Authors: Jean Stone
Peter hesitated. “You look nice.”
Tess curled the hair around one ear. “After dinner I’ve got to get back to school. They’re having an alumnae reception. One of those dreadfully stuffy things,” she said and rolled her eyes, hoping she was a convincing liar, and wondering if anything could possibly be any stuffier than this starched room with the violin music playing somewhere in the ceiling.
“Being the child of a grad has its responsibilities,” he said. “I know the feeling. I’m letting my brother pick up the slack now, though. He’s a freshman at Amherst this year.”
“How nice,” Tess said. She’d met Peter’s brother, John, only once. He was a twit. She sipped her wine, scanned the menu, and decided on the poached salmon. She took another sip of wine, willing herself to relax.
“How do you like Smith?”
She resisted saying that it had a really nice chapel. “It’s okay. It’s fine.”
“Are you a freshman?”
Freshman? God, he really hasn’t thought of me.
“No,” she replied with a stiff smile. “Sophomore.”
“I’m going to miss Amherst. It looks like I’ll be going to Harvard for grad school, though.”
She listened and smiled and made what she hoped were appropriate responses in between. But through it all, Tess couldn’t silence the voice in her mind that kept saying,
You’re on a date. You’re on a real date with the boy you’ve been planning to marry for years.
She couldn’t silence the voice, and she couldn’t relax, no matter how many times she sipped from her glass.
She nibbled on her salmon while Peter devoured his filet. Halfway through the meal, another couple sat at the next table, their presence making Tess even more uncomfortable. It seemed to her that they were listening to her every word. Perhaps it was obvious to them that this wasn’t a
real date, that Tess was in love with someone who was speaking to her as he would to a sister.
Love him?
she wondered. Was she in love with Peter Hobart? She watched as he spoke, the animation of his face taking on life as he talked about Hobart Textiles and of the plans he had for the company.
Yes
, Tess thought,
I do suppose I am in love with Peter.
“In time, you’ll be glad we chose Peter,” her mother had often said, and Tess supposed her mother was right again.
“Are you going home for Thanksgiving?” Peter asked over coffee and chocolate mousse.
Tess nodded.
“Yeah,” Peter said, “me, too. There’s someone I want to bring home for the long weekend, but I’m afraid Mother would have a stroke.”
Tess nearly had a stroke herself. Instead, she reached for her coffee cup. The coffee was hot. It scalded her throat, and tears came to her eyes.
“She’s a girl from UMass,” Peter said, unaware of the pain in her throat or the one in her heart. “Her name’s Lydia. You’d like her.”
Somehow, Tess found the strength to nod.
He doesn’t know how I feel
, she reminded herself.
He doesn’t know anything about Mother’s plans.
“She’s from Trinidad. Can you imagine Mother being nice to a girl from Trinidad?”
From what Tess remembered of Peter’s mother, she couldn’t imagine her being nice to any girl. Except maybe herself. Hopefully herself. Because, after all, her father was important to the business.
Tess tried to smile, but inside, she wanted to run. She wanted to run from the white linen tablecloths, the violin music, the Lord Jeffrey Inn—run all the way back to Northampton, and never have to face Peter Hobart again.
“She’s a very special girl,” Peter continued, and Tess’s temples began to pound. Somehow, she managed to lift her wrist and look at her watch.
“I’m sure she is, Peter,” she said. “And I’d love to hear more about her, but I really have to call my cab. I’ve got to get back to Smith. The alumnae reception.”
He put his napkin on the table. “Gosh, what an idiot I
am. Here I am, going on and on about Lydia, and you’ve got plans tonight.”
She nodded weakly.
He signaled for the check. “There’s no need to take a cab, Tess. I’ll drive you back.”
Tess pushed back her chair and rose. “Thanks, Peter, but it’ll be easier. Then you won’t have to come back to Amherst.”
He stood up. “Well, okay then,” he said. “It was great seeing you again.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek, the same one he’d kissed earlier.
Any minute Tess was going to either scream, burst into tears, or faint.
“Maybe we’ll run into each other again,” Peter said. “Call if you need anything.”
As she headed out of the dining room, Tess couldn’t wait to get back to the house, scrub off her makeup, wash the curl from her hair, and forget that this night, and Peter Hobart, had ever existed.
Tess sat before an easel in the studio on the top floor of her parents’ Nob Hill mansion. She wiped the water from her brush on her well-worn blue smock and studied the picture in front of her. Another view of Fisherman’s Wharf. She wasn’t really very good, not nearly as good as her father. She set down the brush and stared at the wash of blues and browns on the canvas. The images were there: the string of restaurants and shops huddled along the water, the dazzling white boats decorated with colorful flags. But unlike her father’s renditions—his little “hobby” that continued to receive critical acclaim and hung in the campiest galleries on the Pacific Coast—Tess’s paintings lacked soul. She felt her talent but couldn’t translate it into watercolors.
“Here you are,” came her mother’s voice from the doorway. “Why are you hiding up here? You’re only home for a few days. And what happened to those nice clothes we bought before you went back to school?”
Tess dipped her brush onto the colorful palette.
Sally Richards walked around the easel and leaned close to her daughter’s face. “And I haven’t seen you apply one dab of makeup since you’ve been home. I don’t understand
why you don’t make yourself look more attractive, Tess. You have such a pretty face.”
Such a pretty face.
Tess wanted to stroke the brushful of paint across her mother’s not-so-pretty face.
Her mother sat on a stool beside Tess. “Tell me about the dates you’ve had this year. About the boys you’ve met.”
Tess sighed. Her mother just didn’t get it. Her mother couldn’t accept that her daughter was plain and awkward and that guys didn’t ask her out. Her mother couldn’t accept that Tess Richards wasn’t Charlene O’Brien or Princess Marina. She was just Tess Richards and nobody cared.
She moved her brush toward the canvas, pretending to study the sketch before her. “Well, there was a guy from UMass,” she said, referring to the disastrous night she and Charlie had double-dated last year. Did it count that it had been last year? A look of disappointment crossed her mother’s face. “And a few other guys,” Tess quickly lied. “Nobody special.”
“What about you-know-who?”
Tess dabbed at the canvas. “Who?”
“You are such a tease!” Sally Richards squealed, in that grating way that only Sally Richards could squeal. “Peter! What about Peter Hobart?”
Tess’s first impulse was not to answer. Then she thought of the criticism she’d get.
You’re not trying hard enough. What do you expect? What boy would want you, the way you neglect yourself?
Tess smoothed the brush across the clear blue sky. “I’ve seen him,” she blurted out.
Her mother jumped up. “You’re dating Peter! How wonderful!”
“We’re just friends, Mother.”
But Sally Richards nodded, a smirk on her face, as she soaked in the news.
“We had dinner at the Lord Jeffrey last week,” Tess went on, unable to make herself shut up. “Did you and Daddy ever go there?”
The smirk widened. “The Lord Jeffrey Inn is where your father proposed.”
Tess dabbed at the palette again and added black to the sky. Thunderclouds now seemed more appropriate.
Her mother reached over and patted Tess on the cheek. “Well, I’ve got to get ready,” she said. “Dinner will be at
seven o’clock. The Graysons and the Archambaults will be here. I expect you’ll dress properly?”
“Yes, Mother,” Tess answered.
Her mother kissed her on the cheek. “You’re a good girl, Tess. But if you’re going to land Peter Hobart, you really must spend more time on yourself and less with your head in the clouds.”
Tess wore a plain black dress for Thanksgiving dinner, and curled her hair. She was not able to dig out all the paint from under her nails.
When she entered the chandeliered dining room the guests were already seated. Mr. Grayson and Mr. Archambault stood to greet her, then she walked around the table and gave the expected cheek-kisses to their wives. Her father—still handsome well into his forties—smiled his warm, wonderful smile at Tess.
It always amazed Tess that such a quiet, gentle man could be so powerful in business, so tolerant of his wife. She wondered—not for the first time—if Joseph Richards had a mistress, a long-haired, full-bodied lover, holed up in some bohemian loft on the wharf where he delivered his watercolors, released the tensions of work and home, and satisfied his manly needs. For his sake, Tess hoped he did.
She returned her father’s smile, sat in her place, and folded her hands, as girls with pretty faces were supposed to do, girls who did not question their parents or ponder the sex fives of their fathers.
Her mother swept into the room in a wine-colored, velvet caftan. She was adorned with gold and diamonds and emitted a self-created aura of royalty. Tess thought of Marina—real royalty—sitting back at Morris House, spending Thanksgiving alone with her bodyguard. Part of her felt sorry for the princess. At least no matter how different Tess was from her mother, home was still home, and it was the best place to be.
The cook delivered the prized turkey to the grandly set table. Tess silently listened to the oohs and ahhs and savored the warmth of home. For all the criticism and pressure her mother dumped on her, Tess knew her mother was trying to help her. Tess supposed she was a good mother. It wasn’t her
mother’s fault that Tess couldn’t measure up. So if it pleased her mother for Tess to wear a little makeup and curl her hair, she would. Back at school, she could do as she wanted. She wondered why she’d never thought of that before.
“What’s your major?” asked Mrs. Archibald, a smiling lady who seemed to grow wider with each passing Thanksgiving.
“Tess hasn’t decided yet,” her mother answered.
“Is she going to be an artist like her father?” Mrs. Grayson asked.
“We hope so,” her father answered.
“We hope not,” her mother answered.
Everyone around the table laughed, even Tess.
“There’s more to life than careers,” Mrs. Archibald asked. “Have you met that special boy yet?”
Tess hesitated.
“I met my man in college,” Mrs. Grayson said with a wink toward her husband.
“
Moi aussi
,” Tess’s mother said. “We were married at Helen Hills Hills Chapel, you know.”
Mrs. Archibald laughed again. “Helen Hills Hills. Did the poor woman stutter?”
“Not exactly. She married her cousin.”
More laughter.
“Well, Tess doesn’t have any cousins to marry,” Mrs. Grayson said.
“No,” her mother said, as she smiled over a glass of port. “But we have other plans.”
“Plans? Oh, my. Is there a secret we don’t know?”
Tess’s father scowled at his wife. “Sally, please …”
“Well,” her mother said, ignoring her father, “there is one special boy who goes to Amherst.”
“Mother,” Tess said, hoping the heat in her face wasn’t bright red, “I’ve told you, Peter and I are friends. That’s all.”
“Peter?” Mrs. Archibald said.
“Peter Hobart.”
“As in Hobart Textiles?” Mrs. Grayson asked.
“He’s at Amherst,” her mother said.
“How convenient. Darling,” Mrs. Archibald said to Tess, “I’m so happy for you.”
Tess twirled her napkin miserably in her lap. “We’re just friends,” she repeated.
“Will he take over the firm?” Mr. Archibald asked.
Tess groaned inwardly. Now even the men were getting into the act. She tuned out the chatter, hoping the subject would change, wishing she could plead a headache and leave the room, wishing she could escape to the studio and lose herself amid the paint. But she stayed seated and made it through dinner, as was expected of the daughter of Joseph and Sally Richards.
She looked forward to getting back to Smith and returning to what had become normalcy. Tess folded two extra sweatshirts and put them in her suitcase. There would be no need for black knit dresses or polyester pantsuits—Peter Hobart would not be on her list of special engagements. Hopefully by the time she returned at Christmas, her parents would have forgotten about him. As if there was a chance of that.
Her father came to her door. “All set?”
“Almost, Daddy.”
“We should leave for the airport in a few minutes.”
Tess nodded and closed the lid of the suitcase.
“Wait,” her father said. “Do you have room for something else?” In his hand he held several bound pages. “It’s the latest review of the Pacific operations. I’d like you to give it to Peter.”
Tess stared at the pages. “You want me to give that to Peter?”
“Yes. He needs the information.”
“Why don’t you mail it?”
“He should see it right away. You’ll see him tonight, won’t you? Or tomorrow?”
Tess swallowed. “I … I guess.”
“Great, honey. I appreciate it.” He handed her the papers, then checked his watch. “Come downstairs as soon as you’re ready.”
After he left, Tess looked at the binder in her hand. “Hobart Textiles. Pacific Overview—3rd Quarter, 1997,” the cover read.
You’ll see him tonight, won’t you? Or tomorrow?
“No, Daddy,” she should have responded, “In fact, I won’t ever see Peter Hobart again.” She should have explained. She
should have told him the truth. Tess opened the lid of her suitcase and lay the papers on top. It looked as though she’d have to see Peter Hobart once again after all. She’d worry about breaking the truth to her parents later.
“Would you take the bus to Amherst with me?” Tess asked Charlie. It was the next afternoon and they were walking back together.