Mrs. Malone ignored him, turning instead to Ford. “You look tired,” she said. “Long day?” Then she cut her eyes at me, as if Ford’s exhaustion was clearly my fault alone.
“Uh, I feel fine, actually,” Ford said, taking a healthy swig of his gin.
In my humble opinion, he lookeddamnfine. He was wearing a charcoal shirt and matching pants, his sleeves rolled up just enough to show off his drool-worthy forearms. As for me, under my pale pink cardigan (a shade purchased specifically to please Mrs. Malone), I had on a modest black dress and flats. I thought we made a rather decent-looking pair.
“I’m a bit tired myself,” Mr. Malone said.
“I didn’t ask you,” Mrs. Malone told her husband with a scowl.
Before they could devolve into full-blown bickering, we were rescued by Pierre’s assistant, Jacques, who was bringing out the first course.
I’d specified that the meal be served on the infamous china that Ford and Claudia had bought, but this time we weren’t having steak. We were having the best French food in Chicago. Take that, Claudia.
“Bon appétit,” Jacques said with a flourish, ducking back into the kitchen.
We started with the most delicate escargot I’d ever had, the snails perfectly cooked in butter and herbs. I’d never cared much for them, to be honest, but they practically melted in my mouth. I sopped up the rest of the dipping sauce with a fresh, crusty slice of hot bread.
The next course was a petite salad garnished with watermelon radishes, followed by mussels marinières steamed in a lemony broth made with leeks, shallots, and garlic.
“These mussels are fantastic,” Mr. Malone said dreamily. “Straight from the market this morning, I’d wager.”
“That’s exactly right,” I said. “I told Pierre to prepare whatever he picked up fresh today, and I’d say he hasn’t disappointed.”
While the ingredients were insanely expensive enough for Ford’s dad to appreciate, the portions seemed tiny and fancy enough for Mrs. Malone to enjoy, even if she wouldn’t admit it.
The main course was confit de canard. The duck was meltingly tender, the skin golden and crisp. It was served over a pile of buttery fried new potatoes and fresh greens fanned out along the edge of the plate. Everybody dug in, too busy eating to keep up with the small talk.
The Malones hadn’t complimented me once during the meal, but they hadn’t insulted me either, and frankly, that was a win. As far as I was concerned, Pierre was worth every penny.
It wasn’t until dessert was brought out that the conversation started back up. Over bittersweet chocolate soufflé, I started to notice something—despite all of Mama Malone’s fawning, Ford’s parents actually seemed to criticize him just as much as they had criticized me at the last dinner. As if they didn’t thinkhewas good enough either.
And without my tablescape or menu to fuss over, they were going at him full force.
“Your father has some thoughts about your latest deal,” Mrs. Malone said.
“What’s the issue? The deal was fine,” Ford said, looking to his dad.
“Now, now, what I said was that—” Mr. Malone started.
“It was disappointing,” Ford’s mother interrupted. “You could have gotten at least another quarter million if you had just pushed harder.”
“They would’ve walked,” Ford said. “They were skittish to begin with.”
“No one walks away from Malone Real Estate Holdings,” his mother said. “They would have caved. They always do. And we really need to discuss your latest hire.”
She wasn’t eating her soufflé at all, but she was on her fourth martini.
“My latest hire is also fine,” Ford said.
“That’s the problem,” Ford’s mother said. “You seem to think ‘fine’ is good enough. It’s not. You have a family reputation to uphold. Your actions affect all of us.”
Ford didn’t say anything, but I noticed that he was getting less and less responsive with every criticism his mother heaped on top of him.
She didn’t seem to notice. “And that new headshot of yours. We’ll have to get that retaken. It’s not appropriate. I mean honestly Ford, facial hair? It just isn’t professional.”
She waited for Ford to respond, but he didn’t.
“Actually, people don’t really mind a bit of scruff these days,” I cut in, unable to listen to her anymore. “The current generation is…less judgmental.”
