It was an added benefit that I had to keep my eyes on the road, because it kept me from staring at Murphy’s lips painted with an expensive red lipstick that didn’t even suit her as she talked like this.
“It’ll be okay,” I said. “We’ll celebrate your birthday on our own another time.”
Murphy gave me a slight nod, and we endured the rest of the ride in uncomfortable silence. The damned cupcake cake taunted me from the back seat, and even Mozart couldn’t calm my nerves.
Pulling up in front of the inn, I swallowed my pride. I could have paid to bring Murphy here all by myself for a month or longer, but allowing her parents to bring me (us) here was a bitter pill to swallow. I didn’t like feeling like the scholarship kid again. I’d played that role for too long, and now I was my own man.
The valet opened the door for Murphy, and I wanted to deck him. That was the kind of mood I was in. It only worsened when he asked me, “Does the box go inside?” He nodded toward the giant box from Gigi’s bakery that Murphy had yet to notice.
Blowing out a long breath, I said, “I’m not sure.”
Turning on her heel, Murphy saw the label for Oh, For Heaven’s Cakes and quickly whirled back to me. “What’s that?” she demanded, venom lacing her words rather than the excitement I’d expected.
“It’s nothing. A cake. Someone once told me never to show up emptyhanded.” We spoke in hushed tones next to the car with the valet waiting patiently nearby, pretending not to listen.
“Please don’t bring that.” She flung her arm toward the car. “Whatever it is, I can’t eat it in front of my mother. This isn’t Vermont. Well, physically we’re in Vermont, but my parents never leave their little bubble. Unless it’s an aged bottle of Scotch or a vintage red wine, they don’t care, okay? Just drop it. It’s time for me to eat a salad with the dressing on the side and salmon for dinner. Is breakfast for dinner better? Yes. But you have to understand, that isn’t my parents’ scene. That’s not even in their world. It. Does. Not. Exist.”
She paused between each of her final words, for effect I assumed, but I wasn’t a stranger to the curiosities of her world. It’s just that I’d thought she wanted out of it.
Refusing to make eye contact with me after her choppy monologue, Murphy wrung her hands until she’d transformed her entire demeanor—fake smile, perfect posture, ready for a photo opportunity.
“I didn’t get it for your parents,” I said. “I got it for you. For you, Murph. I don’t care what world they live in. I live here, and so do you. In the real world.”
Rather than argue with me, Murphy just gave me a short nod and made a beeline for the entrance. With no further discussion on the cake, I followed behind her, trying for small talk. I couldn’t stand the mountain of silence between us. I was a hiker, but this was an incline I couldn’t seem to climb.
“It’s cool, right?” I asked her, taking her elbow in my palm, trying to touch her any way I could. The inn was an old Victorian that had been restored, and was well known in the area as the nicest place to stay.
“I didn’t even notice. I’m sorry,” she said, stopping suddenly to give me an anguished look. “Shoot, I’m sorry . . . I seem to be saying that a lot today. Of course it’s nice. My parents wouldn’t be staying here if it weren’t the best.”
This time it was my turn to clam up. I simply took her elbow again and led us to the bar area, where we would walk the plank. I mean . . . meet Murphy’s parents.
I’d been here once before for a pharmaceutical gig, but had hoped that this time would be more memorable. And it probably would be, but for all the wrong reasons. When Murphy’s mom caught sight of us and gave her combo shriek-yell, “Murphy, over here,” with her Miss America wave gone wrong, I knew so.
“Hi, Mom.” Murphy greeted her mother with a practiced air-kiss to the cheek.
“Mr. Landon,” I said, and shook hands with her father.
“Hi, Dad,” Murphy said, not bothering to give him an air-kiss.
I didn’t get to greet Mrs. Landon because she looked at me and said, “You clean up nice.” After that backhanded compliment, I had no idea what to say to the woman.
At least I’d gone home after working at Brenna’s to pick up the cake, and showered, dressing in slacks and a button-down. I didn’t bother with a tie. I gave those up years ago.
“Mom, Ben is an old friend of mine from Pressman.”
We still stood around their lounge table awkwardly, and I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I ask the ladies to take a seat?
“Why don’t you sit, son?” Murphy’s dad suggested at the mention of Pressman. Just like always, the mere mention of the elite school opened up doors.
“Is that so?” Murphy’s mom seemed surprised, but it was hard to tell. Her eyes widened but her forehead didn’t move. Botox, I’d guess.
“Yes. Murphy and I were in the same class,” I said and left it at that.
“Does your family have a long history at the school?” her dad asked, obviously wanting to peg me right away.
“No, sir. I attended on a scholarship.”
Luckily, we were interrupted by a peppy server. “Hi, can I get you something to drink?”
“My wife will have a gin and tonic, and I will have an old fashioned,” Murphy’s dad said before turning to his daughter. “Murphy?”
“Red wine,” she said, as meek as a mouse.
“House cabernet?” the server asked.
“That would be nice,” Murphy said
