Jane Doe(41)

She must dress for church like she’s putting on armor, because she looks softer tonight. And younger. She really is just a few years older than Steven, and it makes sense that he stiffens when I call her his stepmother.

The jewel-green wrap dress she’s wearing shows off her tight figure, and her makeup is more natural, though her mouth gleams with bright-red lipstick. There’s no stiffness to her smile tonight, and I suspect the drink she holds isn’t her first.

I wait until the gray-haired woman Rhonda is talking to drifts away, and then I approach. “Happy birthday, Mrs. Hepsworth.” She turns to me with a blank smile. “I’m Jane,” I remind her. “Steven’s friend.”

“Oh, of course. Jane. Thank you.”

“This is such a beautiful house. Thank you for the invitation. I’m honored.”

She lifts a shoulder, because she wasn’t the one who invited me, after all. “Glad you could make it. Let me get you a drink.” She raises a hand to one of the circulating caterers and snags a glass of red for me.

“I’m not sure I should, Mrs. Hepsworth.”

“Oh for God’s sake, call me Rhonda. We’re the youngest women here.”

I nod and take the wine. She’s right, of course. It’s her birthday, but these are all Robert Hepsworth’s contemporaries, aside from the few children I’ve seen. Has she been isolated out here by her husband, a beautiful bird in a beautiful cage? It would make sense after the way his first marriage ended. He’s not going to trust his tight young wife to wander the world free and easy.

“So you’re dating Steven?” she asks.

“Yes.” I sip my wine carefully, as if I’m not used to drinking.

She studies me for a moment, offering no praise for her stepson.

“It’s so hard to find a good, upstanding man these days,” I prompt her.

“Oh, indeed,” she says, her smile spreading. “So very hard.” She knocks back the rest of her wine and reaches toward another tray passing by. The caterer slows so she can exchange the empty glass for a full one; then Rhonda raises it in a tiny toast. “To the Hepsworth men,” she drawls. “So upstanding.”

She’s definitely drunk, and apparently not one hundred percent happy with her husband. I use her offer of a toast to gulp half my wine. She does the same.

“Steven hasn’t brought a girl around in quite a while. You must be pretty special.”

“Oh, I’m not sure, but . . . but I like to think he—”

“You’re vulnerable,” she says. “A little lost.”

“What?”

She laughs and waves her glass. “Nothing.”

Well, she’s got Steven’s type pegged. Now I know why he doesn’t seem to like her much. “Mrs. Hepsworth—”

“Rhonda,” she snaps.

“Rhonda. Yes, I—”

“Jane.” Steven says my name from behind me like a command. I’m supposed to snap to attention, and I do.

Despite the beer in his hand, he glares at the wineglass in mine. “I was just toasting Rhonda’s birthday,” I say quickly.

His angry gaze bounces between the two of us. “Happy birthday, Rhonda,” he grinds out.

“Aw, thanks, Steven. So thoughtful.” She tosses back the rest of her wine and hands him the empty glass. “I’d better go check on my husband.”

“She’s really nice,” I say as soon as she’s gone.

Steven sets Rhonda’s glass on a table and rounds on me. “I asked you not to drink here.”

“Rhonda handed me a glass and asked me to drink with her, and I didn’t want to be rude.”

“You didn’t want to be rude to her, but you’ll be rude to me by drinking?”

“I hardly had any. See?” I jerk the glass up too quickly and a little red wine sloshes over to land on the front of my white sweater. “Oh no. My sweater!”

“Now you’re a sloppy drunk. At my dad’s house. Great. Take that off before someone sees you.”

“I’m not drunk,” I assure him. “I only had a few sips.” I struggle to undo the buttons of the sweater, nervous in the face of his angry disappointment. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t want to be rude on her birthday, that’s all.”

Once I have the sweater off, his eyes rake down my dress. “Great. You look like a fat slut, and I can’t even take you home because we just got here.”

Oh, Jesus, I’m a size ten. This guy really needs to get a grip. “Please don’t say that,” I whisper.

“I asked you to wear your sweater and not drink. That’s it. Two simple things.”

“Maybe Rhonda has a sweater I could borrow.”

“As if you’d fit into hers.”

“Steven, please don’t be mean.”

His eyes snap to mine as if he’s heard that before. Meg probably said it a thousand times. “You’re being mean to me,” he growls.

“I’m sorry.” I’m pleading now, reaching for his hand. “I’m sorry. The wine was just an accident. Please don’t be mad. It’s a nice party, and your dad is so sweet, and it’s such a good night.”

His shoulders soften a little. I’m saying all the right things, begging for forgiveness, complimenting his father, accepting responsibility.