RIVER'S EDGE

Five

As we drove up the hill, another house came unbidden to mind from nearly thirty years earlier. It was never to my taste, too formal and grand, but undeniably impressive. And intimidating as I cruised up that long driveway alone to attend his mother's annual garden party. I marveled at the rising columns and elegant arches of the parental home he'd long coveted where white calla lilies, standing at attention like soldiers, guarded the entrance.

I'd wanted him to accompany me, but he insisted I attend without him. "I hate those things. All her sagging friends fawning all over me." He grimaced in disgust. "You can 'represent the next generation' now," he said, using his mother's oft-repeated rationale for requiring his attendance. Hugging me from behind, he held up my left hand, admiring the glittering solitaire on my ring finger.

How could I refuse to go? I was to be part of his family soon. So much time had passed since I'd been part of one, so I stood alone at the front door in anticipation of my first Barrett Foundation function, pressing a smile against the fluttering waves in my stomach and gazing on the azure waves of Lake Washington below. The view was stunning and, I told myself, soothing to my zinging nerves.

The housekeeper stepped aside as she opened the door to me. "Miss Abigail, please come in."

"Please, call me Abby," I said, following her into the formal living room.

She smiled vaguely in response and gestured to me to take a seat.

I sat primly on the edge of the stiff eggshell settee, staring at the magnificent landscape that dominated the opposite wall. Pastel hues of early spring in impressionistic daubs and swirls blurred the image like a soft-focus lens, and I remembered gaping at the artist's name when Logan informed me of it on my first visit with him.

Before she appeared, Victoria Barrett's muted yet firm command announced her approach. "And no red roses. They're vulgar. Leave only the white ones." Logan always said his mother was nothing if not exacting. In pearls and a pale linen dress with a wide pleated skirt, she strode in like the matron she was, but when her eyes landed on me, her mask of benevolent yet unwavering authority soured instantly in a rare unguarded reaction. "What in the name of heaven are you wearing?"

Fever rushed to my face as I stared at my strapless chartreuse sundress. "Logan picked it out." How silly I was to hope that my desire to please her only child and beloved son would mollify her.

The dress I'd chosen was simple and cut in a more conservative color and fashion, boasting short puffy sleeves. But I'd deferred to what I assumed was his better judgment at determining appropriate attire for the kind of functions he'd attended his entire life.

Victoria made clear that assumption was far from right. Her lips pursed, deepening the furrows radiating from her barely there pink lipstick. So subtle compared to the garish Blood Red Logan had claimed was more flattering than the Coral Creme I'd selected. She scoffed so quietly another might have taken it for throat clearing. "I'm certain he did," she said, eyes drifting to my cleavage.

My hands rose automatically to cover my chest.

"Come along," she commanded and led me upstairs. The one-inch heels of her white peekaboo slingbacks hardly made a sound on the lightly veined marble.

I cringed at the clacking the two-inch heels of my nude strappy sandals on the stair treads and echoing off the walls of the soaring entryway. I tried to lighten my steps, but my efforts did little to dampen the piercing percussion.

Victoria Barrett let the backward glance at my feet emphasize her reprimand. "...of the utmost importance you dress and behave not only appropriately but admirably on every occasion. It is one of the foundational duties of a wife, and one I not only expect to be taken seriously, but demand be carried out with excellence. Is that clear?" Without waiting for an answer, she continued, "These things matter. They matter greatly. It is a wife's responsibility to propel her husband's success, and appearances are everything. Do not underestimate the power of attire and comportment."

"Yes, Mrs. Barrett," I said, grateful for the tan that hid the heat in my face and the sudden muting of my heels upon the plush carpet as we reached her suite.

She turned to assess me again. "And the color. It's beyond hideous. Difficult to pull off in the best of circumstances, but with your skin tone..." She clicked her tongue, disapproving.

I agreed. The color did nothing for me, and I'd said so to Logan, but the saleswoman had agreed with him, insisting it was flattering. Tears threatened, but I willed them away. Victoria had already decided I was a coarse, common girl, but I wouldn't let my makeup streaking down my face affirm her judgment. Only Logan's public announcement of our engagement had granted me entry upstairs into the private quarters of the Barrett matriarch, so I fought to keep my expression neutral and hardened myself against the shame that threatened to overwhelm me. Looking away from her disapproving frown, I kept my focus on the sparkling promise ringing my finger.

As I regained composure, her eyes narrowed at me. "Oh, no you don't. Don't you dare. Don't you dare make this about you being Oriental," she spat out.

Stunned, I gaped at her. Until the words sprang from her lips, nothing of the sort crossed my mind. Where had that come from? I opened my mouth to deny her accusation, but only an inarticulate squeak came out.

Undaunted, she declared, "We are in Seattle. We have a Chinese man leading our state, a fine, fine man. And we helped put him in the governor's mansion, so I advise you against ever employing that tactic with me." She glowered a threat.

A soft knock came from the open door, surprising us both. The thick carpeting had deadened the sound of her approaching footfalls.

"Mrs. Barrett, I'm sorry to interrupt, but Mrs. Weatherby has arrived."

Pink crept up Victoria Barrett's alabaster neck. "Thank you, Maria. I'll be down in a minute if you could offer her a beverage."

"Certainly," she said, turning on her heel.

Mrs. Barrett's tone softened notably, turning almost nurturing. "The shoes will suit most dresses. And you have a nice figure. Not far off my size. Let's see," she said, turning her attention to the racks of dresses in her enormous walk-in closet. My entire studio apartment could fit inside it with room to spare. She looked through her racks and seemed to empathize. "These are things we women must learn. I certainly had to. Neither Logan's father nor I grew up with money. We used our wiles and grit to come this far, but Logan is a different story. He has an easier road ahead and the potential to climb to far greater heights. All I ask is that you help him maintain the momentum we've created." She pulled a few options, muttering to herself, "Lord knows the boy's not man enough to do so on his own."

She held the hangers to my neck for a cursory assessment. "The white, I think. Yes, the white."

The dress so closely resembled the one I chose the day before, I nearly laughed aloud.

That should have been the moment I learned never to allow Logan's judgment to override my own, but it took much longer. Too much longer. She was right and wrong about him, though. He flailed and panicked when confronted with the unfamiliar, but he was also his mother's son. In situations where he was in command, he could be unflinching and downright ruthless.