“If you’re lucky.”
I fake-cough into my napkin. “Posh fucker.”
And I don’t even have to turn my head to know he’s grinning.
After dinner, we all gather in the living room, where I continue my silent countdown till bedtime. Bridget and Rosie are the first to head upstairs. My own parents follow shortly after. Hannah disappears eventually too.
Then Asher gives me a meaningful glance and declares that he needs some sleep before the big day.
Flip actually rolls his eyes as Asher leaves seconds later. Not sure what’s up with that. But I dutifully spend ten more minutes on the sofa listening to Mr. Dubois exclaim about elephant polo matches he’s seen in India. I make myself wait a few more crucial minutes. But then I’ve had enough. After making my excuses, I step out into the dark, easing my way around the pool deck, sex already on my brain.
I hope Asher is naked. This is it. We have no more time to waste.
I’m picking up speed when something moves in the dark on the last pool chair.
And I startle like I’ve just spotted an alligator in the bathtub.
But it’s only Hannah sitting there alone in the dark. “Mark, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Reluctantly, I slow my roll toward the guest house. My sister hugs her knees, alone in the dark. And suddenly, I suspect a disturbance in the force. “Is something wrong?”
“You already tried to tell me there was,” she says softly. “I should have listened to you.”
Oh, hell. I sit down on the end of the chair. Then I reach for my sister’s ankles and tug until her feet land in my lap. “Tell me what’s the matter, Banana. Tomorrow is your big day. You seemed really happy a few hours ago. What happened?”
“You told me this was too sudden,” she whispers. “But I didn’t want to hear it. And then . . .” She swallows hard. “And then I met Flip’s parents.”
“Oh.” My mind is spinning. “They’re a little much. But they live in Europe, Hannah. It’s going to be okay.”
“Is it?” She rubs a hand over her small bump. “I don’t know, Mark. It’s just like you said—I just haven’t known Flip very long. What if our values don’t line up? I’ve been so busy admiring his gray eyes and his bright smile and his really big—”
“Hannah,” I caution.
“Apartment,” she finishes. “Geez, Mark. I wasn’t going there.”
“Sorry. Go on. I’m still not hearing a problem.”
She exhales. “Tonight, Madame Dubois asked me about my childcare plans. She wants the baby to have an Irish nanny. She said only the Irish girls are any good. And Flip agreed with her.”
“Okay, well, that’s kind of . . .”
“Racist,” Hannah finishes. “Good nannies come in all shapes and colors.”
“Hmm,” I say, buying time. It’s possible that Madame Dubois is a horrible human. But it’s also possible that she watches too many BBC period dramas to have a modern opinion on childcare.
“It gets worse,” my sister whispers. “After that, she said she hoped we’d have a boy so he could go to the Lucerne boarding school that Flip attended. At age six. And Flip said he thought that sounded nice.”
“Age six,” I repeat stupidly. Do people actually send little kids to boarding school? “Didn’t this happen in The Sound of Music?”
“Yes!” Hannah wails. “Almost. The marriage didn’t happen, because the Captain called it off.”
“Oh,” I say slowly, processing the extent of her mayday. “But Hannah, come on. This isn’t the same.”
“Isn’t it?” she sniffs. “I screwed up, Mark. I really did. You tried to tell me, and I didn’t listen. You said this marriage was the worst idea in the history of bad ideas. It’s even worse than Crystal Pepsi. It’s more permanent than a mullet. And I laughed it off.” She puts her hands in front of her face and sobs.
I’ve got to help her fix this.
“Hannah. Hey. Oh, hell.” My baby sister is wigging. And this is partly my fault. “Listen. I need you to listen to me right now. Can you do that?”
She wipes her eyes. “I don’t know what you could say that would make this all right.”
For once, though, I do. “In the first place, those drunk texts were more about me than you. I was in a lot of pain over my own marriage. I was really bitter about Bridget dumping me—” I stop myself and marvel for a split second. Very recently I’d been drowning in my own misery.
Funny what a few days of good sex can do for a guy’s outlook.
“You got married too young,” Hannah says glumly. “I get it. But what if I’m making the same mistakes?”
“Look,” I argue. “I have a couple of theories. Right over there—” I point at the pool shed “—I’ve hidden four casserole dishes on a shelf under some chlorine test strips. Because our own mother’s horrible impulses need to be managed with cunning and deception.”