Muffy meets my smile with one of her own and lifts her cup.
The ring on her left hand glimmers in the light reflecting from the windows.
I’m sure it’s not by accident.
“I suppose I should congratulate you.” I raise one eyebrow and pointedly stare down at the ring.
Might as well address the five-carat elephant in the room.
I expect some smug look of satisfaction or a gaze, narrowed with the warning that I should take the hint that it’s over between Francis and me. If she needs me to reassure her, I’m more than happy to drive the point home—with a brown-sugar and pecan-crusted, finely sharpened blade.
Instead, she seems to relax into something approaching resignation. I stare warily as I wait for her to speak.
“This doesn’t have to be hostile, you know. We can both get what we want out of this.”
I blink in surprise, wondering what she’s getting at.
“Francis was obviously hesitant to reveal all of this,” she lifts her right hand to casually gesture toward the ring on her left, “before Valentine’s Day.”
That’s no surprise.
“I was the one to insist on talking to you first. I didn’t want him confusing the issue with any phone calls or texts.”
That explains it…mostly.
The fact that he’d let this woman control him that much is the surprise.
He’s even weaker than I remember.
“Are you his fiancée or his mother?”
Her mouth twists with annoyance.
“As I stated, this doesn’t have to be hostile…Honey.” She is decidedly less magnanimous now, raising one eyebrow in judgement as she utters my name.
“It doesn’t have to be anything…Muffy,” I reply, matching hers with an arched eyebrow of my own.
I’m surprised yet again when she laughs softly, relaxing into her chair. She pauses to take a sip of tea and linger over it as she scrutinizes me.
“I can see why Francis adores you. He’s the kind of man who flourishes under the influence of a woman with a backbone.” There isn’t a hint of jealousy or resentment in her voice as she says this, casually taking another sip of her tea.
“I suppose you’ll have to be the one carrying the load from now on,” I say, lifting my cup to take a first sip. After swallowing, I add, “Speaking of which, perhaps you can get to the meat of the matter. Why exactly am I here? If he was so…spineless that he couldn’t confront me, he could have just broken up with me over text message. Despite your ban on communication.”
Muffy gives me a patronizing smile. “Ah but that’s why you’re here, Honey. He hasn’t broken up with you, not in any way that it might really matter. This engagement, and of course the wedding—”
The sip of tea in my mouth goes down hard at that, even though I should have expected this “ruse” of theirs to go just that far.
“It’s all still for show. A relationship strictly of convenience. So long as you and Francis are discreet, there’s no reason that you couldn’t pick up right where you left off.”
“Excuse me?” I set my cup down.
“It’s very common, Honey. Especially among a certain class.” Now, the subtle rays of condescension are peeking through the curtain of indifference. “We marry the type of person that’s expected of us, while…still entertaining the type of person we’d prefer to be with. One that doesn’t quite meet the approval of our family and peers.”
I cough out a laugh. “I see. And I suppose I’m the dirty little secret that dares not sully the—ahem—integrity of your image.”
“Correct,” she says, her lips pursed with self-satisfied superiority. “I myself have a…special friend as well.”
“Perhaps that says something about the quality of men you choose to be with. I, however, am not that type of woman.”
I see the flicker of surprise hit her eyes before they narrow with contempt. “Of course you aren’t,” she says in a sarcastic voice.
“Don’t let the pink fool you, sweetheart. That’s just the sugar coating the hard nut underneath. This rose has thorns, and I’m not about to be overshadowed by any type of ‘arrangement’ that leaves me sharing the spotlight with another woman.”
Now Muffy really has a bee in her bonnet. She leans in closer, those dark eyes ablaze. “You silly woman, I’m giving you a chance to maintain the status quo. You can keep the apartment, the dresses, the gifts, and even that ridiculous career of yours; I seriously doubt you could maintain your current lifestyle on whatever that pays. It’s an opportunity to have your cake and eat it too. Most women in your position would jump at the opportunity.”
Rather than match her wrath, I calmly assess her.
“Have you ever had a slice of real butter cake? My Aunt Pidge—don’t ask me how she got that nickname, that’s just what everyone calls her—anyway, she makes the absolute best, to-die-for butter cake. Not the fake stuff with margarine and Splenda or whatever, I mean the real thing, made with pure butter and sugar and honest to goodness chocolate frosting on top. The kind where you can taste the butter melting in your mouth with every bite.” My eyes casually wander across her pronounced collarbone and, more to the point, the mouth pinched with perpetual displeasure. “I’m guessing from the looks of it, you haven’t ever had a taste.”
“Perhaps you can explain whatever deep-fried, southern-cooked nonsense you’re getting at?”
I simply smile, completely unfazed.
“My point is, why would I settle for less than, when the real thing is still out there waiting for me to take a bite? I’m guessing people of a—how did you put it? Certain class?—they have a more refined palate that us lowly deep-fried, southern cooked peasants couldn’t appreciate. Perhaps that explains why y’all are so bitter and willing to compromise when it comes to quality.” I look around at the grand
