comfortable. But it takes forever for this old house to cool down. Cheers." She tipped her glass in Schyler's direction when Ken handed her the drink.
"Is it all right?"
Schyler sipped from her drink but didn't quite meet Ken's eyes as she replied, "Perfect. Thanks."
"Ken, before you sit back down, please tell Mrs. Graves that Schyler finally put in an appearance and we're ready to be served."
Tricia waved him toward the door that connected the formal dining room with the kitchen. He shot her a resentful look but did as he was told. When Schyler dropped her sandals beside her chair, Tricia said, "Honestly, Schyler, you haven't been home but a few days and already you're resuming the bad habits that nearly drove Mama crazy up until the day she died. You're not going to sit at the dinner table barefooted, are you?"
Tricia was already aggravated with her for holding up dinner. To maintain peace, Schyler bent down and put her sandals back on. "I can't understand why you don't like to go barefooted."
"I can't understand why you do." Though Michelangelo could have painted Tricia's smile on an angel, she was being nasty, "Obviously there's some aristocratic blood in my heritage that is grossly lacking in yours."
"Obviously," Schyler said without rancor. She sipped from her drink, appreciating the gin's icy bite and the lime's tart sting.
"Doesn't that ever bother you?" Tricia asked.
"What?"
"Not knowing your background. Sometimes you behave with no better manners than white trash. That must mean that your folks were sorry as the day is long."
"Tricia, for God's sake," Ken interrupted with annoyance. Returning from his errand in the kitchen, he slid into the chair across the table from his wife. "Let it drop. What the hell difference does it make?"
"I think it makes a lot of difference."
"The important thing is what you do with your life, not who gave it to you. Agreed, Schyler?"
"I never think about my birth parents," Schyler replied. "Oh, I did now and then when I was growing up, whenever I had my feelings hurt or was scolded or—"
"Scolded?" Tricia repeated with disbelief. "I don't recall a single time. Exactly when was that, Schyler?"
Schyler ignored her and continued. "I'd get to feeling sorry for myself and think that if my real parents hadn't given me up for adoption, I would have had a much better life." She smiled wistfully. "I wouldn't have, of course."
"How do you know?" Tricia's sculptured fingernail lazily twirled an ice cube inside the tumbler, then she sucked her fingertip dry. "I'm convinced that my mother was a wealthy society girl. Her mean old parents made her give me up out of jealousy and spite. My father was probably someone who loved and adored her passionately but couldn't marry her because his shrewish wife wouldn't divorce him."
"You've been watching too many soap operas," Ken said with a droll smile, which he cast in Schyler's direction. She smiled back.
Tricia's eyes rowed. "Don't make fun of me, Ken."
"If you're laced that your birth parents were so wonderful, why haven't you tracked them down?" he asked. "As I recall, Cotton even encouraged you to."
Tricia smoothed the napkin in her lap. "Because I wouldn't want to upset their lives or cause them any embarrassment."
"Or because you might find out they aren't so wonderful. You couldn't stand to eat that much crow." Ken took a final drink from his highball glass and returned it to the table with the smugness of a gambler laying down the winning ace.
"Well if they weren't rich," Tricia snapped, "at least I know they weren't trashy, which I'm sure Schyler's real parents were." Then she smiled sweetly and reached across the table for Schyler's hand. "I hope I didn't hurt your feelings, Schyler."
"No. You didn't. Where I came from never mattered to me. Not like it did to you. I'm just glad that I became a Crandall through adoption."
"You always have been so disgustingly grateful that you became the apple of Cotton Crandall's eye,
"Is it all right?"
Schyler sipped from her drink but didn't quite meet Ken's eyes as she replied, "Perfect. Thanks."
"Ken, before you sit back down, please tell Mrs. Graves that Schyler finally put in an appearance and we're ready to be served."
Tricia waved him toward the door that connected the formal dining room with the kitchen. He shot her a resentful look but did as he was told. When Schyler dropped her sandals beside her chair, Tricia said, "Honestly, Schyler, you haven't been home but a few days and already you're resuming the bad habits that nearly drove Mama crazy up until the day she died. You're not going to sit at the dinner table barefooted, are you?"
Tricia was already aggravated with her for holding up dinner. To maintain peace, Schyler bent down and put her sandals back on. "I can't understand why you don't like to go barefooted."
"I can't understand why you do." Though Michelangelo could have painted Tricia's smile on an angel, she was being nasty, "Obviously there's some aristocratic blood in my heritage that is grossly lacking in yours."
"Obviously," Schyler said without rancor. She sipped from her drink, appreciating the gin's icy bite and the lime's tart sting.
"Doesn't that ever bother you?" Tricia asked.
"What?"
"Not knowing your background. Sometimes you behave with no better manners than white trash. That must mean that your folks were sorry as the day is long."
"Tricia, for God's sake," Ken interrupted with annoyance. Returning from his errand in the kitchen, he slid into the chair across the table from his wife. "Let it drop. What the hell difference does it make?"
"I think it makes a lot of difference."
"The important thing is what you do with your life, not who gave it to you. Agreed, Schyler?"
"I never think about my birth parents," Schyler replied. "Oh, I did now and then when I was growing up, whenever I had my feelings hurt or was scolded or—"
"Scolded?" Tricia repeated with disbelief. "I don't recall a single time. Exactly when was that, Schyler?"
Schyler ignored her and continued. "I'd get to feeling sorry for myself and think that if my real parents hadn't given me up for adoption, I would have had a much better life." She smiled wistfully. "I wouldn't have, of course."
"How do you know?" Tricia's sculptured fingernail lazily twirled an ice cube inside the tumbler, then she sucked her fingertip dry. "I'm convinced that my mother was a wealthy society girl. Her mean old parents made her give me up out of jealousy and spite. My father was probably someone who loved and adored her passionately but couldn't marry her because his shrewish wife wouldn't divorce him."
"You've been watching too many soap operas," Ken said with a droll smile, which he cast in Schyler's direction. She smiled back.
Tricia's eyes rowed. "Don't make fun of me, Ken."
"If you're laced that your birth parents were so wonderful, why haven't you tracked them down?" he asked. "As I recall, Cotton even encouraged you to."
Tricia smoothed the napkin in her lap. "Because I wouldn't want to upset their lives or cause them any embarrassment."
"Or because you might find out they aren't so wonderful. You couldn't stand to eat that much crow." Ken took a final drink from his highball glass and returned it to the table with the smugness of a gambler laying down the winning ace.
"Well if they weren't rich," Tricia snapped, "at least I know they weren't trashy, which I'm sure Schyler's real parents were." Then she smiled sweetly and reached across the table for Schyler's hand. "I hope I didn't hurt your feelings, Schyler."
"No. You didn't. Where I came from never mattered to me. Not like it did to you. I'm just glad that I became a Crandall through adoption."
"You always have been so disgustingly grateful that you became the apple of Cotton Crandall's eye,
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