Confucius Jane (21 page)

“Uh-oh.” She shook her head gravely.

“Uh-oh?” Jane couldn't believe it. Sutton had enjoyed her first dim sum experience despite chicken feet and tripe, but she wasn't sold on the best fry stand in New York?

“Uh-oh.” A slow, teasing smile bloomed across her face. “I think I'm addicted.”

Jane couldn't believe she'd fallen for Sutton's acting. “You suck!”

“Only if you're nice.” With a wink, Sutton popped the rest of the fry in her mouth.

Totally flustered, Jane felt her own jaw drop. When she tried to speak, she only managed to stammer. Finally, she took a deep breath, looked away from Sutton's lips, and forced her own to work properly. Two could play at this game.

“Was that a promise?”

“Maybe.” Sutton took a few steps toward the curb. “Let's find a place to sit.”

“How about somewhere near St. Mark's?” Jane pointed toward the illuminated façade of the church, which turned into a popular loitering spot by night.

They found an empty bench, and Jane watched in delight the blissful expression on Sutton's face as she savored another fry. As she licked her fingers clean of the sauce, Jane felt a little dizzy. But when she paused with her next fry in midair to ask what was the matter, Jane quickly took a large bite, not wanting to answer.

“So, I've been thinking about your advice,” Sutton said a few minutes later. “About setting a deadline to talk to my parents.”

“Oh? What's your plan?”

“I want to do it by the end of the week. Which probably means telling them at dinner on Sunday.”

Jane propped the paper cone between her legs and smoothed one palm over Sutton's knee. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“What would you think about coming with me? To keep me honest.” Surprise must have been plain on her face, because Sutton quickly continued, “I know it's a lot to ask. But if you're there, I won't let myself get away with being cowardly.”

The prospect of meeting Sutton's parents was terrifying, but Jane wasn't about to betray her anxiety. If Sutton needed her to be there, then she would be. She might not have a college degree or spend her day saving lives, but she could damn well be supportive.

“‘Cowardly' is the last word I'd use to describe you. But if it would help for me to be there, then I will be.”

“Really?”

“Of course.” Jane mustered a grin, hoping to disguise her unease. “Just tell me what I should wear, okay? I have a feeling the dress code at your family's Sunday dinner might be different from mine.”

 

C
HAPTER
T
EN

I
N HER PERIPHERAL VISION,
Sutton caught Jane tugging at the collar of her pale green shirt for the third time in as many minutes. A black blazer and gray slacks completed her outfit, accentuating the crisp lines of her lean legs and long torso. Her expression was one of intense concentration, and her almost military carriage gave her the air of someone preparing for battle. The clear evidence of her nerves only increased Sutton's guilt. Jane was walking into the lion's den of her own volition, all because Sutton had asked her to. Ever since they had parted earlier in the week, she had been second-guessing the selfish impulse that had prompted her to ask Jane for her company. She had even offered an out during their brief phone conversation last night. But Jane had remained adamant about joining her.

As she continued to fiddle with her shirt, Sutton realized something was missing. “You took off Sue's pendant.”

“It didn't match my outfit.” Jane's smile was a bit forced. “And I don't believe in spirits, remember?”

“You look great,” Sutton said, hoping to reassure her.

She squeezed Sutton's hand. “I think that's my line.”

Sutton glanced across the train to catch a glimpse of her reflection. Her burgundy Dior suit would be flimsy armor against her parents' disappointment and prejudice, but it helped her feel competent and in control. As the train hurtled toward their stop, Sutton gently extricated her hand and got to her feet. The elevation of her pulse was a reaction to cortisol being released by her adrenal cortex, but that didn't make the biological imperative any less compelling. Even as she tried to center herself in the moment and regulate her breathing, Sutton felt the train begin to slow. Time was inexorably marching forward, bringing her ever closer to confrontation.

A cool breeze greeted them as they emerged from the station, and Sutton paused to button her pea coat. The day had been mild, but clouds had arrived with the dusk, pushing colder air before them. The wind whipped at her hair as she bent her head and turned into it. All too soon, they were standing in front of the brick townhouse. The dull roaring in her ears was another byproduct of the cortisol spike, but she could no sooner control it than she could the weather.

“Ready?” she asked, picking a tiny piece of lint off one arm of her coat.

Squaring her shoulders, Jane nodded. “I am.”

But Sutton didn't move. She had to try one more time. “You don't have to do this. I asked you to come with me in a selfish moment. This is my fight, and it might get ugly.” She tried to smile. “I promise I'll tell them, even if you're not there.”

Jane began to shake her head before she had even stopped talking. “My DLPFC is fully functional. I'm here of my own free will.” She extended one arm in a sweeping gesture. “After you.”

Sutton didn't care if her father was watching from the front window. Bracing one hand on Jane's shoulder, she raised herself up to place a quick kiss to the corner of Jane's mouth. “Thank you.”

As she led the way up the stairs, gravity pressed in close, tempting her to turn around. This felt like coming out all over again, and in a way, she supposed it was. Letting her momentum carry her forward, she inserted her key and pushed open the door. There. It was done. No turning back now.

Her father was waiting in the foyer, his mouth compressed in a tight line.

“Hello, Dad.”

“Sutton.” His voice and face were equally impassive, but if he had hoped to intimidate her, he was going to be disappointed. Was he really so prejudiced against her sexual orientation that he couldn't so much as act happy to see her for their weekly meal? Thankfully, the anger burned away some of her trepidation.

“This is Jane.”

Jane immediately stuck out her hand. For a moment, it seemed her gesture would not be reciprocated, until finally, he met her grip with a cursory shake.

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” she said. The words were clear and steady, and Sutton felt a rush of pride at Jane's grace under pressure.

“Likewise.” The word held a chill more potent than the wind.

He moved past them to lock the door. The sound of the bolt catching made Sutton feel for the briefest of moments like an animal caught in a trap, before she reminded herself that this was her childhood home.

“I'll fetch your mother from the sitting room,” he said. “Supper is nearly ready.”

Once he had gone, Sutton reached for Jane's hand and led her down the corridor. “Doing okay?”

“Absolutely. You?”

“I'm fine,” she said automatically. But she must not have sounded very convincing, because with a light tug, Jane stopped her forward progress, leaned in, and kissed the nape of her neck.

“How about now?”

Jane's lips were soft, and the solicitude of the gesture gave her strength. “Definitely better.”

The scent of garlic, dill, and fish filled the air as they moved toward the kitchen. Its marble countertops gleamed under the fluorescent overhead lights, and the woman responsible for its pristine condition stood at the stove, tending to several pots and pans.

She turned with the wide, genuine smile that had always warmed Sutton from the inside out. “Sutton!” After exchanging cheek kisses, Maria held her at arm's length. “You look beautiful.”

“You always say that,” Sutton said, feeling oddly self-conscious at being praised in Jane's presence. “Maria, this is Jane. Jane, Maria has been part of the family since I was very young. I can't remember life without her.”

“Something smells delicious,” Jane said after shaking hands. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Maria laughed and shook her head. “Go ahead and sit. The meal is almost ready.”

“This way.” As Sutton turned into the dining room, she wondered whether Jane thought her horribly spoiled. The idea was disconcerting, especially because it lined up with Jane's reluctance to show Sutton her own living space. But then her father appeared in the doorway, arm in arm with her mother, and Sutton could think only of what she had to do. Battling anxiety, she met them halfway across the room.

“Hi, Mom.” Sutton embraced her carefully, wishing it weren't so easy to feel the outline of her mother's shoulder blades against the thin material of her cardigan. “This is Jane. Jane, this is my mother, Priscilla St. James.”

“It's nice to meet you, Mrs. St. James. You have a beautiful home.”

“Thank you, Jane.” Her mother's voice was carefully modulated, and Sutton felt a pang of gratitude that she could be counted on to remain polite, no matter what she was actually thinking.

“Let's sit,” Reginald said brusquely.

Sutton took her customary place across from her mother, and Jane sat to her left, directly across from him. Immediately, Maria appeared with a bottle of white wine in hand. As she moved around the table, Sutton reached out to skim her palm over Jane's knee and was gratified to see the corners of her mouth twitch.

And then her father raised his glass. “Jane, would you like to propose the toast?”

Caught off guard, Sutton's first instinct was to protest, but she managed to swallow her angry retort. Instead, she looked to Jane, who had dared to meet her father's challenging gaze.

“I'd like to toast Sutton's success, both as a physician and a scholar.” She held her glass aloft in a grip as steady as a surgeon's. “To Sutton.”

His expression remained impassive. “To Sutton.”

“To Sutton,” her mother echoed in her reedy soprano.

Sutton wanted to kiss her. Instead, she tried to telegraph her gratitude while maintaining her distance. “Thank you.”

At that moment, Maria reentered the room bearing a large silver tray. Sutton smoothed her napkin across her lap as the Caesar salad was deposited in front of her. Discreetly, she watched her father, who seemed almost disappointed at the familiarity with which Jane reached for her outside fork. His expectation that Jane would fail to meet the demands of polite society made her blood boil, and she quickly took a bite in order to force herself to stay quiet.

“I saw a fascinating case today,” her father said into the silence, and then proceeded to explain it using all sorts of medical jargon that neither Jane, nor her mother, could possibly follow. When Maria returned with the main course, Sutton tried to turn the conversation to a more accessible topic, but her father quickly circled back to surgery. The more he spoke, the more tightly her nerves ratcheted, until she was fairly vibrating. Jane must have been able to sense her tension, because under the guise of retrieving her napkin, she brushed her fingers against Sutton's leg.

As Maria cleared the dinner plates, Sutton prepared to deliver the news she had come here to reveal. Sweat broke out on both palms as her vision telescoped, the rose-colored walls hung with the oil paintings fading away until all she could see were her parents, seated before her like a tribunal. But before she could open her mouth, her father spoke into the silence.

“So, Jane. Tell us about yourself.”

Sutton didn't know whether to scramble to Jane's defense or allow her to fend for herself. If she did the former, would Jane appreciate the intervention? Or would she think that Sutton believed her weak and incapable? Paralyzed with indecision, she tried to gauge Jane's psychological state.

After dabbing at her mouth with her napkin—presumably an attempt to gain some time to think—Jane met Reginald's gaze without blinking. “Well, right now I'm working at my uncle's fortune cookie factory.”

Sutton watched her father lean forward slightly, eyes gleaming, as though he were a shark sensing blood in the water. “Doing what, exactly?”

“I'm responsible for deliveries, and I write the fortunes that go into the cookies.”

He settled back in his chair, looking smug. “I see.”

Feeling her temperature rise, Sutton struggled to maintain her composure. Deliberately, she rested her palm on Jane's leg. Through the layer of her slacks, her muscles were taut and flickering.

“Jane is also a very accomplished poet,” she said, her tone brooking no arguments.

Reginald's brows lifted. “Oh?” He seemed vaguely amused. “Well, congratulations. What sorts of career options are available for poets these days?”

A wave of pure fury burned away her fear, but even as she took a deep breath to retaliate, Jane trapped her hand in place. Beneath her anger, Sutton felt a surge of pride that Jane wanted to handle her father's passive-aggressive behavior on her own.

“Right now I'm working on my first collection of found poems and on pulling together the materials for a fellowship application. Hopefully, that will come through for me so that I can focus on pursuing publication opportunities. But if I haven't gotten anywhere as a poet by the time I'm thirty, I figure I'll start reevaluating my career options. My father works for the State Department, and he thinks I should join the Foreign Service. I'd be good at it, and I like traveling, but I think I'd rather travel on my own terms, you know? I mean, what if they send me some place like, like Saudia Arabia or something? I like sand fine when it's on a beach, but when it's everywhere, well, that's just uncomfortable. It gets places. Anyway. So that's my plan.”