Robin Constantine: The Promise of Amazing

I WAITED ON THE BENCH OUTSIDE OF MY MOTHer’s office while she spoke to the glass guy about the damages. Without a party going on, the Camelot showed its age. Sir Gus was a sorry, dusty knight with nothing to preside over. The wood paneling and burgundy curtains—which usually added a homey, secluded air—made me feel like I was sitting in a dated medieval-theme-park ride. Even the portrait of my great-grandfather looked a little corny in the plain light, without the glow from the fireplace. The place truly was a relic from another time. And soon a wrecking ball would dash right through it. The thought was thoroughly depressing.

A half hour had passed since the police cars had left, and I was still burning with anger at the way my father had dismissed me so forcefully from the scene—even more embarrassing was that he’d done it in front of Grayson. I couldn’t imagine what Gray was going through at the police station, but whatever it was, it couldn’t have been good. I was tortured enough just anticipating my own private, Dad-led interrogation.

Eben pushed through the front door in jeans and a dark coat, unraveling his scarf as he came farther into the lobby. Sadness overwhelmed me. Everything I’d been stuffing down since the police had arrived bubbled to the surface. He softened when he saw my face.

“Wren.”

I threw my arms around him, putting my cheek to his shoulder. He smelled so good, like oranges and spicy black pepper.

“Baby, why the tears?”

“What are you doing here?” I asked, wiping my tears on my sleeve.

“Ruthie called me in to wait for the glass guy . . . and since I have no social life to speak of, here I am.”

“I totally screwed up, Eb,” I said. “The cottage is . . . wrecked.”

“So I heard, but you were involved?” he asked, taking off his coat and hanging it up on the rack near the office. He waved at my mom, who was still on the phone.

“And Grayson . . . and two of his friends . . . and I’m in deep doo-doo. . . . My dad isn’t even speaking to me. He’s been out there cleaning up the cottage all this time,” I said, sitting down on the bench again. Eben sat next to me.

He patted my hand. “Darlin’ . . . you and three boys in the love shack? That’s not what I meant when I said go hang there with Grayson.”

My skin flushed; I leaned my head on his shoulder. He put his arm around me.

“Daddy-O will come around. He probably just needs to breathe a little, I bet.”

“The way he looked at me? What he said? I’m—”

My dad steamrolled through the front door with a broom and dustpan in hand. Eben and I both sat up straight. He gave Eben a quick, mechanical smile, once again ignoring me. Eben’s eyes widened.

“Oh, my.”

“See?”

“Wren, I don’t mean to sound like a total wuss, but um,” he said, lowering his voice, “you didn’t tell them where you got the key . . . did you?”

I mimed locking up my lips. He swiped his forehead dramatically and mouthed, Whew .

“I don’t even get why they are going to so much trouble . . . the place is going to be dust in a couple of months. Why even fix it?”

My mom breezed out of the office. “Eben, thank you so much for coming in.”

Eben stood up and gave her a quick hug. It was odd to see Mom in jeans and a casual tee at work. Then I remembered it had been date night for her and Dad. Guilt from interrupting their night gnawed at my insides.

“You haven’t told her the Camelot news?” Eben asked

“Something else you’re not talking to me about?”

My mother held up her hand. “Wren, it’s a new development. One that . . . well, is a solution I feel better about.”

“So we’re not closing?” I asked.

“Yes, yes, we are closing. It’s time, but someone gave us a different offer. Someone who’s not going to knock it down.”

I looked wide-eyed at Eben. “You?”

“Oh, hell no, well, indirectly yes, but no, I’m not the proud new owner. My culinary school will be. In February they start renovations to get ready for the summer semester. This is going to be a satellite campus. It’s perfect, good location, parking, kitchens.”

“We’re going to finish out the last few weddings and then turn it over,” my mother said, smiling.

“I think I even convinced them to keep Guinevere’s Cottage. Give it a fresh coat, slap on a historic-landmark plate, and turn it into a boutique restaurant. The students can hone their craft while the school charges an exorbitant amount of money for tiny food. So yes, the glass guy is definitely not a waste.”

“That’s, like, the best news ever,” I said, “and no little hot dogs.”

“Oh, mais oui , Mademoiselle Wren, but we shall call zem cochons en couvertures Eben said, bowing dramatically. I laughed, a genuine feel-good laugh, until my father returned to the lobby. His sullen presence vacuumed up all the cheer. My mother grabbed her coat off the rack.

“What would we do without you, kiddo?” my father said, tossing Eben the keys. “The heat is on low, but there’s a space heater in the office if you get cold waiting.” Dad finally looked at me.

“Let’s go,” he said, making a slicing motion with his hand.

“The glass guy should be here within the hour. If there’s any trouble, don’t hesitate to call me,” my mother said, shrugging on her coat.

“Will do, Ruthie.” Eben smiled and gave me a sympathetic look.

I hugged him.

“Sure you can’t come with me? As a buffer?” I whispered.

He squeezed me tighter. “Baby Caswell, you are fierce. No worries.”

At home my father rocketed upstairs to shower. My mother put on a pot of coffee. I sat at the kitchen table and tried not to hurl from nervousness. I wondered if Grayson was still at the police station . . . and what version of the truth he had told. Everything happened so quickly once Luke and I had arrived at the cottage. There was no way I was going to tell my parents the real reason we’d been there.

My heart surged, fearful, when I saw Dad’s socked feet padding down the stairs. He’d changed into jeans and a maroon pullover, his hair freshly tousled and wet from the shower. My stomach dropped when I saw his stern face. He came to the table and pulled out the chair across from me.

The three of us sat. Quiet. This had been our dinnertime ritual since August, when Josh had left for school. Except there was no dinner. Just us. No paper, no banter, nothing to hide behind. I wished Josh would explode through the front door, weekend laundry in hand, brimming with some wild story to make my father laugh and to deflect whatever I had coming my way. For a moment my father studied me. Then he spoke.

“Why?”

The disappointment in his voice cut into me.

“I . . .” I began, but stopped. How could I explain? I organized a faux revenge hookup so Grayson could talk to his friend about getting out of their con game didn’t seem like it would fly. I decided to keep it simple.

“We were just hanging out, and things got out of hand,” I answered.

My parents shared a look.

“We, as in you and three boys?” my father asked.

“Um, well, not really.”

“Did we not just find you with three boys, two covered in blood and one with drugs, at our place of business after hours?” he continued.

“Yes . . .” I said, looking at Mom.

“Wren, you told us you were going out with Maddie. Why did you lie?” she asked.

“I . . . well . . . I . . .”

I had no answer to that one. My dad’s face reddened.

“Please, it just happened . . . an accident . . . I’m sorry,” I said, trying to tamp down the tears that were finally coming.