Darlene’s skin burned. She wasn’t sure if this was something Imogene actually believed, or if it was some sort of test. Darlene cocked her head at the painting. “It’s funny: I never saw Joan Mitchell as a particularly spontaneous artist. To me, this is very controlled. Deliberate.” Darlene gave Imogene an easier, breezier smile. “Guess it just depends on your perspective.”
* * *
Dinner was served in a room the size of a small country. The cutlery was heavy, solid silver, sliding through the juicy steak as if it were butter. Catherine offered Darlene a smile. “So, Darlene. Imogene mentioned you’re a Princeton grad. Scholarship? Sports team?”
“Mum!” Zach choked on his steak. “Darlene’s a straight-A student!”
“Well, I didn’t know,” Catherine said, so unflustered it was almost funny. “I hear Princeton’s quite expensive. Do you miss college, Darlene?”
“Sometimes,” Darlene said. “But I’m enjoying working as a musician. I’m actually getting ready to record an album of my own songs.”
Catherine’s frozen forehead mimed delight. “Congratulations. One day we’ll say we knew you when.”
“Are you doing it with Zach?” Imogene asked.
An image of her and Zach in flagrante barged into Darlene’s mind. The two of them on her couch but with distinctly less clothes. “Excuse me?”
“Are you and Zach collaborating?” Imogene clarified.
Her mind had moved so quickly to the gutter it had basically time-traveled. “Oh. Well, no.”
“Why not?” asked Imogene.
Zach affected confusion. “Yes, babe: why not?” He forked some peas into his mouth and slipped her a grin. “Don’t you think I’m talented?”
“Of course you’re talented. I just have a sneaking suspicion you’d show up late to every recording session, drunk as a skunk,” she teased.
“Hey,” Zach replied, affecting outrage. “That’s… accurate. I’m a terribly stinky creature who can’t tell time. Pepé Le Pew, without a watch.”
Darlene giggled.
Mark wiped his mouth with his napkin. “It’s because Zachary doesn’t have the brain for business.”
It was like witnessing someone slap a child: a quick, domestic horror. Darlene chilled.
“Making a living out of music isn’t just about boozing and parties,” Mark continued. “It takes discipline. Commitment. Intelligence. Not really Zachary’s strengths.”
Zach kept his head down, focused on his meal. The suggestion of pink colored his cheeks.
Darlene took a large gulp of wine, hoping it would mute the angry throb of her heart. “I just want to make a solo record.”
“And you probably will,” Mark said. “But even for someone as clearheaded as you, it’s not really a financially stable career, is it? And that’s what you need, son,” he added, addressing Zach.
“C’mon, Dad,” Imogene said. “Plenty of people work as full-time musicians.”
Mark’s expression said, Not people like Zachary.
“I think making your own record is marvelous, Darlene.” Catherine cut a tiny bite of steak. “You’re so ambitious. Focused. You could really learn a thing or two from her, Zach.”
Darlene let out a sharp puff of surprise. Her voice was a few decibels louder than she intended. “Zach is not an idiot.”
The four Livingstones glanced at Darlene. Equally surprised.
“We know,” said Catherine. “But he does have plenty of room for growth.”
The roles of Darlene-the-fake-girlfriend and Darlene-the-real-person mixed and merged. She was playing a part, and speaking entirely from the heart. Which felt equally terrifying and thrilling. She kept the smile on her face but now, it had a glint of steel. “We all have room for growth,” Darlene said. “But surely we can acknowledge that Zach is a very talented and charismatic musician. Perfect ear, fast learner, fun to work with. All our clients adore him.”
Mark raised an eyebrow in sarcastic acknowledgment. “Being liked is not the same as being successful.”
Darlene’s smile dropped. She sat up straighter and addressed Mark and Catherine directly. “I’m sorry, but the way you talk about Zach is really limiting. You’ve raised a kind, warm, open-minded young man. He deserves your support and your respect.”
Silence blared.
No one said a thing.
Zach’s expression started on bewilderment, whipped to awe, before settling on openmouthed disbelief.
Darlene’s mouth went dry. Oh God. I just chastised my fake future in-laws. Who were looking equally embarrassed and irate. Darlene coughed and got to her feet. “I’m just going to excuse myself for a minute.” She took a few steps, pivoted back to grab her wine, and then beat a hasty retreat.
39
Per Savannah’s suggestion, Liv ordered the Uber to be five minutes late. “There’s nothing wrong with making Sam wait,” Savannah assured her. “To build up a bit of tension.”
Liv watched the black town car round the corner, the service her mother was convinced was a convoluted kidnapping racket. Perhaps Savannah used the five-minutes-late strategy with Eliot. The prospect didn’t make Liv as furious as she expected. She still loved Eliot, but she was no longer in love with him—ridiculous semantics she’d always pooh-poohed but now rang true.
Savannah mimed smiling, tapping both cheeks with her forefingers. “Bye!” She waved both arms above her head, as if Liv was leaving for life on a new continent. “Have fun!”
Liv stared back, feeling out of her depth. Savannah had approached the date like she approached everything: with fervor. Like she wanted to live vicariously. Had she met someone, too? Hopefully not. The business could only handle one love-distracted person, and right now that person was Liv. Savannah Shipley would do well to focus her drive and smarts on hitting another wedding out of the park. She was turning out to be quite a valuable asset.
Ten minutes later, Liv walked into a farm-to-table restaurant Sam had suggested. It was lively without being unbearably noisy, which was good: like neck tattoos and nail art, shouting to be heard in restaurants was something best left to Generation Z. A hefty wooden bar ran against one wall, while a few dozen tables were scattered over creaking floorboards. This place was new: Liv hadn’t even heard about it. The persistent evolution of the city regardless of her personal tragedy recalled the old Robert Frost quote: “In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.”
“I’m meeting a friend,” she told the maître d’, just as she spotted Sam sitting at the bar, chatting to the bartender. He was dressed in dark jeans and a denim shirt rolled at the sleeves. Even dressed up for a date, he looked like the kind of man who could chop down a tree and build a table with it. Her pulse, at a steady trot while she got ready, began cantering freely, showing off with jumps and little kicks. She hadn’t felt this nervous in years. It recalled her early days of auditioning, hoping desperately to be picked from a sea of faces and invited to be someone else. But tonight she was auditioning as herself.