Make Me Sin

13

My father waves this unwelcome interruption off. “No, Chloe, I meant what’s happening in your personal life. When are you and this fine young man going to get married?”

Wine sprays from my mouth like a geyser, drenching my chin, my dinner plate, and the white linen tablecloth around it in a fine drizzle of red. I start coughing, and can’t stop.

Jamie laughs. My mother gasps, appalled. She leaps to her feet, calling for Nina to bring a wet cloth. My father simply stares at me with his bushy eyebrows halfway up his forehead, awaiting an answer.

Eric provides him with one before I can regain my composure. Sheepishly, he says, “I’m honored to hear you say that, sir. In fact, I’m glad you brought it up. I know Chloe and I have only been dating a short while, but we have so much in common, and we get along so well, and our values are so similar . . .” He clears his throat, shifting his weight in his chair.

I turn to him slowly, my eyes wide open. I squeeze his hand so tightly I must be cutting off the blood flow to his fingers. He smiles at me, and pats my hand. I realize he’s mistaken my blossoming horror for overwhelming emotion.

“Well, if things keep going in the direction they’re going, sir, I think we’ll have an announcement to make quite soon. With your blessing, of course,” he hastens to add.

My mother instantly forgets about Nina and the cloth. She clutches her pearls. Her cry of joy, though I’m not certain I’ve ever heard it before, is genuine. My father relaxes back into his chair and folds his hands over his belly, beaming like a happy Buddha. My brother slowly sets his coffee on the table, his face impassive, watching me carefully.

As for me? I burn. I smoke. I writhe in impotent fury, gritting my teeth so hard they’re in danger of shattering.

No one has asked my opinion on the subject of marriage to Eric, most importantly the man himself. Almost worse is the glaring reality that, except for my brother, everyone in this room is convinced I’m wasting my time on my silly little flower hobby, and I should hurry up and get down to the real work of landing myself a husband before I turn into an unmarryable spinster. And lucky me, lo and behold! A gallant suitor has just offered his hand—for my father’s approval.

I’m living in a Jane Austen novel.

It goes from bad to worse.

“Oh, darling, we’re so pleased!” My mother hastens to Eric and grips his shoulder, as if he might change his mind and she’ll be forced to hold him against his chair. “You certainly had to kiss your share of frogs, Chloe, but now that you’ve found your—”

“Prince Charming?” Jamie interrupts my mother’s gushings with a tone just as pointed as his look. Before I can banish it, the image of a Viking god flashes before my eyes, a god with piercing golden eyes and a lion’s mane of hair, thundering bare chested over a battlefield on a stallion.

I’ve been watching way too much HBO.

“Yes, James. Prince Charming. As I was saying, now that you’ve found him, we can put all this flower shop nonsense behind us and get on with the more important business of wedding planning!” She pulls a hankie from her sleeve and dabs at her eyes, sniffing dramatically. “Oh, this calls for a toast!”

No, mother, this calls for a mutiny.

I stand. I wipe the remaining wine from my chin. I place my napkin on the table. “Eric and I are not getting married.”

The room comes to a screeching halt. Nina, who has just arrived from the kitchen with a wet towel, turns around and dodders out.

“Babe,” says Eric, hurt.

“Not anytime soon, anyway, Eric. There are a lot of things we need to talk about first. And a little news flash: this isn’t the nineteenth century. My father’s blessing is nice, but it isn’t necessary. I’ll marry whomever I want. Probably someone who respects me enough to consult with me and ask my feelings on the matter before he makes a dramatic announcement to my family.”

“Now, Chloe,” my father says in his deepest, most commanding courtroom voice, “let’s not get hysterical.”

If he thinks this is hysterical, he ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

“We’re simply thinking of what’s best for your future—”

“You haven’t asked what I think is best for my future—”

“You haven’t shown great intelligence in that regard—”

“That’s so unfair! Just because my choices aren’t what you’d make, that doesn’t mean I’m a complete i***t, or a failure for that matter—”

“You’re upsetting your mother—”

“We’re even, then, because she’s upsetting me!”

“Enough!” My father pounds his fist on the table so hard all the glassware jumps, falling back with a clatter.

Silence descends. The grandfather clock in the corner begins a doleful chime.

It’s eight o’clock on a Sunday evening in January, and I am finally at my wit’s end.

I look at my parents. My mother, swathed in silk and pearls, my father, lord of the manor, master of all he surveys. I know these flawed but genuinely good people love me. They have provided me with a lifetime of constant—if somewhat distant—affection, have gladly paid for my extravagant education, have done everything in their power to ensure I’ve had every advantage in life. Yet what they don’t know about me could fill volumes.

The terrible truth is that they don’t want to know. They want their dream of the perfect daughter, the obedient, sweet-natured girl who marries the perfect man and attends all the right parties and knows how to manage a household staff.