The Season (15 page)

Mom served dinner on the terrace—steak, of course, thick marbled rib eyes that Dad grilled over coals. There were baked potatoes, a wedge salad, and hand-twisted rolls.

“That was the best steak I've ever had,” Hank said when we were done, and I believed him. Most people who ate steak at our house said the same thing.

“Well, if I can't put a good steak on your plate, then I'd better get out of this business,” Dad said.

“As if that would ever happen,” Mom said drily.

“Hank seems to think a development could really work, Mom,” I offered, hoping to break the tension.

She rose to clear the plates.

“I hope you're not just running this poor boy around,” Mom said to Dad.

Clearly whatever had been going on between my parents was still going on.

“Can I help?” Hank asked, starting to stand.

“No, you stay,” she answered, but I stood and began stacking dishes.

When I got to the kichen, Mom stood at the sink with the water running, looking out the window to the patio where Dad and Hank were still talking. Was she crying?

I set the plates on the counter, came up behind her, and gave her a hug. I pressed my head against her shoulder and she tilted her head till we were touching.

“Mom? Are you and Dad okay?” I asked.

She patted my hands and breathed deeply and I heard the low sniffle it caused.

“Your father and I have been married for twenty-three years, and that is not easy. It's hard work. It's compromise. There are different stages—for a long time you girls were my job, and I don't really have a job anymore. Your debut is keeping me busy but that will be over in January. Your father has the ranch and I don't . . . have anything.”

“Yeah. But you still love each other, right?”

“Of course.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Please don't worry, sweetie. Things will be fine.”

She began loading plates in the dishwasher while I tried to digest what I had just heard. It was the most adult conversation we'd ever had, and if that's what lay ahead, I wasn't anxious to grow up. When she shut the dishwasher, she smiled and reset.

“We need to talk about your party,” she said, and I happily let her change the subject to something far less serious. “We have less than two months now and we have to decide on a theme. It was very inconsiderate of the Battles to take Denim to Diamonds—we're the cattle ranchers, and it would've been a perfect theme for us.”

“I know, Mom,” I said mildly, trying not to get her really going. She was aggravated no end that Lauren Battle had
chosen Denim to Diamonds as her party theme, and had already let both me and Julia know it on several occasions. Not only was it a perfect theme for us, it also would have saved us a little money. We could have held it out here, at the Aberdeen, rather than having to rent a space.

“Really, they're
oil people.
But I suppose there's nothing to be done now.” The phrase
oil people
implied that somehow the Battles had not
earned
their money; rather they had lucked into it. It was a phrase that non-oil-moneyed Texans used to convey mild disdain while also offering themselves cover for not being able to afford things—“They bought a yacht, don't ask me why, but well, they're
oil people.
”

I tried to get her on track.

“Do you have any other ideas?”

“We could do Bollywood. I think that would be festive and colorful,” Mom said.

I rolled my eyes.

“Mom, no. What are we going to wear—saris and bindis?” I didn't even bring up the wrongness of cultural appropriation, not that Mom would have been all that sensitive anyway. Her debut party twenty-five years ago had been
Gone with the Wind
, with her as Scarlett O'Hara and the men as ruffled Rhett Butlers and even Confederate officers. It was tough enough to talk to my soccer teammates about why making a debut was important, and why I was doing it, without outright offending any of them with the theme of my party.

“A Night in Paris?” Mom asked.

“Ewww. No.”

“Why not? It would be so romantic!”

“Trust me, Mom—it would not be romantic.”

“Okay—then how about Cleopatra?”

“There are two of us, Mom—who's going to be Cleopatra?” I hoped this answer would halt any further talk about what I felt was a just plain dumb idea. I truly wanted to get through the debut season with my pride intact, and gallivanting around in thick black eye makeup in a gold sheath dress and crown wouldn't help.

“It's all well and good to shoot down ideas, but we have to decide on some theme, and it has to be soon. There is so much to plan, and the designers can't begin to work on swatches and color and decorations, linens, food—anything—until we come up with a theme.”

“Look, Julia and I are driving out together to Lauren's on Friday. We'll discuss it then and I promise we'll come back with at least two solid ideas. Then you can pick—okay?”

“Saturday then. And if not—a Night in Paris,” she threatened. “Go on now, go show him around.”

Hank and I stepped off the terrace and walked out across the side yard and then down the gravel road toward the barn. The air was fresh and the October sun, a butterscotch candy halfway down in the western sky, turned the tall grass shades of tangerine and marigold.

“It's really a great place,” Hank said admiringly.

“Thanks. It was awesome growing up here.”

We heard the clatter of hooves behind us, and three dusty men rode up on horses.

“
Hola
, Megan!” Silvio called out, smiling warmly. A former professional bull rider the same age as Dad, Silvio was the ranch foreman, and my favorite uncle. The two others were hands, a little closer to my age.

“Silvio!
Cómo está?
”

“
Bien, chica. Y tu?
”

“
Bien, gracias
.” I looked at Hank. “This is my friend Hank,” I said.

Silvio reached down and they shook hands.

“Silvio Vargas.”

“Hank Waterhouse.”

“
Con mucho gusto
, Hank,” Silvio said, tipping his hat.

“
Mucho gusto
,” Hank replied, smiling.

“Mom saved you some dinner,” I said to Silvio.

“Okay. We're gonna put the horses away, and then I'll come to the house.”

“Great to see you!”

“
Adi
ó
s!
” he said to us. “
Vamos, gringos
,” he called to the hands, and they rode off.

Hank and I turned back.

“He seems real nice,” Hank said.

“He's the best. Silvio's been the ranch foreman here since before I was born.”

When we reached the house we walked through the shade trees to the north and came up to the side of the
main house. He looked in through a pair of French doors.

“What's in here?”

“That's the study.” I opened the doors—we never locked our doors on the ranch, even at night—and we went in. The study was part of the original structure, and all the furniture in it was ancient. A mission-style desk dominated one side of the room. Behind it sat a leather office chair. There were bookshelves full of musty ledgers, and two seriously old leather chairs in front of the desk. A lot of business had been done here, back when buyers actually came out to the ranch and sat and went over prices per head and delivery schedules, and a handshake meant something. Now the ledgers had been replaced with laptops, and they just called from their cell phones.

Hank ran his fingers along the bookshelves, looked up at the old brands on the wall, then wandered over to a wall of pictures.

“The rogues' gallery,” I said, and he laughed.

“Cool,” he said. It
was
cool. There were at least two hundred photographs, and they told the Aberdeen's story. Practically all my ancestors were up there somewhere, as well as assorted foremen and hands who had worked on the ranch. There were wedding pictures and roundups, family rodeos. Lots of pictures featured bygone celebrities: Tom Landry, Neil Armstrong, Kitty Wells.

“That's the original Angus,” I said, pointing to a black-and-white. Angus looked very stern in this picture, standing
next to the barn. “And that's his wife, Jemima.” I pointed to another.

“And who's this?” Hank asked, pointing to a very little boy sitting on a very big horse. He had on jeans, boots, and a hat, and the stirrups had been cinched right up to the edge of the saddle. It seemed neither safe nor possible that a boy that size should be on a horse that big.

“That's my dad.”

“You're joking.”

I shook my head. “They put 'em on horses early back then. My granddad rode around with him on his saddle starting when he was two, and he got his own horse at four. And if you fell, you got back up and got back on the horse.”

Hank moved slowly through the pictures, stopping at a woman wearing jeans, boots, a sombrero, and crisscrossed shoulder holsters with two pearl-handled pistols. She was smoking a cigar and looking at the photographer like he'd better hurry up with it.

“Who is that?”

“My great-great-aunt. She fought in the Mexican Revolution.”

“On which side?” Hank asked.

“I'm not sure. Probably both. I don't think she really cared who won, she just wanted the adventure.” I pointed to a picture of two very young girls in white tennis dresses holding racquets, side by side. They were clearly relaxed, entitled. “That's my mom and my aunt Camille—Abby's mom.”

“Cute,” he said.

We stopped before another photo—this one Mom when she was young, in a massive, off-the-shoulder white dress.

“Your mom?”

I nodded.

“Is that her wedding?”

“No. It's her Bluebonnet debut.”

“Who's the dude?” Hank asked. The guy beside her was huge, broad-shouldered, and very handsome in a slick sort of way.

“That's Hardy Rowan—he's the Texas railroad commissioner. They were engaged but Mom broke it off.”

“For your dad?”

I nodded. “Dad was the wild card.”

Hank moved on, gazing at the pictures, but I stayed with this one. Looking at her younger version standing next to the man she might have married, I saw Mom's alternative life flash past: married into a politically connected family, a membership at Turtle Creek Country Club, afternoon tennis or bridge and Junior League lunches, a weekly trip to get her hair and nails done. It was the life she probably imagined during her four years at Hockaday, and the four more at SMU.
Does she regret it?
I wondered. Was all her anxiety and pressure to make me debut and the trouble between her and Dad less about money and more that she chose a life on the ranch rather than in the Park Cities?

“I remember this one!” Hank crowed. It was my deb announcement picture.
Ugh.

“We're done here,” I said.

Dad and I walked him to his car.

“Thanks for coming out, Hank,” Dad said.

“Thank you,” Hank answered. “I'll get on those drawings.”

“No hurry.”

Hank stood right in front of me, took my hands, looked in my eyes.

“See you Friday?”

I nodded, and then he kissed me, and not a peck on the cheek—it was a “kissing your girlfriend” smooch right in front of my dad that shut my eyes and left me woozy.

Dad and I watched as he drove out to the main gate and made the turn. He put his arm around me and we started back toward the house.

“I think you got a good one,” he said.

Fifteen

In Which Megan Suffers from Stockholm Syndrome

“NEVER RUSH OR BE RUSHED,” ANN SAID. I CHECKED MY watch furtively: 4:40 p.m. “Consider every action. A well-mannered young lady moves with purpose, with direction, but never in haste.”

The third week of Young Ladies' Etiquette & Decorum was held at Ann's house, a modest one-story on Edmonson Avenue, at the far edge of the Park Cities across the North Texas Tollway. Technically this gave her the correct zip code, but it made it clear that Ann worked and was not “from money.” Nobody with a choice lived west of the Tollway.

The girls and I were seated at her dining room table, which was laid out for tea. Ann took tea very seriously, and on the table were silver forks and spoons, white linen napkins, bone-china plates, and a matching teapot, creamer, and sugar bowl with its own corrugated silver spoon. “Brewing good tea requires three things—high-quality tea, preferably
loose leaf; very hot, but not boiling, water; and agitation,” Ann continued.

Agitation, I had plenty of. On the verge of leaving for Lauren's weekend, I still needed to shower and pack and I had a term paper that was already a week late. I'd have to pull an all-nighter to write it before I left. I looked at my watch again. A single minute had passed, and I let out an audible sigh.

“Is there somewhere you need to be?” Ann asked, pointedly.

“No.” I knew I was being rude, but I had a thousand things to do and a million places to be, and none of them included watching her boil water. I mean,
not quite
boil water.

“Preparation is key, so lay out everything you will need beforehand,” Ann continued, pointing at all the stuff on the table. “Know how many guests will be coming, and for loose-leaf tea you will require an infuser. Make sure it fits in the pot. You will also want to have lemon, honey, sugar, and cream. Some people like lemon and honey, some sugar and cream, so you should have both.
Never
mix lemon and cream.”

“Why not?” asked Hannah.

“The lemon will curdle the cream,” Ann said.
“
Tea should be added, one teaspoon for each cup,” she said as she demonstrated one
agonizingly slow teaspoon
at a time.

Now she went into the kitchen and we followed. A kettle steamed away on the stove over a large burner. I stood at the back tapping my foot.
Come on!

“Boiling the water reduces the oxygen, so take great care to remove the kettle just prior to bubbling.” I sighed while she turned off the burner, found a pot holder, and lifted the kettle. The girls moved aside and we all followed her back into the dining room, where we sat and watched as she carefully poured the water into the teapot.

“Steep for precisely four minutes,” she said. “No more. And finally, while it steeps, gently raise and lower the strainer occasionally for agitation.”

I'm going to scream!

Ann droned on for four minutes about finger sandwiches and the best place for scones and real English clotted cream in Dallas. She went on to cover assorted pastries and appropriate topics of conversation. I spent that time fantasizing about sneaking away from Lauren's party early with Hank, and I reminded myself to work out a code with Julia to prevent walk-ins at the cabin.

“Once steeped, remove the infuser. Pour with the right hand, and use your left to hold the top in place.” Ann poured tea with style—the steaming liquid rushed out as she lowered the pot toward the cup, and then she gently lifted it before the cup overflowed. She asked each of us how we preferred our tea, with a direct gaze, and paid careful attention to the answer. Cream was poured precisely the same way as the tea, and sugar was delivered in equal heaping spoonfuls.

She showed us how to hold the saucer and how to pick up the cup. We all took a sip. I grimaced.

“Miss McKnight, do you have something to add?”

“Just—I mean, it's
tea.
Nobody
really likes
tea. It tastes like bathwater.” All the little girls cracked up, and Isabelle spilled some tea onto her saucer. “I feel pretty confident I'm never going to offer tea to anyone in my entire life—so why do I need to know how to make it?”

“Tea, or any beverage prepared for guests, is a reason to spend time in conversation with those you care about. It creates an intimate space, and your regard for details is a reflection of your regard for your guests. When you are a guest, then your attention is an indication of your regard for the host.”

At 4:59 p.m. I bolted for the door.

“Thanks, Ann, great stuff.”

“Miss McKnight?”

I paused at the door. “Yes?”

“Would you be so kind as to stay and help me clear up?”

Is she kidding?

“I am so sorry, Ann, but I can't—I have somewhere I need to be.”

“Oh I know. You've spent the last hour making sure we all knew that. But I shouldn't have phrased it as a question. Stay and help me clear up.”

Defeated, I put my purse down as the little girls filed out. I helped Ann stack plates and spoons and carry them all into the kitchen. When everything was on the counter beside the sink, I cocked my hip and gave Ann a truckload of attitude.

“Is that it?”

“They need to be washed.”

“Isn't that what the dishwasher's for?” I looked at the dishwasher, empty and ready.

“This”—she indicated the plates and cups and saucers—“is two-hundred-year-old English bone china my mother left to me. It is hand washed, towel dried.”

I huffed and ran water in the sink and looked around for a sponge while Ann took out a small towel from a drawer. When the water was hot I added soap to the sponge, and Ann, standing next to me, handed me a single cup. I took it and really felt it for the first time. It was as light and delicate as meringue. I held it to the light and could nearly see through it. The design was an Italian landscape, a vivid blue. I held it gingerly and washed it slowly, suddenly worried I might chip the edge or knock a handle off. I handed it back to Ann, clean, as carefully as you would a newborn baby.

“For some reason entirely unclear to me I suspect there is a fine young woman wandering around inside you,” Ann said after she had dried the third cup, “and I find myself uncertain exactly how to unearth her.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I've got a lot on my plate this week.”

“We all have times when we wish to be somewhere else, but showing impatience is rude, and rarely the wisest course. Neither is speaking every single thing we think.” I had finished the cups and moved on to the saucers. “Being gracious means acting as if there is no place you'd rather be—even when that isn't true.”

I rinsed the creamer and was working now on the teapot.

“You do realize that all those little girls look up to you?”

I stopped washing.

“Really?”

“Oh yes, you should have heard them talking about you before you arrived. You're just the kind of girl they all want to be—athletic but still feminine, able to play sports but also dress up and go to balls, make a debut. They watch you for clues, what to say, how to behave. I don't think petulance is the example you want to set—is it?”

“No. It isn't.”

“I realize you don't like her, but pay attention to Lauren this weekend, how she behaves, how she carries herself. She can be very charming and gracious.” Ann finished drying the creamer. “Though I'm not sure it comes naturally.”

OMG! Did Ann just diss Lauren to me?
I couldn't quite tell. Her face, calm and inscrutable, offered zero clues—no smile, no slight twinkle in her eyes or twitching of her nose—but I felt sure that was a dig.

“I will. And—thanks.”

She said no more, and when all the cups and saucers and spoons and the teapot were clean and dried, resting on the counter, I gathered my bag. “Your mother's china is beautiful,” I said.

“Thank you very much for not chipping any of it.”

That evening my suitcase—packed, emptied and repacked, emptied again, exchanged for a larger one, and packed again—sat by the door like a dog expecting his walk. Tomorrow
we were leaving for Lauren's “weekend,” a full two days of hooting 'n' hollering that included a pheasant hunt, a cookout, and her Denim to Diamonds gala. I finished oiling and cleaning my shotgun, locked it in its case, and set it by the door, and for no reason at all I rechecked the zippers and tightened the straps on my bag.

“What is wrong with you?” Julia asked.

“I don't know! He's hijacked my mind!” I exclaimed.

“Welcome to having a boyfriend,” she said calmly.

“I've had a boyfriend before!”

“When?”

“Fred, junior year,” I answered.

“Fred was not a
real
boyfriend.”

This was true. I hadn't thought about Fred as much in the several months we dated as I had about Hank in the five days since we had made out on my couch.

“So are we settled on the code?” I asked. “I don't wanna walk in on you and Zach getting busy.”

“Yes. A red heart emoji means you're sexiled.”

“Great.”

I stood my bag up against the door, checked that the handle was securely in place.

Wa-OO-gah!

Can I stop by?

It was nine o'clock and Hank wanted to “stop by.” I thought I might faint.

Sure!
I replied, and told Julia that Hank was on his way.
Not knowing how far away he was, I fretted over whether I should change clothes.

“They're cute, right?” I asked, indicating my pajamas.

“You look great,” she assured me.

“They're not frumpy?” I asked, a puddle of worry. Julia gave me her
I pity you
look.

“This is normal,” she told me.

“It doesn't feel normal! I Googled him!”

“What'd you find?”

“Nothing! There were a zillion Henry Waterhouses—the only famous one was a sea captain. I did find him on LinkedIn—he works in real estate, in an office building on Central Expressway.”

“He might not be far away then,” Julia said.

I ran for the bathroom and put on some lip plumper, then went to the window and peered down into the parking lot. There was an empty space across from our door, but I didn't see his car yet. I ran to my bedroom, rifled through my closet, sorted and discarded alternate choices like a gambler parsing odds, but couldn't find anything better to wear. When he knocked I was actually considering removing my pajama bottoms and going with just the shirt, but looking in the mirror I couldn't decide whether this would look sexy or as if I had simply lost my pants.

It would have to do. I hustled into the living room and “lounged” on the couch, pretending to read a very large history of the Roman Empire. Julia went to the door, and just as she turned the knob I realized the book was upside down.

“Hi, Hank,” Julia said. I silently said, “One Mississippi,” and then looked over.

“Hey,” he said, to both of us.

“Hi,” I said, then wondered if I had shouted it.

“Sorry to come by so late—”

“That's okay,” I said too quickly.

“I was wondering if we could talk.” It was clear he meant the two of us, alone.

“Of course,” Julia said, nodding, and she went into her bedroom and closed the door.

“Want something to drink?” I asked.

“No, thanks.” He came and sat next to me on the couch. “Listen . . .” he started. “There's just no good way to say this.” He put his hand on my thigh and it caused a physical burning sensation. “I can't go.”

“Oh. You mean, like, you can't go to . . .”

“This weekend. A work thing has come up—it has to be done by Monday and I am just so, so sorry.”

“That's okay.” The words rushed in to fill the crushing void inside me.

“I feel terrible, I tried everything to get out of it, but I'm low man on the totem pole, it's an emergency, and it's important for my job.”