Something Blue - Emily Giffin [42]
I waited for Marcus to say something more, but instead he averted his eyes to the luggage belt. "Is that your bag?" he asked me.
"Yes," I said, spotting my Louis Vuitton suitcase. "Grab it for me, please."
Marcus leaned down and heaved it from the belt. "Sheesh," he said under his breath, the fourth comment he had made about my over-packing since we had left the city.
"Oh, Marcus, let me," my dad said, reaching for my bag.
Marcus shrugged and gave it to him. "If you insist."
I cringed, wishing he had protested at least once.
"So that's it, Daddy. Marcus just has his carry-on bag," I said, glancing at his nasty pea-green satchel with a frayed strap and some defunct Internet logo emblazoned on the side. I saw my father take it in too.
"Okeydokey. We're off," my dad bellowed, rubbing his hands together vigorously. Then, as we found his BMW in the parking garage, he told us of his speeding ticket on the way over. "Was only going seven over."
"Daddy, was it really just seven?" I asked.
"Cross my heart. Seven over. Marcus, the cops in this town are relentless."
"That's what I told you in high school!" I said, hitting his arm. "A lot of good that excuse ever did me."
"Drinking vodka in the Burger King parking lot at sixteen? That is hardly what I'd characterize as overzealous police work." My dad chuckled. "Marcus, I have a lot of stories to tell you about our girl here."
Our girl. It was a big concession. That combined with his chipper mood on the heels of a ticket was only further proof of his determination to like my new boyfriend.
"I can only imagine," Marcus said from the back seat, his voice detached, bored. Was he was missing my dad's cues, or was he simply unwilling to go along with the jovial routine?
I glanced back at him, but his face was in shadow and I couldn't read his expression. For the rest of the ride home, Marcus said virtually nothing despite plenty of effort from my father.
As we pulled into our cul-de-sac, I pointed out Rachel's house to Marcus. He made an acknowledging sound.
"Are the Whites away?" I asked my father, noticing that all of their lights were out.
He reached over and squeezed my knee with one hand and then clicked our garage door opener with the other. "No. They're around, I think."
"Maybe they knew I was coming home and couldn't bear to face me," I said.
"Just remember, it's not their fault," my dad said. "It's Rachel's."
"I know," I said. "But they did raise a traitor."
My dad made a face as if to say, "Fair point."
"Think Mom will mind if we go in through the back way?" he asked me. My mother believes that visitors should always be brought through the front door—not that Marcus would ever notice the difference.
Sure enough, my mom peered into the garage and whispered, as if Marcus and I couldn't hear her, "Hugh, the front door."
"The kids have bags," he said.
My mother forced a smile and said in her turbocharged, company voice, "Well then, come in! Come in!" As always, she was in full makeup—she put her "face" on even to go to the grocery store. Her hair was swept up in a jeweled clip I had bought for her at Barneys, and she was dressed in ivory from head to toe. She looked beautiful, and I was proud for Marcus to see her. If he subscribed to the whole "a daughter will end up looking like her mother" notion, he had to be exceedingly pleased.
Marcus and my father fumbled with our bags, maneuvering them between our car and the lawnmower as my mom lectured my father about pulling the car in too far to the left.
"Dee, I'm perfectly centered," he said, agitation creeping into his voice. My parents bickered constantly, more with every passing year, but I knew that they would stay together for the long haul. Maybe not for love, but because they both liked the image of the proper home—the good, intact family.