“Auntie Maude is head to toe Versace. Auntie Lynn showed up last year in Stella McCartney and they had a fashion war. We girls were all supposed to choose who had the better outfits, but before the contest got going, Auntie Virginia showed up and beat them both with a wardrobe from Yuki Torri and a recipe for sake martinis. Auntie Vi’d been to fashion week in Tokyo, so Auntie Maude and Auntie Lynn said it really wasn’t fair….”
Brandon groaned and rolled his eyes. Miranda continued her fashion discourse, but frequently interrupted herself to squeal Stop it! and Yes, she did, too! at her brother, who was adding his own running commentary. Ruby seemed to find them hilarious, but Arless didn’t understand why. Thankfully, she had studied Vogue and recognized some of the fashion names Miranda tossed out, but why did these miserable sounding relatives evoke such amusement? And how could she possibly hold a conversation with them? Sake martinis? Japanese fashion? If the Aunties squabbled over the labels in their clothes, what would they think about her corduroy pants and worn tweed blazer? Arless tried to control her breathing while keeping her face arranged in what she hoped was a look of amusement.
Just when she thought her cheeks would break from smiling, the limousine swung off the main road and the Bridgewell estate, which sat between Silver Lake and the Atlantic Ocean, came into view. Arless, who had never seen the ocean, spared it a five-second look before giving all of her attention to the Bridgewell compound. “I’ve made it,” she told herself, marveling as the limousine rolled past stables, tennis courts and a pool before drawing to a stop in front of the largest house she had ever seen. Her heart hammered with equal parts fear and delight as she followed Miranda up the wide steps to the front door. The new Arless had arrived.
~~~
During the crush of introductions, Helene Bridgewell lived up to her son’s impersonation, flitting about pecking cheeks and issuing conflicting instructions regarding room arrangements and meal times. She ordered the limo driver and two young women in gray maids’ uniforms off in opposite directions with the luggage while shepherding her children and their guests down a long hallway into a solarium where a buffet luncheon was in progress.
Arless was immediately overwhelmed by the size of the house, but she tried not to gape at the elegant rooms, ornate furniture and gleaming silver. A familiar emotional paralysis set in, and she stayed close to Miranda until a crush of Bridgewell relatives swarmed the newcomers. After an eternity of introductions to people whose names she immediately forgot, Arless found herself seated between Brandon and Miranda at one of a half dozen tables scattered around the large glass-walled room. Everyone was friendly and talkative, and slowly Arless relaxed. As the meal was winding down, Helen Bridgewell joined them, dispensing another round of hugs to her children and commandeering the conversation with questions about their plans for the week.
Brandon didn’t answer his mother, but Miranda clapped her hands and said, “Shopping, of course!” She began to describe the itinerary she had planned, but was interrupted by Helene, whose scattered attention had shifted to focus on Arless.
“How did you and my Brandon meet, dear?” Helene asked while simultaneously directing a white-jacketed waiter to bring out the dessert cart.
Arless, who until this point had responded to everyone with nods, smiles and one-word answers, froze. How had she and Miranda’s brother met? She looked at Miranda, who shrugged and helped herself to a plate of macaroons.
“Uh, at the airport? When the limousine picked us up?” Arless responded in a timorous tone.
“An airport! How interesting. When was this and what were you two doing…”
“Mother!” Miranda interjected. “She’s my roommate, remember? She came with me.”
“Really? You have two roommates? Goodness, you’d think that with the prices that school charges, they wouldn’t crowd the dorm rooms so.”
Miranda sighed, “No, there are only the two of us…”
“Well, how wonderful that you brought dear little Ruby and our Brandon together,” Helene said, patting her daughter’s hand, but smiling at Arless.
“Mother, listen, this is Arless, my…” Miranda tried, but Helene was up and away from the table, issuing orders for fresh coffee.
“Does she think I’m Ruby?” Arless asked, at once dumbfounded and thrilled anyone would think she belonged with Brandon Bridgewell.
“She’ll get it straight eventually, don’t worry,” Miranda said and then turned away to join a conversation on the Auburn-Alabama bowl game, leaving Arless with a gnawing worry and no one to share it with.
~~~
Miranda was wrong. Her mother never got it straight, and no one else seemed to notice. Late during the first evening’s four-hour Monopoly marathon, Arless quit trying to correct her hostess and started answering to “Ruby Dear” from Mrs. Bridgewell. Brandon and the real Ruby retired to Brandon’s apartment in the pool house immediately after lunch and weren’t around to care if his mother thought his sister’s shy roommate was his girlfriend. For the rest of the week, whenever the real Ruby, a striking six-foot blonde, came under Mrs. Bridgewell’s notice, she received a puzzled, but gracious, smile.
About Cheril Thomas
