Chapter 22: Arianna
I’m not thrilled to be face to face with this man again.
Dell’s father takes the escalator two and three steps at a time. He stops short in front of Dell. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Beck asked me to be his guest,” he says easily.
“It’s not going to do you any good to hobnob with the management,” Byron says. “You trying to sell him some computers?”
Dell shakes his head. “Why would I do that?”
I want to reach out a hand, try to fix that misconception I gave him at the party last night, but then I realize — it doesn’t matter. Among the issues we’re about to have, Dell’s job description is super low in priority.
Mom draws a breath, as if to correct this incorrigible man on the error of his accusations, but then she holds it in.
I figure she’s seen it. The resemblance. It’s striking. Even with Byron’s hair slicked down from work and the dirty work pants and the rolled-up sleeves, you see it.
“Who is this?” Mom manages to ask. “Another brother?”
Only I can feel the tension in Dell as he says, “No, this is my father, Byron.”
Byron looks Mom in the eye, then rakes his gaze down her sheath dress. I cringe, waiting for him to say something barbaric.
My own dad is the first to recover. “We’re about to be related,” he says, extending a hand. “I’m Arianna’s father, Cambridge Hart.”
The two men shake.
Then my dad surprises me. He pulls out a cigar case from his breast pocket. He doesn’t smoke, so I’m as shocked as anyone to see it. He opens the case and shows it to Dell’s father, three Cuban cigars, lined up in a perfect row.
“Finest illegal import you can find. Snuck it in on my flight this morning. Do you smoke?”
“I’ll smoke one of those,” Byron says.
I think both my mom and I wince as Byron reaches into the case with smudged hands. Dad takes one for himself and withdraws a finely crafted cutter to snip off the ends.
“Where might a man light up one of these without pissing off a security guard?” Dad asks.
Byron turns to the escalators. “I’ll show you.” He nods at Dell a moment, drags his gaze across my mother a second time, and they are off.
“Well, I’ll be,” Bridget says. “My husband is smoking and cussing like a commoner.”
“Oh, Mom,” I say. “You sound like an eighteenth-century monarch.”
“It’s just so out of character,” she says, taking my arm. “Take me someplace less horrible to wait for him, and explain to me what Dell’s father does at this track. He appears to follow the belief that he should not ask his employees to do what he himself will not.”
“This way,” Dell says.
I try to read him as we head back up the escalator. His stance is relaxed, but his hands are tight. This can’t be easy for him. An entire adulthood of avoiding his past, just to have it blast right back at him.
But these are his parents. We can’t keep them from mine. If anyone should know, it has to be my family. They were going to meet at the wedding anyway. Might as well hash all this out now.
Unless we elope.
Our little party of three passes the tray of buns that Byron dropped to the floor, and Dell picks it up. He places them on a table.
We cross the mostly empty room. There’s a restaurant here. Race fans sit at tables filled with food. The announcer is piped in, small televisions at every table.
Dell flags a waitress and speaks to her quietly. He’s trademark Dell now, charming and self-assured. It helps, I’m sure, that we don’t have anyone near us who can upset my mother. But there is no telling what Byron is saying to Dad.
The possibilities are horrible.
The waitress takes us to a table in a far corner, away from the main walkways. The view of the track is minimal, but that suits my mother anyway. She is not the least bit interested in the dogs.
We’re handed menus. “I’ll be back,” the waitress says.
My mother immediately sets hers down, folding her hands into her lap. “Is anyone going to inform me what’s going on?”
Dell and I exchange glances. She’s my mother. But it’s his secret.
“Why does it matter what Dell’s family does here?” I ask. “Or that he goes by a different name?”
“I feel left out of the equation, Arianna,” Mom says stiffly. “What else are you hiding?”
Dell places the menu carefully on the table. “Bridget, my parents have worked at this racecourse since before I was born. My father assists in the upkeep of the animals’ quarters and helps in concessions on race days. My mother is downstairs in the nightclub, clearing tables.”
For a moment, my mother does not speak. She takes in the table, the room, the glass wall to the track beyond.
“Thank you for finally playing it straight with me,” she says. She plucks at her bracelets, tidying them up so the beads align. I’ve never seen her like that, avoiding eye contact. Normally she sits still and levels people with her stare.
“May I ask why you have not elevated your family’s circumstances, given you flew here on your own jet?” she asks. Her eyes flicker to my face, but she does not look at Dell.
“They like their life,” he says. “It’s good, honest work. They have what they need and want.”
“What of your brother?” she asks.
“He finished college. He has a job. I’ll assist where I am able.”
She takes in a deep breath. “So your name is — what did she say — Hasbro?”
“Hasmund,” Dell says. “I changed it after I graduated.”
“Well, I agree with that decision,” she says. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“The change is not commonly known,” he says. “I didn’t want a connection to it.”
Now she sits up straighter. “You should not be ashamed of your roots, Dell. Nor your family.” She turns to me now. “And you should not keep secrets from your parents.”
Dell and I catch each other’s gaze across the table. I know he’s thinking about Grace, and the Duchess.
“Then let’s be clear about Grace,” Dell says. “She is biologically mine, and Arianna is in the process of adopting her. Because we will shortly have a new birth certificate that lists Arianna, we have kept things simple and allowed Arianna to step in as the mother.”
Now my mother’s gaze is sharp. “And who is the real mother?”
“I am the real mother,” I say, my voice as cutting as her expression. “Her birth mother did not wish to raise her and has asked me to do it.”
She turns to Dell. “Are the legalities in order?”
“They will be,” he says. “The baby was born overseas, so there are international laws to navigate.”
She sighs. “Arianna, what have you gotten yourself mixed up in?”
Now my anger starts to surface. “A life, Mother,” I say. “A life with a child I adore and a man I love.” I gesture to Dell. “I can’t imagine that you don’t admire him! He’s just the sort of husband you’d dream up for me!”
The waitress returns, sees our strained faces, and takes off again.
“He’s fine, Arianna, and I’m delighted you’ve settled down,” she says. “I just don’t understand the subterfuge. Your father and I have always lived life very openly.”
“Of course,” I say. “It’s easy when you come from a long line of rich people getting richer.”
“Wealth is not at issue,” she says. “Come now, perhaps you should order another tequila.” She wrinkles her nose. “I had no idea it was popular here. Wikipedia says there is a drink called the ‘Alabama Slammer.’” She looks at me pointedly. “I did do my homework and I pride myself on not offending the people of the places I visit.”
Dell coughs into his hand, trying to control a laugh.
“Oh, Mom,” I say. “You really are more suited for Paris.”
The waitress peeks around the wall at us. “Did I hear someone say they would like an Alabama Slammer?” she says.
“A pitcher,” Dell says. “Might as well do it right.”
The waitress nods.
He picks up a menu. “We might want to order some food if we’re drinking again tonight.”
I’ve never had the drink he just ordered. But I could definitely use something before Dad comes back with Byron. Or Donovan with their mother.
Just picturing my sleek socialite mother with tattooed, smoking, cussing Wynona makes something called an Alabama Slammer sound like the perfect thing.