Chapter 25: Dell
I’m expecting the call that comes the next morning. We decided to stay in town another day to see if we could smooth over everything that happened the night before.
Arianna glances up from where she sits on the floor with Grace, trying to show her the proper hands-and-knees crawl. “Your mom?” she asks.
I nod and answer the call.
“Hey, Mom,” I say.
“Hasmund Dell Brant McDonald, your brother just Googled you!” she says.
“Hey, you know Google,” I answer.
“Don’t get smart. Pack up that baby of yours and get your tail over here.” Her voice is no-nonsense, no arguments allowed.
“All right. Should we bring something?”
“Yes. Lunch. Fancy lunch. The most expensive goddamn lunch in Birmingham.”
Well, that’s a switch. “Okay,” I say. She hangs up and I shove the phone in my pocket.
“What’s the damage?” Arianna asks.
“I’m to pick up the fanciest lunch to be procured in Birmingham and bring it with you and the baby to her house.”
Arianna laughs. “Well, okay. What’s the fanciest lunch in Birmingham?”
“Probably not something you can get for takeout,” I say.
“I think this is exactly the sort of challenge Dell Brant excels at,” she tells me. Her eyes are sparkling with mirth. I’m glad she’s enjoying this.
I think for a moment, glancing at the clock. Just past ten on a Sunday. What is open? What is fancy? There should be brunches.
This is why I have assistants. But today, I will do my own legwork.
I start with the concierge at the hotel. He gives me some names to work with. The first one straight-out hangs up when I ask for a delivery.
That’s a new feeling.
The second one assures me that very little on their menu will hold up to travel. “It’s beauty on the plate,” the man says. “But it will be tragic in a box.”
Oookay.
“Maybe just go the bakery route,” Arianna says. “I think your mom is just ribbing you about having so much money.”
She’s probably right. To cover my bases, I have two separate bakeries make deliveries to my mother’s trailer, and I call on the driver I haven’t used all weekend to pick up a variety of French cheeses, bread, and fruit from a tea shop and then a selection of sausages, breakfast ham, and steak from another restaurant.
“Don’t forget drinks,” Arianna says. “Unless you want another day of Tequila Sunrises.”
I send a note to the driver to pick up a selection of juices and to stop by a Starbucks for a carton of fresh coffee.
“You think that will do it?” I ask Arianna as we load up Grace’s diaper bag.
“It will be fine,” she says. “Even if they have Marge and Travis and Daniel Dean over, it will be enough.”
“It will be enough for twenty people, I think,” I say. But it pleases me to finally be able to do something for my family with style.
We wait for the driver to let us know he has arrived. I was tempted to change out the simple white SUV for something fancier now that the jig is up, as they say, but I don’t.
Arianna makes no progress with Grace, who is determined to keep her army crawl. Finally, we get the call from downstairs that our car is waiting.
“Good morning, Mr. Brant,” the driver says as he opens the back door. He looks very Alabaman, dressed in jeans and a denim shirt, gray hair and a beard. “I have all the items you requested.”
“Thank you,” I say, buckling Grace into her seat. There isn’t room for the car seat and both Arianna and me in the back, so I slide in next to the baby and let Arianna take the front.
We’re quiet as we head through town to the trailer park. Arianna fusses with her blouse, an earthy green explosion of ruffles that looks a good deal fancier than what she’s worn so far. Perhaps she is done with the ruse as well, or else her mother’s comments cut her.
“You look lovely,” I say, leaning forward. “Though I like you best in skirts.”
She blushes at that. “Thank you. I’m glad you don’t feel you need the baseball cap anymore.”
“Pointless,” I say, and sit back. Birmingham rolls by, streets I once knew, some changed, some things the same. Like my family.
“Is this it, sir?” the driver asks uncertainly as we approach the entrance to the trailer park.
“Yes, third one down on the left,” I say.
“Shall I wait here?” he asks.
I hesitate. In New York a driver always stays with the car, because generally there is nowhere to park anyway.
“What do you usually do?” I ask.
“Oh, I bring things to read,” he says.
“You should come in,” Arianna says. “We have all this food anyway.”
I think the man will turn her down, as that would be a very odd thing to suggest in the circles we run in. But he nods. “I was sure hoping one of those sausages would have my name on it.”
“And now it does,” she says. “What’s your name?”
“Martin,” he says. “Martin Jones.”
“Well, Martin, help us take things inside and we’ll find a place for you.” Arianna opens her own door.
I pull Grace from her carrier. Martin opens my door on his way to the back of the SUV. I hand Grace to Arianna and go back to help him unload.
There are a lot of boxes and bags and containers.
“You expecting a lot of people?” he asks.
“Not too many,” I say. “But very hungry people.”
Martin laughs. “Can amount to the same thing.”
We manage to arrange it all and follow Arianna up the steps. Martin hangs back a bit as she knocks on the door.
“Nice idea to invite him,” I say to her.
“I figure we may need all the buffer we can get,” she says.
We’re still standing there, waiting on the door, when a gleaming black Lincoln Town Car also pulls up.
“I guess we can figure out who that is,” I say.
“They invited my parents too?” Arianna’s face is full of shock.
I turn to Martin. “This is about to get interesting,” I say.
The driver of the Town Car jumps out and dashes around to open the back door. Bridget steps out, as elegant as ever in a taupe pencil skirt and silk blouse.
“Is that a cashmere wrap?” Arianna asks, her eyes narrowing. “Of course it is.”
As Cambridge emerges from the car, the door to the trailer opens behind us.
“Good to see everybody’s made it,” Mom says. She steps back to let us in. “You brought a friend?”
“This is Martin,” Arianna says, and gives no further explanation.
I have to hide my smile.
We pause to wait for the Harts to come up the steps. Bridget looks at the park with great interest. Cambridge places his hand on her back to move her toward the door.
Mom holds the screen open. I turn to the living room. Dad is sprawled on the sofa, a boot up on the coffee table. Mom must have made him dress up a little, as he has a button-down shirt on with his jeans. Her shirt seems new, a long-sleeved red number with little yellow flowers on it. It looks totally wrong on her.
Donovan sits in one of the kitchen chairs, leaning forward with his elbows braced on his knees. He’s the most casual of all of us, just a T-shirt and sweatpants. He’s not trying to make an impression, clearly.
Arianna sits on the love seat, jiggling Grace. I take my boxes and bags to the kitchen, and Martin follows. The Harts come in.
“Who are all these people?” Martin asks me quietly. “Everybody acts like it’s a funeral.”
“Future in-laws,” I say.
“No kidding,” he says. “I’ll unpack so you can catch up.”
I nod. Pink boxes from the bakeries are already stacked on the counter. Mom has sprung for the fancy paper plates today, the heavy-duty ones with blue flowers printed on them. As a kid we always got the thin ones with the curved edges. You could cut right through them with a butter knife.
When I step back toward the living room, Bridget and Cambridge are standing awkwardly by the TV.
“Well, come on in,” Mom says. “Cambridge, park yourself next to your new best bud. Bridget, I imagine you want next to Arianna to get a gander at that baby.”
Arianna gives her mother a small smile as Bridget navigates the coffee table to sit next to her. Grace spots the shiny bold necklace on Bridget’s chest and lunges for it.
“Might want to take off those earrings if you hold her,” Arianna says. “She’ll jerk those right out.”
Bridget nods, tugging the big gold pieces from her ears and depositing them into her purse. Now that she’s close, she can’t take her eyes off Grace.
I know I should move forward to shake Cambridge’s hand, at least. But that will put me next to my father. And I’m not interested in doing that. I sit in a chair next to Donovan and lean in.
“So what’s our mother got planned here?” I ask.
He shrugs. “She just dragged me out of bed five minutes ago. I had no idea she was bringing everybody.” He smooths his wild hair self-consciously.
“Late night?” I ask.
He grins. “Remember that girl in black who took us to the Sky Box?”
I nod.
“I think I’m in love.”
I elbow him. “Aren’t you going back to Texas tomorrow?”
He frowns. “Yeah.”
“We have some food in the kitchen,” Mom announces. “I made sure Hasmund — Dell — brought things that you all would like.” She gestures at the Harts. “I figure he’d know those things better than me.”
Dad stands up. “I’m not shy,” he says. “Come on, Cam.”
“I’m fine for the moment,” Bridget says. “Let me see this child.” She reaches for Grace and Arianna tentatively shifts her over to her mother’s lap.
“Come fetch some food,” Dad says to us boys, coming up behind Martin. “I’m Byron,” he says, shaking the man’s hand. “Have I seen you around?”
“I work for Carter’s Limousine Service,” Martin says. “Been driving folks around since I retired from offshore work.”
Dad snaps his fingers. “You must be a friend of Aaron Redding. He used to drive for Carter.”
“I remember Aaron.”
The three of them load up plates and take them to the table. It’s still set up for six. Donovan and I toss some meat and rolls on our plates and join them.
The women stay in the living room, fussing over the baby.
There’s something very familiar about the setup. Men eating and women tending to the kids. It’s how I grew up.
Arianna looks over at us and nods at me. I can see she’s relieved things are easy right now.
It’s Martin who keeps the conversation going. “I hear there’s going to be a wedding,” he says.
“My boy here is marrying that gal over there,” Dad says, pointing her out. “That’s their kid.”
“Cute little bugger,” Martin says. “You all met before?”
“Last night,” Cambridge answers. “We were up at the greyhound races.”
“I haven’t watched the dogs race in years,” Martin says. “You win any?”
“Betting is for fools with too much money,” Dad says. “Though I guess my boy here can spare it.” He squints at me. “I hear you have your own plane.”
I tear the end off a croissant. “I do.”
Dad shoves Donovan on the shoulder. “When you going to get a plane, Donny boy?”
Donovan shakes his head. “Let me have my first day on the job, then we’ll talk.”
Everything is oddly easy. Donovan talks about the company he’s going to work for. Cambridge gives him advice about benefits.
This isn’t going badly at all.
But then Mom stands up. “I think we ought to start planning a wedding right here in Birmingham.”
Arianna’s mouth falls open.
And Bridget says, “Over my dead body.”