My Big Fat Fake Wedding(73)
The piece de resistance, however, has to be the flagstone patio, which has been transformed into a dance floor. It’s surrounded by floodlights that light up the patio itself and even the fa?ade of the mansion, bathing them in a colorful glow.
“It’s beautiful,” Violet says, looking around. “Really summery, but classy. Whoever did the decor really highlighted the best of the space, both the gardens and the mansion.”
“Too bad we had to take down Abi’s tree house,” I reply, pointing to the left of the garden where an old maple used to stand before a lightning strike took it down three years ago. “I actually used it myself from time to time.”
“Huh, and I thought I was hallucinating when I told Abi it smelled like stinky boy,” Violet teases. “And it was a nice tree. We had a lot of really great sleepovers there.”
Even though we’re still early, there are still plenty of people here, early partygoers who represent the big money in the state. With them, of course, are plenty of media, with photographers and even a couple of TV crews set up to cover what is one of the biggest charity events of the year.
We make our way around, exchanging pleasantries, and I introduce Violet to everyone. So far, they seem pretty chill about her being my fiancée, though I see a few eagle-eyes notice her ring and raise an eyebrow. Well, metaphorically speaking. The truth is, I’m not sure many of these people, male or female, can move their foreheads enough to actually raise their brows anymore. But the same evaluating vibe is there. I suspect it would be more harshly judgmental if they knew the wedding was in one week, but no one asks us that, seeing it as improper and invitation-digging.
Finally, we find Abi, who has arrived early as instructed too. She’s a bit of a rebel, but she knows when to fight her battles and when to acquiesce. Violet and her hug like they haven’t seen each other in ages, though I know they saw each other two days ago.
I’m standing quietly by, listening to their girl talk when Karl comes up, dipping his head once. “Excuse me, sir, but your father would like to speak with you.”
“Of course . . . excuse me, ladies,” I tell them, giving Violet a peck on the cheek and whispering in her ear, “Relax, have fun. Trust me, after the champagne starts flowing, nobody’s going to notice a damn thing.” A saucy wink seems to put her at ease, and I trust that Abi won’t leave her to the wolves.
I follow Karl into the house and up to Dad’s study. The huge glass doors are open, and Dad stands on the balcony that overlooks the garden, looking pleased as he sips a gin. “Well, now, Ross, seems things are getting interesting.”
I walk over to his side, following his sight line. A black limo is parked in the drive, the driver helping Violet’s family exit. Two young women, who must be part of the triplets Vi told me about, look around in awe, clutching each other’s hands. Next comes Maria, and then Sofia and Nana get out last, the driver smiling and laughing at something Sofia says. Honestly, there’s no telling what just came out of her mouth to have an experienced never-show-a-reaction driver behaving so . . . normally.
Nana turns back, ducking into the limousine, and returns with a foil-covered dish before pinching the driver’s cheek. He waves and walks back around, getting in to pull away.
“Is that . . . did they . . . bring food to a catered affair?” Dad asks with a soft laugh. But as Karl runs up to greet the group of ladies, offering to take the dish, Dad turns to me. “Ross, tonight is important. To your mother and to the company.” I can feel the heat of his embarrassment, the fear that the Russos are going to make him look bad.
I smile wryly. “For the people you’re raising money for? Because let’s be real. They’re just the poster children for the real purpose of this party—to see and be seen, to negotiate back room deals and rub elbows with other people just like you. There’s just enough humanity left in that crowd out there to want a sad-eyed kid as the bow on top so you don’t seem like heartless Scrooges rolling around in your money.”
The muscle under Dad’s eye ticks. “You make it sound as if you’re not one of us. As if you didn’t grow up right here with this privilege. At least we’re trying to make a difference in the world, yes, by hobnobbing with the wealthy, but that’s how change happens on a large scale. It costs money, Ross. And if money offends your delicate sensibilities, when was the last time you made a difference on a personal level? I have three MBA candidates I’m mentoring this year through the university, and your mother reads at the homeless shelter four times a month.” Dad shakes his head, utterly disappointed . . . in me.
But he’s not done. The hits keep coming. “This is what I was saying. You’re nothing but an entitled brat who’s stomping his foot at any rules or expectations outside the boardroom, no matter how reasonable they may be. But this time, you’re going to hurt a lovely young woman in the process. Violet doesn’t deserve this, Son. She deserves better than to be used.”
I gape, incredulous.
It’s not that Dad doesn’t believe that this is real, not because of the speed or convenient timing. It’s because he thinks I’m not worthy of Violet, that she’s too good for me and could never actually love me. In a lot of ways, he’s one hundred percent right. She deserves the sun and the moon and everything she could ever wish for. But for my own father to say that I’m lacking somehow stings more than I would’ve ever thought it would.