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“I’m fine. Sorry,” I muttered, returning to the living room where my husband was regaling the guests with his story about W.O. Mitchell’s encounter with the surgeon. I approached Roger from behind. “We need to talk,” I whispered.
“When and where?” he asked.
“The kitchen,” I told him. “Now.”
“After you.”
I walked from the room. He followed seconds later.
“Your husband’s quite the storyteller,” he remarked.
“He’s not the only one.” We stood facing each other by the side of the kitchen counter. “Tell me what the hell is going on,” I directed. “Who are you?”
“You know who I am.”
“I thought I did. But the man I knew was named Roger.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that. It’s Andrew.”
“So, you reallyareElyse’s son?”
“I really am.”
I shook my head, trying to digest the implications of what he was saying. “Why the pretense? I don’t get it.”
“I think you do.”
“I don’t.”
“You’re a smart girl,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually.”
“On the contrary, I’m every bit the idiot you took me for. I need it spelled out. What kind of game are you playing?”
He smiled. “No game.”
“Really, what would you call coming to my office and pretending to be someone you’re not? Getting me to show you condos, taking me to dinner…”
“To bed,” he whispered, leaning toward my ear.
I looked toward the hall, in case someone might be coming. “Why?” I asked simply.
“Why not?”
“Not an answer.”
“Okay, then. Call it an insurance policy.”
“Insurance policy against what?”
“Against unwarranted interference in my mother’s life.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that as long as you stay out of her way, everything will be fine.”
“Stay out of her way?” I repeated.
“My mother will continue to make your father a very happy man for as long as she’s able to tolerate his rather autocratic ways. Well, I certainly don’t have to tellyouwhat he’s like…”
