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“Give me a little credit.”
Foster sighs, uttering, “I do, more than you know.”
The dog and pony show starts when Foster’s parents approach us. Laura is dressed in a white gown with a scoop neck and long sleeves. Mason looks dapper in his black tuxedo. I suppose it is what Foster will look like thirty years from now. I wouldn’t be around to find out, though, because we would be long divorced by then.
“Oh my gosh, Paige, you look darling in that gown. It fits you beautifully,” Laura says as she leans in to hug me. Mason is once again aloof, nodding at me before speaking directly to his son. Foster possessively wraps his arm around me, pulling me against him.
“Thank you,” I respond to her.
“Let my daughter go so we can get a proper drink. This champagne could be better.”
Foster reluctantly releases me, and Laura takes my hand to lead me to one of the several bar stations around the room.
“How are things going?” she asks as we wait in line.
“Fine. It’s taken some time to get used to everything.”
“Marriage is a compromise, but you can put your foot down when you need to. I assume my son is much like his father.”
“How so?”
“He works too much and neglects his husbandly duties.”
“Foster does work too much, but he’s very attentive.” It is a lie that hurts me to tell, but it is part of the act.
“Then Foster’s not completely like his father. Mason gets so involved that I must tell him when to be done for the night. I thought Foster would never get married.”
“Well, here we are.”
Laura squeezes my arm as we approach the bartender. “What would you like to drink?”
“A white wine.”
“Have something with more life than wine. How about a martini?”
“Okay. I haven’t had one in a long time.”
Laura turns to the bartender, ordering, “Two martinis with extra olives.”
When we are nearly back, I frown as I watch Foster engage in a heated conversation with his father, their hands gesturing in the air.
“Enough, you two. Tonight isn’t for discussing business,” Laura says.
Mason leans over and kisses Laura’s cheek. “Starting on the martinis already?”
“It’s better than champagne.”
The repeated dimming and brightening of the ballroom’s lights indicate we are to take our seats.
“We’ll see you later,” Foster says as he leads me away.
“We’re not sitting with them?”
“My parents are on the board. They sit at the front tables. Be glad we’re not near them. I don’t care to discuss business with my father all night.”
I sip at my martini. “What was that all about?”
“Nothing you’d be interested in. It doesn’t concern you.”
