive in gold and black or combinations of the two.”
“Last year’s theme was ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’ and guests arrived in fur. Or… a… faux fur, rather,” Meredith adds. She lifts a hand from the table, covered in a white-and-pink-striped cloth, and motions toward three gold teapots with roses painted on them. “Would y
ou prefer chamomile, chai, or Earl Grey tea?”
There’s only one kind of tea, and that’s Texas sweet tea, and it’s poured into a Mason jar filled with ice because everyone knows it tastes better that way. “Chamomile,” I say, to fit in with these poor misguided Northerners.
“Milk, sugar, or lemon?” she asks as she reaches for one of the pots and begins pouring.
Milk? What the heck? “Sugar, please.” I take the empty seat next to Meredith. My place is already set with a pink cloth napkin and a little gold spoon. Meredith hands me a cup and saucer and a little sugar bowl with the same rose pattern.
“Thank you.” I look at the steam rising from the tea and decide to give it a moment. “I doubt I’ll be much help with the party, but I’ll try.”
Mimi pulls out a folder and hands it to me. “This is the list so far.”
I set it next to me and am much more interested in watching Claire drink her tea. She sits ramrod straight and brings the cup to her lips. No slurping. No raised pinky. No dribbles on her yellow blouse. It’s so prim and proper. Watching her is like watching Queen Elizabeth drinking tea on The Crown.
I rub my left thumb across my fingertips and put the napkin on my lap. I’ve gotten a lot better at using my right hand, and I grab the little gold spoon and shovel sugar into my cup. If I concentrate, I should get through this like a regular aristocrat. I stir until the sugar is dissolved, then tap my spoon against the cup’s rim until I’m sure it’s not going to drip on Claire’s tablecloth.
The only time I’ve ever had hot tea was when I had strep throat and Momma put honey and lemon in it. It did help my throat, but it tasted like honey and lemon and old weeds. I place my spoon on the saucer like everyone else and carefully raise the cup. When it’s halfway to my lips, I notice that all three women are looking at me. “Y’all good?”
“That’s your great-grandmother’s wedding porcelain.”
This must be one of Claire’s teaching moments. “It’s real pretty.” I sit straight and take a sip without spilling a drop. The tea doesn’t taste like weeds, but it’s bland as all git-out. I set it on the saucer, quite proud of myself.
“How’s Magnus today?” Meredith asks as she raises her cup.
“I think Magnus and I have come to an understandin’. He stays on his side of the house, and I stay on mine.” Which isn’t a hardship, given I doubt I could find his side of the house even if I went looking for him.
“What’s wrong with Magnus?” Mimi asks. “He loves you.”
“He loves Rowan more, and I think he would be happier livin’ with her.”
“No. Rowan knows that she can’t have a pet until she proves she is responsible enough to care for an animal. All she has to do is pick up after herself and remember how to tie her own shoes.”
Heck, I’ll pick up after the kid and tie her shoes if it gets her one step closer to Magnus ownership, although I’m fairly certain that Meredith and Burton have housekeepers. If not, they should take one of Marv and Claire’s. Lord knows there’s a passel around here.
“But if you don’t mind, she’d like to walk him once a week for you.”
“Sure. Anytime she wants is fine with me. Do you need Donovan to pick her up?” I ask to seal the deal.
“We live just down the street.”
Even better.
The attention turns from Magnus to the gala thing, and I pick up my gold spoon and scoop some more sugar. Last night when I returned to my bedroom after dinner, the clothes I’d left in a pile on the closet floor had vanished and my shoes were put away. The wet towel I’d left hanging on the rack to dry had been replaced and my bed turned down.
“Edie?”
It was creepy. I stir one more time and tap the spoon on the rim.
“Edie?”
I look up. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Please put the spoon down.” Claire places her hands on the tablecloth in front of her. “That’s Baroque.”
“Oh. Sorry.” I take a real good look, but I don’t see anything. “Broke where?”