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“I’ve been meaning to say it.” He squeezes my hand. “So there you go. I’ve said it. Do we want wine?”
“Sure,” I say, stung.
“Beaujolais okay for you, Maggie?” he asks politely.
“I like red,” Maggie says.
“Beaujolais is red,” I comment, and immediately feel like a heel.
“Maggie knew that,” Bernard says kindly. I look from one to the other. How did this happen? Why am I the bad guy? It’s like Bernard and Maggie are ganging up on me.
I get up to go to the bathroom. “I’ll come with you,” Maggie says. She follows me down the stairs as I try to compose myself.
“I really want you to like him,” I say, parking myself in front of the mirror while Maggie goes into the stall.
“I just met him. How can I know if I like him or not?”
“Don’t you think he’s sexy?” I ask.
“Sexy?” Maggie says. “I wouldn’t call him that.”
“But he is. Sexy,” I insist.
“If you think he’s sexy, that’s all that counts.”
“Well, I do. And I really, really like him.”
The toilet flushes and Maggie comes out. “He doesn’t seem very much like a boyfriend,” she ventures.
“What do you mean?” I take a lipstick out of my bag, trying not to panic.
“He doesn’t act like he’s your boyfriend. He seems like he’s more of an uncle or something.”
I freeze. “He certainly isn’t.”
“It just seems like he’s trying to help you. Like he likes you and, I don’t know—” She s
hrugs.
“It’s only because he’s going through a divorce,” I say.
“That’s too bad,” she remarks, washing her hands.
I apply the lipstick. “Why?”
“I wouldn’t want to marry a divorced man. It kind of ruins it, doesn’t it? The idea that a man has been married to someone else? I wouldn’t be able to take it. I’d be jealous. I want a guy who’s only ever been in love with me.”
“But what if—” I pause, remembering that’s what I’ve always thought I wanted as well. Until now. I narrow my eyes. Maybe it’s simply a leftover sentiment from Castlebury.
We get through the rest of dinner, but it’s awkward, with me saying things I know make me sound like a jerk, and Maggie being mostly silent, and Bernard pretending to enjoy the food and wine. When our plates are cleared, Maggie runs to the bathroom again, while I scoot my chair closer to Bernard’s and apologize for the lousy evening.
“It’s fine,” he says. “It’s what I expected.” He pats my hand. “Come on, Carrie. You and Maggie are in college. We’re from different generations. You can’t expect Maggie to understand.”
“I do, though.”
“Then you’re going to be disappointed.”
Maggie comes back to the table beaming, her demeanor suddenly light and fizzy. “I called Ryan,” she announces. “He said he’s going over to Capote’s and we should meet them there and then maybe we can go out.”
