Becoming Mila by Estelle Maskame
13
Inside, the Averys’ home is exactly how I would expect the home of the Mayor of Nashville to be: elegant and pristine, slightly soulless, but with a half-empty box of election flyers in the corner of the kitchen.
It may be an old manor house, but the interior has clearly been recently renovated. The kitchen seems brand spanking new, with fitted gloss counters and an oven that looks barely used. Even the floor is covered in shiny, sparkling white tiles. And no one would ever know that a meal has just been cooked – already the dishes are washed and packed away, the stovetop wiped clean and the scent of disinfectant in the air.
“This way,” LeAnne says. Still dressed in her pencil skirt and blouse, she plucks out a bottle of wine from a rack on the wall, grabs a corkscrew from a drawer, then crosses the kitchen into the adjoining dining room.
Blake and I follow her to a vast glossy table. The chairs are padded with silver crushed velvet, so luxurious that I hesitate to sit down, almost terrified in case I so much as leave a crease.
“You can sit here,” Blake says, pulling out a chair.
There’s music playing softly from a speaker somewhere and the scent of roast beef and all its trimmings fills the room, making my stomach lurch with hunger. Awkwardly, I sit down where instructed and toy with my hands in my lap.
Blake sits down directly opposite me; LeAnne takes the head of the table. There’s three other empty chairs, but I get the feeling they aren’t used much. As LeAnne sets the bottle of wine down on the table with a thud, I surreptitiously search her hand for a wedding ring. There isn’t one.
The atmosphere, despite the luscious food and the poppy chart music, isn’t all that comfortable. Maybe it’s because Blake seems quieter than his usual self or maybe it’s because of the look LeAnne gave me outside. Did she see Blake’s hand on my knee? Maybe she’s super protective of her son.
Blake clears his throat and pulls his chair in close to the table, distractedly piling potatoes onto his plate. “This looks great, Mom,” he says, breaking the silence. “Thanks.”
LeAnne gives him a weak smile and then pops the cork of her bottle of wine, pouring herself a glass.
“Mila,” LeAnne says, turning her focus to me, “please feel free to start.”
If there’s anything more awkward about eating dinner with a guy and his mom, it’s being expected to just help myself to the food. Like, how much beef do I actually give myself? How many carrots am I allowed? It’s like those first few nights with Sheri and Popeye all over again, when I was tiptoeing around, trying my best to relax and be comfortable, but without overstepping in a home that isn’t mine.
“Thank you for letting me come over,” I say politely, joining Blake in serving up some of the dishes. “This all looks amazing.”
“You’re welcome, but you can thank Blake,” LeAnne says with a pointed glance in his direction. Her tone is nondescript, blank. She raises her glass to her lips.
Blake glowers at her for a fleeting moment and they exchange a tense look, one that I can’t read. All I know is that suddenly I feel very unwelcome here. But why?
“So, Mila,” LeAnne says, swishing the wine around in her glass, “are your parents going to be joining you here in Fairview?”
Blake coughs. “I’ll grab us drinks,” he says quickly, rising from the table.
“Oh. Thanks.”
I cast my eyes down to my lap as he disappears into the kitchen, leaving me alone with his mom. I lift my head again. “No, not this time. They’re busy.”
“I can imagine,” LeAnne says. She sets her wine down and begins to plate up some food for herself too, forking up some beef and continuing, “You must live a crazy life out there. What with all thosefans and paparazzi. How does your dad even begin to keep up with it all?”
I swallow the small nibble of carrot in my mouth. This is the last conversation I want to be having right now. Talking about Dad with a virtual stranger? Why can’t she ask me if I’m enjoying Fairview? Or if it’s nice to spend time with my grandfather again? Why does everything have to be about Dad and never about me?
“Yeah, it gets pretty wild sometimes, but I suppose you just get used to it.” My voice is distant, disinterested. Hopefully, LeAnne will get the hint that I’d rather not go there right now, but just in case she doesn’t I turn the focus on her instead. “But I’m sure you understand how it is. After all, you’re the mayor.”
Blake returns, caution written all over his face, and sets down a can of soda in front of me. He sinks back into his chair and studies me, then his mom. There’s something really, really weird about the way he’s acting, but I can’t put my finger on why. Surely he isn’t this nervous about having a girl stay for dinner? Especially when there’s nothing going on between us, anyway.
“Yes, I am indeed the mayor,” LeAnne says lightly, rolling her eyes. “But I tend to attract protests and hate mail, even the occasional confrontation at Whole Foods, while your father must have nothing besides hordes of adoring fans.”
I squint at her and wonder if she is always this patronizing. “Actually, he has his fair share of haters,” I retort coolly against my better judgment. “Someone once jumped a barrier and sucker punched him square on the nose. It’s not all that glamorous.”
LeAnne’s face lights up. “Is that so? What a pity. Your poor father.” She takes another sip of wine, the glee in her eyes unmistakable.
Blake abruptly sets his silverware down with a clatter. “Mom,” he hisses.
She casts a dismissive glance his way, ignoring whatever point it is that he wants to make. “So why have you decided to come to Tennessee on your own?” she asks me.
“My parents have hectic work schedules at the moment, so I thought I’d clear out of their way and come visit my grandpa and aunt for the summer,” I say nonchalantly, never meeting her eyes, as I lie through my teeth. “It’s great to be back.”
LeAnne purses her lips in a show of sympathy and clasps a hand to her chest. “How is your aunt Sheri doing? I feel awfully sorry for her stuck across town on that ranch. Bless her heart.”
“She’s fine,” I say defensively, my tone growing sharper. If LeAnne doesn’t quit sounding so condescending, I’m going to find it impossible to warm to her. “She has Popeye – sorry, my grandpa. He keeps her company, along with the horses.”
“Of course. But still, it’s a shame her brother took off for Hollywood and left her to support your grandfather and that big old ranch all on her own.” She shakes her head, as if in pity at the thought.
“Mom,” Blake hisses again. “Can you please stop interviewing Mila?”
LeAnne stares him down. Clearly, she isn’t happy about being scolded by her own son. I watch the two of them for a few seconds, unspoken warnings flashing in their eyes, the music still playing quietly in the background. I even hear a clock ticking from somewhere in the kitchen.
Blake is the first to quit their staring match. He pulls his shoulders into line and stabs his fork into the meat on his plate. “Mila, I haven’t told you about my music yet,” he says breezily, forcing us onto a different topic, saving me from his mother. But also – music? His music?
“Oh, no,” LeAnne mutters. She pushes her chair back with a screech and stands. “I’m not listening to you talk about music again. I’ll leave you two to it and finish my meal upstairs.” With her plate of food in one hand and her glass of wine in the other, she strides out of the dining room and we both listen to her footsteps fading as she moves toward the central staircase.
I look at Blake, my mouth hanging ajar.
Mortified, Blake props his elbows up on the table and buries his head in his hands, groaning. At least I’m not the only one here who thinks the Mayor of Nashville is a bit weird. What is her problem?
“I shouldn’t have asked you to come back here,” Blake admits, dropping his hands from his face. “My mom can be . . . difficult.”
“I don’t think she likes me much,” I mumble. We’ve both stopped eating and have set our silverware down, staring at the empty chair LeAnne has left behind. I don’t think I’m imagining her disdain. The hardness of her gaze and the patronizing tone of her voice made her dislike unmistakable. “Did I do something wrong?”
I think back to the small – very small – handful of interactions I’ve had with LeAnne Avery. She became aware of my existence when I was locked out of the Harding Estate, and Sheri introduced me at church the next morning. I’m certain I was polite when we met. And today, the only thing I can imagine possibly doing wrong is either being a little too abrupt when I asked to speak to Blake back at church, or invading their meal together, or having Blake’s hand on my knee. None of those things seems like reason enough to be spoken to with such blatant scorn.
“No, no, no,” Blake says, shaking his head. “Trust me, the problem isn’t you. The problem is my mom being bitter.”
“Bitter?” I raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “About what?”
Blake momentarily freezes, appearing almost regretful. He swallows and bows his head, returning to his food. “Ah, nothing. Just forget it. We can finish up here and I’ll take you home.”
Silenced, I say nothing more. This is totally in the running for the most uncomfortable Sunday lunch ever.
I keep my head down and pick at my food, no longer hungry. Blake doesn’t say anything else, either. He sighs every once in a while over the sound of the music that’s still playing. Somehow, the buzz of chart hits doesn’t quite fit the mood at this table. What is going on?
“Well,” I try. “Are you at least going to tell me about your music?”
The strain in Blake’s features fades, replaced instead by a warm shyness. “Another time. I promise,” he says.
So I don’t push it; he doesn’t seem to be in such a friendly mood anymore.
We return to eating in silence. There’s a lot of food still leftover by the time we’ve cleared our plates.
“Bailey can get it,” Blake finally says, his voice lighter than before. He gathers up the empty plates, dumps them through in the kitchen, then grabs the dish of beef. “C’mon.”
We’re back to acting casual again, as though there’s not just been this huge tension?
“Bails!” Blake yells.
He sits down on the edge of the decking, dish on his lap. I join him, but with a gap between us this time, and try to keep the confusion from showing on my face. There’s definitely no leg brushing this time.
Bailey bounds across the yard toward us, tongue lolling as the smell of freshly cooked meat in the air catches his attention. This time he slides to a stop in front of Blake, obediently sitting and awaiting a command. Again, his long tongue hangs from his mouth. It kind of looks like Bailey is smiling – and I want to smile too.
“Paw,” Blake instructs. He holds out his hand and shakes the paw Bailey holds up. “Other paw. Lie down. Good boy.” He flicks a slice of beef into the air and Bailey snatches it between his teeth, slobbering all over the grass. Blake catches my eye. “Your turn?”
Well, how can I possibly say no?
“Bailey,” I say in a high-pitched voice that’s nothing like my own. I repeat the same instructions Blake gave him and a real smile spreads across my face as Bailey sits, lies down, and shakes my hand. Then I toss him another slice of meat.
Blake seizes this safe opportunity. “Things got a little heated back inside. I—”
His words die in his mouth when there’s a loud rumble from behind us. LeAnne bangs hard against the kitchen window, enraged. “I was going to make sandwiches with that tomorrow! You think that wretched dog deserves prime cut meat?”
“Oh please,” Blake growls under his breath. “Fuck off.” But, of course, it isn’t quite quiet enough.
LeAnne storms to the doors and flings them open. Her hands are on her hips, her stance challenging. “Repeat that,” she orders. “Right now.”
Blake looks at her over his shoulder. “Nothing,” he says in defeat. I can see how badly he does want to repeat exactly what he said, but he must know better than to insult his mom that much.
“That’s what I thought,” LeAnne says. She bangs the doors shut behind her as she disappears, but I become hyperaware that she may still be watching us from the windows again.
I scoot a little bit further away from Blake.
“I’ll drive you home now – it’s best that you don’t see me losing it with her,” he says quietly. He dumps the dish of food on the grass and gives Bailey free rein to dive in, then fishes out the keys to his truck as he stands. “Because she’s really, really pushing it today.”