Her parents and sister were seated in the room her mother insisted on calling the front parlor. They had no back parlor, so Catherine’s practical mind had never understood the need for the distinction. As long as she could remember the room had been decorated the same, with spindly-legged antique chairs and a settee that had once belonged to her mother’s mother. It was indeed a parlor, Catherine had thought more than once: a funeral parlor.
“Someday the furniture will be yours,” Deirdra Canton had said often enough. Catherine considered the words a vague kind of threat, as if someday her own personality would be stamped out of existence and she would become her mother.
Not that she didn’t love her mother, she just didn’t believe they had much in common—whether it was their taste in furniture or their support for social causes for that matter. Deirdra Canton sat on beautification committees and raised funds for animal shelters. Worthy causes, certainly, but Catherine thought it more important to wade into the trenches to reach people who were too frightened and desperate to notice the lilies blooming in a downtown garden and too poor to afford food for their children, let alone their pets.
Her parents had objected to her having a career until she’d snagged a position at the shelter. It was close enough to charity work in their book so as not to raise eyebrows among their friends, whose debutante daughters had ensured their social standing by marrying well soon after college. Apparently her parents had entertained the same notion, expecting Catherine to earn a degree but not actually use it. Just as they had provided the scholarship that had allowed a young girl from one of Chicago’s roughest neighborhoods to attend the same exclusive prep school Catherine had. Then they had objected strenuously when the girl had become Catherine’s friend.
“We don’t become involved with people like that on a personal level,” her mother had chastised her more than once.
Catherine was still haunted by that lack of involvement, and what had happened to the young girl who, despite Deirdra’s objections, had become Catherine’s most treasured friend.
“Are you going to stand there staring at the furniture, dear?” her mother asked with an embarrassed laugh.
“Sorry, my mind was elsewhere. Mother, Dad, Felicity—you remember Stephen Danbury?”
Her father stood, shook Stephen’s hand. Her mother remained seated, smiling politely. Felicity offered a feline grin. At eighteen she had mastered flirtation. Indeed, she could have given Catherine lessons.
“It’s nice to see you all again.”
“We didn’t realize when you said you would be bringing someone that it would be Stephen. How is your cousin?” Deirdra asked.
The inquiry was her mother’s polite way of being rude.
“I’d imagine he has worked his way to irate right about now,” Stephen said. Reaching for Catherine’s hand, he added, “Catherine and I have some news.”
“News?” her mother and father asked in unison.
Felicity, glancing at their linked fingers, muttered, “I have a feeling this is going to be bad.”
“We’re…married,” Catherine said, deciding to just get it all out there at once. This discussion wasn’t the sort that one could ease into anyway.
“M-married?” Deirdra sputtered, her face a study in surprise, and not the good kind. What little hope Catherine had held that her parents would be pleased enough with her new status to overlook her serious breach in family etiquette faded away.
“When did this happen?” her father asked.
“We were married over the weekend, sir,” Stephen replied. “It was all very spur-of-the-moment.”
“I’ll say.” Russell tossed back the last of his Scotch and scowled.
“But where?” Deirdra asked, as some of the color returned to her cheeks.
“In Las Vegas,” Stephen said, and Catherine watched the color leak out again. In fact her mother’s eyelids flickered delicately, as if she might faint dead away. At another time her mother’s flair for drama might have been comical. But there was nothing funny about the tension snapping like an exposed electrical wire in the Cantons’ staid front parlor.
“Great! Just great!” Felicity stormed. “The tabloids were just starting to forget about us. I leave for college in a week, Cath. One week! How could you do this to me?”
“I didn’t do anything to you,” Catherine said. “In fact, given the way the press has hovered since…Well, we just wanted something simple and private.”
“And tacky, too, apparently,” Deirdra harrumphed. Her near fainting spell had apparently passed.
“We wanted you all to be there, of course,” Catherine said, as if her mother hadn’t spoken. “It just seemed better this way.”
“Well, then, by all means, let’s pop out the bubbly,” Felicity snarled. “We still have a few cases left over from Cath’s other wedding, don’t we, Daddy?”
“Felicity, there’s no need for your editorial comment,” Russell said.
“Yes, stop your annoying chatter,” Deirdra added. “You’re giving me one of my migraines.”
Felicity sat down on the settee, outwardly subdued. This was quite the role reversal, Catherine thought. Usually Catherine toed the line that Felicity regularly stepped over. Catherine hadn’t merely strayed a few inches into forbidden territory, though. With her unexpected marriage to Stephen she had taken one huge flying leap.
“I can’t believe you did this,” her mother said.
“We’re very disappointed,” her father added.
“I apologize for not including all of you in our plans or the ceremony,” Stephen said. “Catherine wanted to, but I insisted on secrecy. I felt it would be best to do this quickly and quietly.”
As he accepted the blame, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. The gesture seemed both chivalrous and protective. It seemed to say, We are a unit. And so it gave her strength.
Deirdra waved away his explanation. “There’s going to be plenty of talk now. Is this—” she said the word “this” as if it referred to something vile “—why things didn’t work out with Derek?”
“This has nothing to do with Derek,” Catherine replied, and then felt her face heat. In a way, it had everything to do with Derek.
“What were you thinking, Catherine?” her father asked.
Anger rose to the surface, the source of which she could not determine. But it was there, bubbling hot, as impossible to hold back as steam from a boiling pot. “I was thinking you’d be happy for me. I was thinking that after the fiasco with Derek you might be wish me well.”
“But Stephen?” Her mother sighed, as if the man were not standing in the room.
Beside her, Catherine felt him stiffen. “What’s the problem, Mother? He’s a good man, and I know it can’t be his pedigree. He comes from the same family as Derek.”
“But…” Deirdra let the thought go unfinished.
“But what?” Catherine persisted.
“I think I know where this is heading,” Stephen said, his voice quiet, his features tight. “I’m not the right Danbury, am I, Mrs. Canton?”
“It’s nothing like that.”
“Like what? What’s going on here?” Catherine asked, but she was afraid she knew. And it horrified her to think that her own mother could harbor the kind of prejudices that had already so wounded the man standing beside her.
“We’re sure you’re a fine man, Stephen. We just don’t