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But Caylee shrugs, “You’re the one who asked about the potential results of my sex life at the dinner table. You get what you get.”
I make several mental notes, wishing I could write them down because Caylee is character inspiration come to life and sitting across the table from me. I’m in writer heaven.
Small talk continues, with Caylee getting asked a lot about the wedding without another mention of babies while Caylee and Debra both toss questions my way about me and Connor. Connor answers most of them, but I deal with more than my fair share as well. It’s fun, vibing with Connor and trying to weave my truth into the fictions that Connor may have told his family.
Thankfully, his lack of communication with them leaves me plenty of holes to slip my facts into. One strange thing, though, is how Robert Bradley doesn’t say anything. In fact, Connor’s father has been silent since I shook his hand, and even then, I think he only offered it out of social habit.
Since then, he’s appeared distant, merely sipping on his drink and shifting food around his plate. Connor isn’t really all that much better except when someone speaks to him directly, though I’ve seen him giving that patented glare to his dad a couple of times. They’re obviously not close, and Connor said as much when we were talking about what to expect tonight, but I didn’t expect this degree of ice between the two men.
Actually, it’s not just between them. There seems to be a thick wall around Robert Bradley that keeps everyone at arm’s length. He’s practically an island in the room with his own family. Ironically, as much as that seems to bother Connor, he’s doing the same thing to his mother and sister.
We’re mid-meal when the doorbell rings. Connor instantly tenses up at my side, and I don’t understand why. I look at him questioningly, and he seems to be consciously choosing to relax. His shoulders drop incrementally, his jaw unclenches, and he takes a deep breath.
“Who’s that?” Robert says, his first words since sitting down.
“I’ll go see,” Debra says, getting up from the table. She goes into the foyer, and moments later, we can hear her surprised greeting. “Oh, I wasn’t expecting you for a few more days. We were right in the middle of dinner.”
Another female voice says, “Good. I’m starving. I’m sure you’ve got something worth eating.”
The tension around the whole table ratchets up at that voice. Well, I don’t get more tense, but that’s because I have no idea what the hell’s going on. I seriously feel like I just got dropped into one of those dinner theater mysteries, except that I have no character cards, and so far, there’s no body on the floor. But maybe that part is still coming? I eye Connor and then his father, deciding they’re the too-easy suspects. I slide my eyes to Evan, the nice, polite newcomer, and decide he’s either the victim or the murderer of the yet-to-happen pretend death.
An older woman and a young man appear in the dining room doorway, Debra’s face is stony as she leads them in. “Audrey, Ian, this is Poppy, Connor’s fiancée. Poppy, this is Connor’s aunt, Audrey, and his cousin, Ian.”
Ah, the whole picture becomes clear now. If this were a dinner mystery theater, I could now clearly declare ‘the game is afoot!’ This is the aunt and cousin Connor told me about. Interesting that he’s not the only one who seems to hate them, but everyone in the room is noticeably more tense now, even Robert.
Audrey looks a lot like her sister, if you dipped Debra in glitter and then told her to go Rodeo Drive on everything. Her outfit’s clearly designer, her jewelry’s flashy, her makeup is pristine, and her hair is a shade of blonde that only comes from an entire day in the salon chair.
And Ian is somehow just as I pictured him to be—slick and polished looking, a guy who you can tell lives on Daddy’s money and thinks his shit doesn’t stink. I’ve written characters like him before. They always end up being the bad guy or the annoying as hell character who gets put in his place on a constant basis and serves as a distraction from the real bad guy. Funny to think that I’m sitting here with an actual criminal at my side as my fake fiancé, but Ian seems to be the villain in the room.
Audrey pulls up a chair without asking and begins criticizing the dinner she hasn’t even tasted yet. Not that she was even invited to. “Pork roast and potatoes? How quaint and . . . basic. Ian, when was the last time we had a roast? It must’ve been in that little chalet restaurant in Switzerland, right?”
