“Mother,” Ford warned.
“Of course not,” I said. “It’s brand new.”
She shrugged.
“Well, I’m starving,” Ford’s father said, glancing around.
“I’ll go ahead and get everyone served so we can eat,” I said, inching toward the kitchen.
“Must we?” I heard Ford’s mother ask as I left the room.
“Mother,” Ford said again, sharper this time. “Be nice.”
“You know I’m just teasing,” she responded.
But she wasn’t. And when dinner came out, it only got worse.
“What is this?” she asked, wrinkling her nose at the food I’d put down in front of her.
“Oxtail stew, conch fritters, and a whole snapper,” I told her.
Her scowl deepened. “This fish is frowning at me. And Ford, you know spicy food doesn’t agree with your father’s digestion. Did you make this, Mara?”
I honestly didn’t know what would be worse—if Ihadmade it, or if I admitted the truth.
“It’s actually from Garifuna Flava,” I said. “This really wonderful Caribbean restaurant here in Chicago.”
“I see,” she sniffed. “Keeping with the whole honeymoon theme. How quaint.”
I sat down, in full-blown panic mode. This was just the start of our meal. I prayed it wouldn’t get worse.
It did.
My efforts to put together a nice meal were all for naught, because apparently nothing I’d done was right. Not only were the decorations tacky, not only was the food too spicy and not “elevated” enough for their refined palates, but Ford’s mother made it a point to continually harp on all the ways that Claudia had done things better.
“I remember the last time we had dinner with the two of you,” she mused, picking at her salad. It was the only thing on her plate that she’d touched.
Of course, she wasn’t talking about me, but about Ford and Claudia.
“We had the most perfect filet mignon and asparagus souffle served on china plates,” she said. “And a private chef to make it all! Truly one of the best meals I’ve ever had.”
She poked at her fish a couple of times, didn’t bother to try any of it, and eventually pushed the plate away. There was a bottle of wine at the center of the table, and though I’d filled everyone’s glasses when we first sat down, Ford’s mother’s was now empty and she looked at me with expectant eyes, clearing her throat. The bottle, of course, was closer to her.
“Would you like some more wine?” I asked.
“I would,” she said, turning to her husband. “Do you remember how Claudia always made sure our glasses were full? She would never have to ask.”
Ford’s father was busy eating—apparently the spices tasted just fine to him, despite his wife’s criticism. Meanwhile, Ford said nothing.
I poured the wine, but with my hands shaking, some of it spilled on the table.
Ford’s mother looked at me as if I’d spilled it directly on her.
“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter,” she said, narrowing her eyes at her glass. “This wine isn’t a very good vintage, after all. Claudia always made sure to have my favorite Pinot whenever we came over.”
I was pretty sure that if I heard Claudia’s name again, I would throw something. The message was clear: I wasn’t good enough for Ford, and I never would be.
“Would anyone like dessert?” I asked. “It’s sorbet. Coconut.” The scoops were all ready to go in the freezer, in pretty blue glass bowls, topped with a sprig of mint.
