52 Reasons to Hate My Father Page 11

“We apologize for being one member short today,” Caroline announces to the press. “As you know, Cooper Larrabee is still traveling with the Peace Corps. He’s currently in the Sudan feeding the hungry and wasn’t able to make it today. But he sends his love and best wishes to his father and his future stepmother.”

  Rêve looks touched as she places her hand to her heart and murmurs, “I love that boy.”

  We pose for what feels like hours while the photographers take their turns capturing this truly joyful day in the Larrabee family as we welcome the newest member into our happy clan.

  Soon afterward, like clockwork, the press pack up their stuff and head out to their vans as the guests start arriving.

  My brothers’ graduation from Yale Law School is the hot topic of the party. Probably because it’s the only conversation topic that’s safe … and permanent. No one dares say anything about my father’s imminent marriage to Miss Executive Assistant Turned Gold Digger, beyond the obvious enthusiastic offerings of congratulations and superficial remarks about her dress and flawless skin. Everyone knows anything more profound than that is treading through dangerous territory. Because it can and will be used against you in approximately two and a half years when the two parties are sitting on opposite sides of a conference table, reviewing my father’s standard watertight prenup.

  But Yale law degrees and graduating at the top of your class is eternal. Something that can’t be reversed. So people are smart and just stick to that.

  In fact, my brothers are so monopolized throughout the entire party, I don’t even get a chance to talk to them. Not that I really have anything to say. And with RJ and his wife refusing to leave my father’s side, Cooper (my usual partner in crime at these sorts of things) off spreading good Karma in the Sudan, and my friends having the time of their lives in the Mediterranean, I’m pretty much a loner.

  Looks like my only friend tonight is the vodka I managed to sneak into my seltzer water. I meander from cluster to cluster, eavesdropping on conversations and listening for something interesting enough to warrant my attention.

  A group of my father’s executives are gathered around the bar yammering about some French media corporation that they hope to merge with. Yawn. Next.

  There’s a gaggle of teens huddled in a corner gossiping about a website that some fifteen-year-old girl started, where you can vote on various aspects of her life. Lame. Next.

  I wander over to the pool and sidle up to a table of gourmet appetizers. I select a canapé from a tray and pop it into my mouth, washing it down with a large gulp of my “seltzer water.”

  “Now, see, I remember when he was married to Elizabeth,” comes a slurred, booming voice behind me.

  My ears perk up at the mention of my mother’s name. At least, I assume it’s my mother he’s talking about. It makes sense, given that this is an engagement party for her widower. Although I suppose there are a lot of Elizabeths in the world.

  “Really?” a female voice responds with interest. “I never had the chance to meet her but I’ve heard such wonderful things about her.”

  “Well, sure,” the slurrer continues. “That’s what they pay publicists for. But I knew Lizzie a long time and I’m telling you she was no picnic. Extremely troubled.”

  Well, I guess that settles it. They couldn’t be talking about my mom. I’ve never heard anyone describe Elizabeth Larrabee as “troubled.”

  I attempt to zone him out, concentrating on the selection of my next canapé until I hear him say, “And it seemed like the more successful Richard became, the worse she got. I felt sorry for the poor guy. He put up with a lot of drama.”

  Suddenly I’m on full alert again. Did he just say Richard? As in Richard Larrabee, my father? No, that’s impossible. He couldn’t be talking about that Richard because that would mean the Elizabeth he was referring to really is my mother.

  I subtly turn my head toward the source of the voice and catch sight of a paunchy, clearly intoxicated red-faced man who I faintly recognize. He’s talking to a woman who looks like she’s trying to find a way to politely bow out of this uncomfortable (not to mention inappropriate) conversation. And she’s smart to do so. Only someone as wasted as that guy would be stupid enough talk about my mother at an event like this. Let alone openly insult her.

  “I’ll tell ya”—the intoxicated man waves his hand dramatically across his body, sloshing ten-thousand-dollar-a-bottle scotch down the front of his shirt—“ya can’t really blame the guy for marrying a string of brainless supermodels after that whole mess.”

  The canapé drops from my hand and tumbles into the grass.

  I stand frozen in place, literally stunned at what I’m hearing. How dare he spread such nasty not to mention false rumors about my mother! And in her own backyard!

  I’m about to march right over there and kindly ask him to take his lies somewhere else when I feel a warm hand on my arm.

  “Hey,” a familiar voice says behind me.

  I swivel around and come face-to-face with Luke, who’s holding a barely touched flute of champagne in one hand and an empty appetizer plate in the other.

  “Hi,” I mumble distractedly, darting vicious glances behind me.

  “What’s the matter?” Luke asks, peering in the direction of my gaze.

  I grunt. “Just some drunk idiot saying rude things.”

  “Well, ignore him,” Luke suggests.

  I take a deep breath. Luke is right. I should ignore him. He’s obviously sloshed off his face and making no sense. This certainly wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to ignore vicious gossip about members of my family and it definitely won’t be the last. I’m not sure why this particular conversation is affecting me more than normal. Maybe it’s because, of all the times I’ve had to ignore vicious gossip, it’s never been about my mother.

  Or maybe it’s because that particular man is so much more annoying than most.

  But when I steal another glance in his direction I see that the woman he was talking to has left and now he’s standing alone, staring forlornly into his empty scotch glass.

  Serves him right.

  Loser.

  With a swift sip of my drink, I manage to shake off my infuriation and focus on Luke. It’s only now that I notice how terribly out of place he looks. And that’s probably because he’s wearing this really strange combination of pleated-front khakis, a white-button down with an argyle sweater tied around his shoulders, and dark brown loafers with tassels. He looks like he just walked out of a glossy country club brochure.

  I shake my head critically.

  He glances nervously at his outfit. “What? No good?” From the panic in his voice, it’s obvious he spent about an hour deliberating before finally selecting this.

  I give him a pitying look. “Next time you need help picking out something to wear, call me, okay?”

  He breathes out a laugh. “Okay.” And then after a minuscule sip of his champagne, he adds, “I’m relieved to have found a familiar face here.” He flashes me a warm smile and I can’t help feeling just a tad bit sorry for the guy. I mean, how sad is it that I’m the person he’s relieved to see?

  He peers around at the mass of guests that have filled almost every corner of our backyard. “Do you know all these people?”

  “No. Not even half.”

  “Does your father know them?”

  “Probably not.”

  He seems to be lost in thought for a moment, taking in his surroundings with an awed expression. “What was it like growing up with this?”

  “With what?”

  He motions to the grounds. “With … all of this! The cars and the houses and the”—he holds up his drink—“champagne that costs more than my monthly rent.”

  I stifle a giggle, suddenly realizing why his glass has remained relatively untouched. He’s afraid to drink it.

  “Well,” he prompts me, “what was it like?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know any different. That’s l
ike me asking you what it was like to grow up in your family.”

  “It sucked,” he answers so swiftly it makes me blink.

  “Oh,” is the only thing I can think to say.

  “We never had any money. We were always moving from place to place. We kept getting evicted from our apartment because my dad kept losing his job. My parents fought about finances constantly. It was awful. Then finally one day my dad left to find a new job and never came back.”

  “Oh,” I mumble again, suddenly feeling extremely uncomfortable. I gulp down the remainder of my drink and set the glass on a table. “Sorry.”

  Luke shrugs away my apology. “I managed to escape relatively unscathed.”

  He continues to marvel at everything around him. Like he’s a character from a black-and-white movie and this is his first time seeing the world in color. He walks in a slow circle, taking it all in, until he’s finally facing the back of the house again. Then he stands there, shaking his head in amazement. “I can’t even imagine what’s it’s like inside there.”

  I let out a laugh. “Well, fortunately, you don’t have to.” I grab his elbow and start pulling him toward the stairs. I take the empty appetizer plate from his hand and toss it haphazardly on the bottom step before climbing up to the first landing. But my eyes slowly drift back down to the abandoned plate and an unsettled feeling creeps into my stomach. I let go of Luke’s arm, skip back to the grass, snatch up the plate, and run it over to the nearest trash can.

  Then I catch up with Luke, link my arm through his, and say, “C’mon. I’ll give you the grand tour.”

  MR. CARVER, IN THE BILLIARD ROOM, WITH THE POOL CUE

  “Let me guess, this is your first party,” I say to Luke as we leave the formal dining room and enter the library.

  Luke whistles as he gazes up at the floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves. “Well, my first party on this scale, I guess you would say. I’m certainly not used to this kind of thing.”

  He hops onto the rolling book ladder, pushes off with one foot, and rides it across the far wall. With that huge toothy smile on his face, he looks like a little kid at a playground. It’s almost sort of endearing. “I’ve always wanted to do that,” he explains as he steps off.

  I laugh. “What kind of parties are you used to?”

  “I don’t really go to parties,” he replies with a shrug.

  “Oh, c’mon!” I urge him with a poke. “At USC? I know for a fact that they have some off-the-hook parties there.”

  “I’m sure they do,” he says casually, leaning over to examine a set of original classics displayed in a glass case. “But I don’t have any time to go. I’m always too busy working. My scholarship doesn’t cover room and board.”

  “Oh,” I say, biting my lip.

  “What about you?” he asks, looking up and staring at me from across the room.

  “What about me?” I shoot back defensively.

  “College,” he prompts, taking a few steps toward me. “You have no desire to go?”

  I laugh at this. “What for?”

  “I don’t know. To learn things. Study. Become more worldly.”

  “I spent my childhood hopping around Europe. I’ve visited thirty-two countries in eighteen years. I think I’m plenty worldly.”

  Luke raises his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender. “Sorry. I’m only wondering if you’ve ever given any thought to what you want to do with your life.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “And what’s wrong with my life now?”

  He stifles a smile. “Do you honestly want me to answer that?”

  “Yes,” I challenge, “I do.”

  He takes a few more steps in my direction until he’s almost an arm’s length away. He looks me directly in the eye. For some reason, I feel my face grow hot but I’m not sure if it’s because of my sudden irritation or something else. He holds my gaze tightly and I feel my breath start to quicken. I even feel myself leaning forward slightly.

  “No you don’t,” he says at last, breaking eye contact and turning away from me. He wanders to the fireplace and stares at the giant framed photograph of my father hanging over the mantel. It was taken right after my mother died. When I was younger I used to come in here after school and tell my father’s portrait about my day. I would pull one of the large upholstered reading chairs from the center of the room, position it directly in front of the fireplace, and climb into it. The chair would swallow up my tiny body. My feet would barely reach the edge of the seat. But I felt safe sitting there. With my father standing guard above me. His serious expression and watchful eyes looking down on me.

  Now the portrait just freaks me out. His eyes don’t watch over me anymore. They judge me. They condemn me. Funny how over the years the exact same portrait can grow to depict such a different person.

  “Someday I’m going to have all of this,” Luke vows quietly, and for a minute I wonder if I’m even supposed to have heard it. Or if he was talking to himself. But then he speaks slightly louder. “Someday I’m going to be exactly like him.”

  I snort. “Have fun with that.”

  “Your father is the reason I’m interning at Larrabee Media, you know,” he goes on, ignoring my sarcasm. “He’s the reason I’m struggling to put myself through college. The way he started out with nothing and then became the icon that he is. He’s an inspiration to a lot of people, you know.”

  I roll my eyes. “How lucky for them,” I mumble, glancing briefly up at the portrait. A chill runs through my body and I drop my eyes to the floor.

  “Why are there no pictures of your mother anywhere?” Luke asks, gazing around.

  “My father took them all down when she died,” I reply, trying to keep my tone as neutral and impassive as possible. But after the infuriating conversation I overheard outside, it’s decidedly more difficult than usual.

  “I read that he took her death very hard.”

  “Yeah,” I grumble, staring down at my fingernails. “So hard that he continues to honor her memory every three years by marrying another bimbo.”

  I can feel Luke’s gaze flicker over to me momentarily. “Maybe he likes the bimbos.”

  “He doesn’t,” I answer with certainty. “They’re just a distraction.”

  “Some people need to be distracted from things they don’t want to think about,” Luke offers gently.

  I know what he’s trying to do. And I don’t really feel like getting into a heart-to-heart about my mother’s death right now. Especially not with Luke Carver, of all people.

  “Yeah, well, it happened a long time ago and everybody’s over it now,” I say dismissively. I take hold of his elbow and lead him toward the door. “Come on. Let’s continue with the tour.”

  He seems to pick up on my attempt to evade the subject and follows me willingly back into the hallway, where the temperature is noticeably warmer.

  I lead him to the room directly across from us but Luke stops just short of the entrance and points to the closed door at the end of the corridor. “What room is that?”

  “That’s my father’s personal study. No one ever goes in there. He keeps it locked year round.” I keep moving into the next room, and eventually, after a lingering glance down the hall, Luke follows. “And obviously this is the billiard room,” I say uninspiringly, motioning toward the large, handcrafted, red-felt-covered pool table in the center.

  He hoots with laughter. “This place is like walking through a game of Clue!”

  I run my finger over the smooth oak. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never played it.”

  Luke’s mouth falls open. “What? How could you never have played Clue? It’s only one of the most popular board games of all time!”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I just never did.”

  “That’s a shame. It’s one of my favorites.” Luke nods toward the table. “Do you at least play pool?”

  I grab a pool cue and skillfully run a cube of chalk over the tip. “Very well, actually.”

  He
flashes me a sly smile and accepts my challenge by grabbing a second cue and chalking it up. “Well, game on, then.”

  I rack the balls and Luke breaks, sending the six ball into the corner pocket.

  “I guess I’m solids,” he says, lining up his next shot. He tries to sink the three ball into the side pocket but misses by a few inches.

  I finish chalking up my cue and get down to businesses, sinking seven striped balls in a row before finally calling the eight ball in the corner and knocking it in with ease.

  Luke stands off to the side with a baffled look on his face. Like a ghost just swiped his wallet. “So that’s what it feels like to be hustled,” he jokes.

  I laugh and cock my head to the side. “Sorry!” I sing insincerely.

  His mouth is still hanging open. “Where’d you learn how to play pool like that?”

  “Horatio,” I say with a smile, leaning on my pool cue. I feel a quick burst of nostalgia as I remember when I was a kid and Horatio had to lift me up to the table so that I could make a shot.

  “Who’s Horatio?” Luke asks.

  “Our butler.”

  “Of course.” He shakes his head and laughs, his tone slipping into an obnoxious over-the-top British accent. “The butler taught you to play pool. Isn’t that lovely?”

  “Hey!” I shout at him from across the table, feeling my cheeks start to burn with rage again. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Jesus,” he swears. “Calm down. I was only joking. You’re so easily triggered.”

  “Oh and there he goes again with the psychology-major crap. Thanks, but I have a shrink for that.”

  “Okay, okay,” Luke says, throwing his hands up in the air. “Lighten up, okay? I’m sorry I said anything.” He takes a hesitant step in my direction but I quickly move away, tossing my pool cue down on the table.

  “You shouldn’t make jokes about things you know nothing about.” I storm out the door, not even bothering to tell him how to get back to the party. Luke’s a big boy. He goes to college. I’m sure he can figure it out himself.

  DISAPPEARING ACT

  I have trouble falling asleep that night. The events of the day are replaying in surround sound in my brain. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to shake anything anyone said. My father’s heartwarming sermon about love and relationships, Mr. Too Much Scotch’s harsh allegations about my mother being some kind of disturbed drama queen, and even Luke’s relatively harmless attempts to get to know me better.