Danielle Steel - 44 Charles Street

Chris’s parents lived in Cambridge, on Brattle Street, where the president of Harvard lived as well. All the men in his family had gone to school there, before becoming senators, governors, and presidents. They were an impressive bunch. Chris seemed so humble and unassuming, given the family he came from.

When they got to the house, his mother was waiting up for them. She was a small grandmotherly-looking woman with white hair and gray eyes like Chris. She was wearing a dark gray wool dress, and a string of pearls. There was nothing fashionable about her. She was totally unlike Francesca’s mother. And she showed Francesca to her room herself. Sharing a room with Chris would have been out of the question, even if Ian weren’t there. Chris’s mother had put Francesca in a guest room as far down the hall as possible from Chris. Her room assignment made it clear that there was to be no hanky-panky in their house. Francesca was nervous as Chris winked and left her in her room, after his mother said goodnight. Francesca wondered if he’d be back later. And Ian was sleeping in the room with his father. It was Chris’s boyhood room, and they had a full house, with Chris’s brother and sister and their families and numerous other relatives and their children staying with them. The house was huge. Chris had explained who would be there and she couldn’t keep track of any of them, the second cousins, an aunt, his siblings and their children. It was very confusing, with relatives and in-laws and their children, many of whom had the same first names. Francesca was sitting in her room, feeling a little dazed, when Chris walked back in, and quickly closed the door. Francesca had realized by then that his mother hadn’t spoken directly to her, other than to greet her, and say goodnight.

“My mother is still wandering around. I’ll be back later,” he said quickly, and Francesca rapidly understood that when he was at home, he followed their rules. Breaking them was not an option, even for him. It was one of the reasons he lived in New York, and had gone to Stanford on the West Coast. His parents had considered it treason.

“I take it you can’t sleep here,” she whispered, and he laughed.

“My mother would call the vice squad and have us both thrown out. She’s a very proper woman.”

“Got it.” He was thirty-eight years old and not allowed to have a girl in his room. But Chris knew his way around the system. They made her family look like wild libertines. And this was Boston. Old Boston. Old Guard.

Half an hour later, the house had gone quiet, and Chris tiptoed back in, barefoot in jeans. “All set.” He had his toothbrush with him. All he had to do was escape back to his own room in the morning by seven, when his mother came down to breakfast, religiously, every morning. She ran a tight ship. And kept a close eye on what went on in her house, just as she did at the Vineyard. Nothing escaped her eagle eye.

“She’s very old-fashioned,” he explained. He hadn’t mentioned it before, and hadn’t wanted to frighten Francesca. And as she thought about it, Francesca couldn’t even imagine the chaos Kimberly must have caused there when they were married, doing drugs and getting drunk. His parents must have loved that. And they would like even less what she’d been doing lately, recently out of jail, and absconding with their grandson. Chris said they hated her, and it was easy to see why. She just hoped they didn’t hate her too. Francesca was determined to respect them while she was there, even if their rules seemed silly to her.

They spent the night together in her room, and Chris set the alarm on his cell phone for quarter to seven. He bounded out of bed the moment it went off, kissed her, put on his jeans and shirt, and ran down the hall to his own room, where Ian was still sleeping. It was going to be an interesting weekend playing hide and seek in the hall, and musical bedrooms, to avoid his mother discovering them in the same room. He didn’t mind standing up to them on important issues, and always had, but he didn’t want to make waves now, and prejudice them against Francesca. If at all possible, he hoped they’d like her, and also relax their negative outlook on his living in her house. He wanted them to see what a good person she was, and how sweet to Ian.

Francesca almost expected Chris’s mother to do room inspections, and was afraid she would. She had brought them a bottle of wine and wondered if it was enough of a gift for a whole weekend. Maybe she should have sent them flowers instead. They were so proper, she was afraid to do the wrong thing. Nothing about them put her at ease. And his mother had been polite but not warm the night before.

Chris had breakfast with his mother, and then came back to find Francesca while she was getting dressed. She had breakfast in the dining room with assorted houseguests at eight-thirty and found herself sitting next to Chris’s sister Hilary, who was too busy taking care of her four-year-old twin boys to say more than hello. They were all going to church at ten, and Chris said it would be a good idea if she went. She had no objection, but clearly these people were used to doing everything together. It was a little like military school, or camp. And Chris was much more uptight here than he was in New York. All the men were supposed to play golf together that afternoon, but Chris said they wouldn’t if it snowed. And in summer they played football at the Vineyard. There were trophies for various athletic events all over the house. One of his cousins had won a gold medal in the Olympics. And his brother had been captain of the rowing team at Harvard. Francesca met him after breakfast, and he looked her over and said a cursory hello. He was four years older than Chris and planning to run for a congressional seat in the coming year. He introduced Francesca to his wife, and then they went upstairs to dress for church. They all seemed so different from Chris. They seemed like very competitive people to her. Tennis was a big deal to them, and football. All she knew anything about was art, not sports. She could barely contribute to the conversation at breakfast and hardly spoke. Chris could see how nervous she was when he found her afterward. She had worn black leather jeans and a black sweater. All the other women were wearing twin sets and plaid skirts, and none of them short. Francesca didn’t own a plaid skirt, of any length.

She sat next to Chris’s mother in church, with Chris next to her and Ian between them. His siblings and their families were on either side. She had the feeling that his mother could tell if she was praying or not, or faking it, and she had X-ray vision. Francesca had changed into a black suit to wear to church, and she felt overdressed. His mother was wearing a navy blue twin set and gray skirt. Francesca couldn’t think of a single outfit she’d brought that seemed right. They had a kind of sporty but formal style. But his mother was extremely polite and very pleasant. His cousins seemed nice, and his father very jolly. And his siblings were distant but friendly. His grandfather had been governor of Massachusetts. They were a daunting lot. She couldn’t imagine telling any of them that her mother had been married five times. His mother would have fainted. His parents had been married for forty-four years, to each other and not a whole collective. Francesca recognized that these people were the real deal, old-fashioned American aristocrats. It was a closed world, and Chris was the only one who seemed different. They were the definition of Old Guard.

It was stressful being there, but by late afternoon Francesca had started to relax. Several people had gone to play tennis at their club, or squash. The children had been whisked away somewhere. It snowed, so no one played golf, and they were expected to be downstairs for cocktails at six-thirty sharp. Dinner was at seven-thirty, and since it was Christmas Eve, it was a fairly formal event. The children would be eating at a separate table in the hall, adults in the formal dining room. And they were going back to church at eleven-thirty for midnight mass. His mother said it was optional, which Chris said meant you had to be there under penalty of death. Nothing Chris had said to her before had prepared her for these people. They were the rock-solid foundation of the establishment. Chris had none of their stuffiness, but these were his roots. He was worried they would scare her off. And he kept watching her for signs of panic but so far there were none. What she had noticed more than anything was that they weren’t warm. They were perfectly behaved and polite to everyone. They were nice to the children whenever they were around, but there was no sign of affection or warmth. No one was laughing, no one was hugging, there were no family arguments. They were all intelligent and very polite, and watching them made Francesca feel sad, especially for Chris. What was missing from what she saw around her was love.