Magnolia (5 page)

T
he roast is delicious, Laura Grace,” Daddy says as he sets down his silver—
real
silver—and reaches for his crystal water goblet.

Laura Grace beams at him, her pale blond hair perfectly coiffed, not a strand out of place. “Why, thank you, Bradley. I wish I could take credit for the meal, but it all belongs to Lou. I don't know what I'd do without that woman. We might just starve to death.”

“Amen,” Mr. Marsden mutters, and Laura Grace shoots him a sidelong glare.

It's true, though. Laura Grace can't boil a pot of water without burning it, much less manage an actual meal. If not for Lou, who's been working for the Marsdens for as long as I can remember, they probably
would
starve to death.

Laura Grace does, however, set a beautiful table. Everything, from the starched linen tablecloth to the Blue Willow china, the perfectly polished silver to the delicate crystal, is absolutely perfect and set just so for her dinner guests. An embroidered linen napkin is laid across my lap—a far cry from the supermarket-brand paper napkins we use at home.

Two colorful floral arrangements complement the decor, one set in the middle of the long mahogany table and another on the matching sideboard near the swinging door that leads toward the kitchen. Candles in elaborate silver candelabras cast a soft, flickering glow across it all, creating a warm, inviting palette.

Sunday dinner at the Marsdens' is more than a meal—it's an occasion. I'm dressed accordingly, wearing a pale green sundress with a sweater to ward off the chill of the air-conditioning.

“Well, I blame my mama, God rest her soul,” Laura Grace says with a sigh. “She never taught me how to cook. You have no idea how lucky you are, Jemma—you and Nan both. Your mama's a great cook, and she made sure to teach you. You girls' husbands are surely going to thank her one day.”

It's impossible to miss the pointed look she gives Ryder.

He ignores her and continues to attack his own roast. He's rolled up the sleeves of his white button-down shirt, but his tie is neat and his khakis perfectly pressed. He cuts off a slice of rare meat and brings it to his mouth. Chewing slowly, he
fixes his gaze on the wall directly above my mother's head. It's clear that he, too, would rather be anywhere else right now—anywhere but here, a helpless victim of our mothers' machinations.

Laura Grace glances from him to me and back to him again. “Next year, when the two of you are off at Oxford, you better promise to drive over together each week for Sunday dinner, you hear?”

“Now, c'mon, Laura Grace,” Mr. Marsden chides. “You know Ryder hasn't made his decision yet. You've got to give the boy some space to figure it out.”

She waves one hand in dismissal. “I know. But a mama can hope, can't she? I'm sorry, but I just can't imagine the two of them going off in different directions.”

“There's only one choice for the both of them, as far as I'm concerned,” my mom says. “It's about time the Rebels get their football program back on track, and Ryder's just the boy to do it—with Jemma cheering him on.”

I can't help but cringe, staring down at my plate. I mean, is this really what my mom dreams about? Is this the best she can imagine for me?

For a moment, everyone continues to eat silently. The tension in the air is so thick you could cut it with a knife, but I doubt Mama or Laura Grace even notice.

“Alabama's got a great football program,” my dad finally
offers, earning a sharp glare from my mom. “Probably the best in the nation,” he adds with an apologetic shrug.

I want to get up and hug him. Instead, I offer him a bright smile. He returns it from across the width of the table, his eyes sparkling mischievously.

Sometimes it's hard to believe my dad's a college professor—he does
not
look the part, not by any stretch of the imagination. He's tall and lanky, with messy light brown hair and pale green eyes. He looks way more at home in cargo pants and army-green T-shirts than he does in khakis and cardigans, more comfortable on the gun range or in his workshop than he does in his office or classroom. Think Daryl Dixon from
The Walking Dead
teaching physics. Yeah, that's Daddy. He's pretty awesome.

I take a bite of mashed potatoes, savoring their warm, gooey goodness. Lou really
is
an exceptional cook.

“Homecoming's next month,” Mama says, obviously desperate to change the subject—to get it back on
her
track. “I hear they're having a reception this year at the sorority house for alumnae and their daughters. I can't wait for Jemma to see how nice the girls are and—”

“Mama,” I interrupt, rolling my eyes. “Please.”

“Can't you just imagine the two of them next year at the Phi Delta Carnation Ball?” Laura Grace asks, clapping her hands together.

Daddy looks confused. “The two of who?”

“Why, Ryder and Jemma, of course.” Mama pats him on the hand. “You remember the Carnation Ball—it's the first Phi Delta party of the year. They have to go together, right, Laura Grace?”

She nods. “We've been waiting all our lives for this.”

Mama finally glances my way and sees my scowl. “Aw, honey. We're just teasing, that's all.”

This sort of teasing has been going on my entire life—second verse, same as the first. It's gotten real old, real fast.

“May I be excused?” I ask, pushing back from the table.

“You go on and finish your dinner,” Laura Grace says, entirely unperturbed. “We'll stop teasing. I promise.”

“It's okay. I'm done. It was delicious, thanks. I just need to get some air, that's all. I'm getting a bit of a headache.”

Laura Grace nods. “It's this heat—way too hot for September.” She waves a hand in my direction. “Go on, then. Ryder, why don't you go get Jemma some aspirin or something.”

I glance over at Ryder, and our eyes meet. I shake my head, hoping he gets the message. “No, it's fine. I'm . . . uh . . . I've got some in my purse.”

“Go with her, son,” Mr. Marsden prods. “Be a gentleman, and get her a bottle of water to take outside with her.”

Ugh.
I give up. My escape plot is now ruined.

Wordlessly, Ryder rises from the table and stalks out of
the dining room. I follow behind, my sandals slapping noisily against the hardwood floor.

“Do you want water or not?” he asks me as soon as the door swings shut behind us.

“Sure. Fine. Whatever.”

He turns to face me. “It
is
pretty hot out there.”

“I near about melted on the drive over.”

His lips twitch with the hint of a smile. “Your dad refused to turn on the AC, huh?”

I nod as I follow him out into the cavernous marble-tiled foyer. “You know his theory—‘no point when you're just going down the road.' Must've been a thousand degrees in the car.”

He tips his head toward the front door. “You wait out on the porch—I'll bring you a bottle of water.”

“Thanks.” I watch him go, wondering if we're going to pretend like last night's fight didn't happen. I hope that's the case, because I really don't feel like rehashing it.

I take off my sweater and make my way outside to sit in one of the white rockers that line the porch. The sun is just beginning to set, casting long, reddish orange swaths of color between the enormous oaks that line the driveway. The air is warm and thick, feeling somehow sinuous against my skin. The barest of breezes ruffles the thick canopy of leaves and lifts the hem of my sundress, but it does nothing to cool the air.

More than anything, I wish I had my video camera with me
so I could film the sun's slow descent, the deepening of the sky from pink to lavender to violet, the moon casting silver light across the scene before me.

“Here you go,” Ryder says, startling me. He holds out a sweating bottle of water, and I take it gratefully, pressing it against my neck.

“Thanks.” I glance away, hoping that he'll take the hint and leave me in peace. His presence makes me self-conscious now, but it wasn't always like this. As I look out at Magnolia Landing's grounds, I can't help but remember hot summer days when Ryder and I ran through sprinklers and ate Popsicles out on the lawn, when we rode our bikes up and down the long drive, when we built a tree fort in the largest of the oaks behind the house.

I wouldn't say we'd been friends when we were kids—not exactly. We had been more like siblings. We played; we fought. Mostly, we didn't think too much about our relationship—we didn't try to define it. And then adolescence hit. Just like that, everything was awkward and uncomfortable between us. By the time middle school began, I was all too aware that he
wasn't
my brother, or even my cousin.

“Mind if I sit?” Ryder asks.

I shrug. “It's your house.” I keep my gaze trained straight ahead, refusing to look in his direction as he lowers himself into the chair beside me.

After a minute or two of silence but for the creaking rockers, he sighs loudly. “Can we call a truce now?”

“You're the one who started it,” I snap. “Last night, I mean.”

“Look, I've been thinking about what you said. You know, about eighth grade—”

“Do we have to talk about this?”

“Because we didn't really hang out in middle school, except for family stuff,” he continues, ignoring my protest. “Until the end of eighth grade, maybe. Right around graduation.”

My entire body goes rigid, my face flushing hotly with the memory.

It had all started during Christmas break that year. We'd gone to the beach with the Marsdens. I can't really explain it, but there'd been a new awareness between us that week—exchanged glances and lingering looks, an electrical current connecting us in some way. The two of us sort of tiptoed around each other, afraid to get too close, but also afraid to lose that hint of . . . something. And then Ryder asked me to go with him to the graduation dance. There was no way we were telling our parents. Instead, we made plans to meet up near the rock on the edge of campus on the night of the dance.

I'd headed toward the rock at the agreed-upon time, my hands trembling with nervous excitement as I smoothed down my brand-new emerald-green dress. A dozen or so feet away,
I stopped short at the sound of voices. Confused, I ducked behind a cluster of trees. Peeking out, I saw that Ryder was there, waiting, just as he said he'd be. But Mason and Ben were there, too. That hadn't been part of the plan—we were supposed to meet up alone and go into the dance together. I hesitated, not quite sure what to do.

“Wait . . . let me guess,” came Mason's voice. “It's Jemma, right? You're taking her to the dance. That's why you're all prettied up.”

“No way,” Ben had said, his voice laced with incredulity.

“Oh my God, are you wearing a bow tie?” Mason shrieked. He was doubled over, laughing. “Seriously, man? You must really want her.”

“Look, my mom made me ask her, okay?” Ryder said. “She felt all sorry for her 'cause no one else had, and, well, you know how that goes. Our moms are best friends and all that. Trust me, I do
not
want to go with her.”

Mason was still laughing. “Aww, admit it, man. You want to feel up Jemma Cafferty!”

“Feel up
what
? Jemma's flat as a board. Anyway, I just said I'd dance with her once or twice, that's all. No big deal.”

“Well, why are we standing out here, then?” Ben said.

Mason slapped Ryder on the back. “Yeah, man. Let's go have some
fun
.”

They took off then, the three of them. I saw Ryder glance
back over his shoulder once before following them into the gym, and that was that.

As soon as they were gone, I ran over to the basketball courts and hid in the shadows, crying my eyes out. Once I'd finally managed to dry my tears, I made my way over to the gym and peeked in. There was Ryder, right in the middle of the dance floor, dancing with Katie McGee—who was decidedly not as flat as a board. Mason and Ben were there too, dancing with some of Katie's friends. They were all laughing and smiling, having a great time. I'd turned and fled then, fresh tears dampening my cheeks. I went back to the little cluster of trees by the rock and stayed there till it was time for Daddy to come and pick me up.

I never told a soul what happened. Lucy and Morgan assumed I'd gotten sick or something and hadn't come, and Mama and Daddy thought I'd gone and had a great time. The truth was way too embarrassing—that Ryder had humiliated me, made a complete and total fool out of me.

Never again.

“So, are you going to tell me what I did to piss you off that year? Because I'm coming up totally blank.”

I turn on him. “Seriously? You're coming up blank?”

“Why don't you help me out here?”

I just stare at him uncomprehendingly.

“C'mon, Jemma,” he taunts. “Use your words.”

I rise, my hands curled into fists by my sides. “Oh, I'll use my words all right, douchebucket. Remember the eighth-grade dance? Is that ringing any bells for you?”

He scratches his head, looking thoughtful for a moment. And then . . .“You mean the graduation dance? If I remember correctly, you didn't even show up.”

“Is that what you think? That I didn't show up?” I almost want to laugh at the absurdity of it—Ryder trying to act like the injured party, as if
I'd
stood
him
up.

“You got a better explanation?” he asks.

“I shouldn't have to explain it to you. Jerk,” I add under my breath. And then, “I'm going for a walk.”

He rises, towering over me now. “So you're just going to storm off? Really, Jem?”