The Story of Us

Everyone was moving around the first floor of the Dugray house, just about ready to go. Caroline stopped to glanced at the resume her daughter held out for her. "I hope you only printed that one."

"Why?"

"You need to change your email address."

Guinevere looked at her heading and then to her mother. "What's wrong with GwennyB2000?"

"There's nothing right about it," Caroline said.

"I like it," Alex said, pulling on his suit jacket.

"I'm sure you do. But it's not professional. Just use your actual name instead of an obscure childhood nickname," she told Guinevere. Alexander was the only one to call their daughter Gwenny Bee, and even then, only occasionally.

Janlen walked in from the garage, followed by Tristan and his new girlfriend. Her teenage son was bringing a girl to the family holiday party. Guinevere had never even brought anyone. The family wasn't for the faint of heart, and it could be dangerous to bring a prospective suitor around. But Tristan was young still, so this girl wouldn't matter in the long run. If he was anything like his uncle, and sometimes Caroline worried he was, it would be a different girl next year, or even by the new year. Caroline glanced at the redheaded girl up and down. As she understood the situation, Francie's parents had only just allowed her to have a boyfriend after her birthday, which was a couple days ago. And since the Dugrays were leaving for their Christmas ski trip the next day, Tristan thought a night with the Huntzbergers would make a nice first outing. He was a very naive boy. Caroline would have reminded him the girl would be here when they got back, but didn't. His interest might not.

Caroline took a quick count. "We'll have to take two cars, who's riding with us?"

"We'll ride with Guinevere," Tristan volunteered.

She nodded and went over to her father-in-law, taking his arm to escort him out to Alexander's car. "See you there."

XXX

Caroline loaded her tray with cups and started down the line of cubicles, pouring coffee for the employees, like she did every morning of this useless internship. She kept glancing at Alexander Dugray's empty workspace and over to the elevator every time she heard it ding. She glanced up at the clock. He was late. She continued with her task, dawdling at his desk, gawking to see if he might magically show up. He didn't though.

For some reason it was making her anxious. Surely he'd come into work. He'd never missed a day all summer. In fact, he was always early. Where could he be? Was his sick? Was he stuck in traffic? She tossed another look over at the elevator. She failed to will the doors open. With another look at the clock, she shook her head and turned to notes she had typed up for the boss and the packets she'd stapled together for the morning meeting.

She had other things to do today. She told herself to stop thinking about Alexander Dugray.

XXX

Francie looked up at the giant building before them when they arrived in New York an hour later. "Is this someone's house?"

"Yeah, my uncle's," Tristan answered as they joined his parents and grandfather.

"Does he work in finance too?"

"No, he's—" Tristan stopped, apprehensive. "He's the CEO of his company."

As they walked up the sidewalk to the giant house, Guinevere advised Francie, "If you run into Colin and he's an ass—which he will be—just tell him you heard a rumor that his Nantucket reds are made in China. It's not true, but it'll make him feel insecure for the rest of the night."

"What?" she asked Tristan with a frown.

"You have to get them from Murray's Toggery Shop."

Francie still didn't really know what that meant, but she was glad Tristan's sister was giving her advice. The older girl had seemed aloof on the ride here. Francie wanted to make a good impression, she could tell Guinevere was important to Tristan.

Caroline warningly said, "That won't be a problem, Tristan is going to stay away from Lima Hotel tonight." She asked Francie, "Did Tristan warn you?"

"About what?"

"The family. Here there be dragons."

"No." She blinked. "What?"

"You know how mothers teach their children not to say anything if you don't have anything nice to say?"

"Yes."

"Well, my mother died when I was very young, so no one taught us."

Her husband gave her a grim, unimpressed look. "They get loud and argue. They aren't special, just an average Jewish family."

Caroline scoffed at the 'average' part.

Before Francie could process what they were saying, they had reached the door. Caroline rang the bell and a moment later a maid answered and took their coats. A maid!

There were well dressed people all over the first floor of the house, and wait staff laced through with trays—or silver platters, Francie supposed—of hor 'devours. There was a large Christmas tree in the foyer, and another in the living room. It was larger than the average tree, but there was ample room with the tall ceilings. There were strings of garland over the entryways between rooms. Francie wondered if Tristan's cousins and aunt and uncle decorated it all themselves. She had her doubts. This was the work of a professional.

Glancing at all the people milling about, Francie asked, "Are all these people your family?"

"No," Tristan said, moving further into a house and getting separated from his parents and sister as they all dispersed. "There are friends and work acquaintances of my uncle. That's why Mom let me invite you—it isn't just family. They're slightly more civilized when company is present."

As in, they weren't naturally civilized? What kind of family was this?

Tristan proceeded to point out his aunts and uncles and cousins. There was Mitchum and his wife and two kids, all blonds. At a glance, Honor and Logan looked like Guinevere and Tristan's counterparts. Kassie, his aunt, was next. Tristan explained that she was married to the son of a Greek ambassador, and found three boy cousins and one girl in that family, all with shiny black hair and olive skin. And last there was Fox, or Elias, Jr. His three boys were all redheaded like him. In more rustic clothing, they'd all look like Pontipees.

"Fox is their half-brother," Tristan added as an afterthought. "He has a different mom."

They meandered around the party, snatching hor 'devours as they passed by, Tristan pointing out some of the other guests he knew. Plenty of the party goers were strangers to him. But they seemed so . . . important. They all seemed to work for well-known news organizations. Francie vaguely recalled the first week of school, when Tristan said newspapers were his family members' thing. He had not been exaggerating.

They found some guys in one of the back rooms, one being a cousin he had pointed to a bit earlier. The one who lived here. It was the blond with the more-than-passing resemblance to Tristan. He approached them and greeted Tristan friendlily. Tristan, in turn, introduced Francie.

"You brought a date, Casanova?" Logan asked.

Francie smiled at the title.

Tristan nodded. "She's my girlfriend."

"Girlfriend?" Logan asked, smirking a smile. "You're only a freshman. You shouldn't have to settle for one girl until you're married."

Francie frowned and had to consciously keep her jaw from dropping. She was standing right there.

Tristan asked, "How will I ever get married if I don't have a girlfriend first?"

His cousin snickered to his two friends, who did the same. "Sounds like we've got a philosopher, boys."

One of Logan's friends gave Francie a quick once-over. "So he's attracted to proles. Very interesting."

Francie was pretty sure that one was Colin, and now was probably the time to make that Nantucket reds quip. She didn't get the chance though.

"We're going to start up a poker game upstairs in a little while," Logan said genially. "You're welcome to join us. I bet you've improved since last time." He gestured to Francie. "And you've got a good luck charm this time."

Tristan rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm going to have to pass. Maybe next time."

"I'm going to hold you to that."

When they walked away, Francie asked, "What happened last time?"

"I lost $7,000 to Colin."

Francie stopped to turn to Tristan, brows furrowed. "$7,000? In real dollars, or Monopoly money?"

He shrugged. "Real money. Dad sat in my place and played with them. Now Colin and Logan owe him."

She glanced around at all the people in this glamorous mansion. These people were not normal. This was an alternate reality. They milled about for a while, Tristan finding some of his other cousins to socialize with. Francie people watched, with interest. Insecurely, she smoothed the skirt of her dress, hoping no one knew it was from JC Penny's. She was sure no one else here shopped there. She did a double take at the bar, sure Tom Brokaw was chatting with another man. She could have been wrong, but it might be Dan Rather. Her brows creased. Who else was here? Real celebrities?

It was an hour or two before his sister turned up again, sidling up to Tristan with a cocktail in hand.

"Any leads?" he asked her.

"A few," Guinevere answered. Then she launched into a convoluted story she'd heard about a friend of hers at another school who broke up with his girlfriend to date someone else. "I heard it from Honor," she concluded. "So it's probably true."

Francie glanced around the party, trying to remember which cousin was Honor. "I have a question," she said. "Did your mom say to stay away from Lima Hotel when we were coming in?"

"Yeah."

"What's the Lima Hotel?"

"It's a who, not a what." Guinevere turned so she could search the guests. She pointed to the blond boy across the room when she found him. "The dauphin." The poker game had apparently not commenced yet.

That didn't clear anything up. It only posed more questions. Francie asked, "Why does she want Tristan to to stay away from him?"

Guinevere's lips quirked into a half smile. "He runs into trouble when Logan is involved," she answered. "Like spring a couple years ago at the Vineyard—"

"I already told her about that," Tristan said, cutting her off.

"Okay, then there was last year's Christmas party, when Finn shared their brownies."

"So?"

"They were spiked," his sister said, starting the story.

Guinevere found her brother sitting on a couch in the library. She sat down next to him. "There you are."

Tristan was looking at his hand like he'd never seen a hand before. He was out of it.

She frowned. Guinevere had roommates, she knew what Tristan got into. "Are you high?" The guys had edible cannabis in the apartment occasionally. She had some once in while, like after finals. She didn't like the paranoia enough to partake regularly. She asked, "Did you have one of those brownies Logan had?"

"It was good, I liked it," he said. "They're really nice guys. Logan and Finn were talking about scaling the wall of Colin's house to get a peek of his hot stepmom."

"I don't think you should."

"Why? Do you think they don't like me?" he asked, getting a bit riled up. "Why don't they want me to go with them? I could help."

"Uh-huh, I'm sure they'd love to have you in their circle of friends. Come on," she said, pulling him up and holding him steady. "Let's find Dad. I think it's time to go home."

He was shaking his head. "But I need to find the guys and tell them I'm in."

They found their mother first. "What's wrong with him?" Caroline asked.

"Colin and Finn and Logan had some brownies," Guinevere answered. "I think he may have gotten into them."

"They gave me one," Tristan disputed. "They're the nicest guys I know. We're best friends."

With angry fire in her eyes, Caroline went to seek out her brother, demanding Logan be punished.

"Calm down," Mitchum said, his eyes darting to some of the guests who were in earshot. "We grew up in the 60's, don't tell me you've never tried anything. Tristan will be fine."

"He's 14. Logan shouldn't have given him drug laced baked goods."

"Boys will be boys," Elias said. "Just give him a snack later."

Caroline's furious gaze jerked to her father. She shook her head a little. It was no use, Logan had immunity here. "We're going."

When Francie looked at Tristan with a brow raised, he said, "Mom doesn't want me to have any fun."

"Did I hear my name?" an Australian voice said, a dark haired guy sidling up to the older girl. "Fair Guinevere, you'll have to tone down your pedantic tendencies if you hope to win this Lancelot's affections."

"Finn, you are the Jar Jar Binks of my life," she said. "I will keep any and all personality traits that repel you."

Finn lifted his chin defiantly. "I don't really care for older women, anyway," he said, walking off.

When he was gone, Francie asked, "Why did you call Logan the dauphin? Isn't that royalty?"

"Yeah," Guinevere said, taking a drink. "Prince in line to be king."

Glancing over at Logan, Francie asked, "But royalty?" They couldn't be real royalty, she thought. Then again, this house was huge and decadent. There were murals on the wall, and real live servants. It actually wasn't that far of a stretch.

"Newspaper royalty," Guinevere said casually. "Logan is the next in line to run the company." Then she asked her brother, "Didn't you tell her about the family?"

Tristan said, "We aren't supposed to tell."

Guinevere rolled her eyes, and nodded toward the party in general. "We aren't supposed to throw it around to get special treatment like other family members," she said pointedly. "The cat's out of the bag now. You brought her to the soap opera, might as well tell her she's in one."

Hesitantly, Tristan tilted his head toward Francie. "Mom's a Huntzberger." His face wore a concerned expression, like this was delicate news. Guinevere eyed Francie without emotion, gauging a reaction.

Francie looked from brother to sister and said, "I'm sorry, is it terminal?"

Guinevere smirked, not unlike her cousin Logan had. "Definitely."

"What's a Huntzberger?"

Tristan asked, "You know The New York Herald-Tribune? Our uncle, Mitchum, owns it. He's the publisher and runs the company. It's been in the family for a long time, a hundred years or something."

Not knowing Tristan had already pointed out all of their relatives, Guinevere pointed to their uncle. The man was actually talking to Caroline Dugray. From several feet away, there was something cold about their interaction. It could be the guarded look in Caroline's eye. Francie was probably reading into it though. Maybe the siblings just weren't close.

Guinevere said, "My mom always told me to never trust a blond man."

"Hey," Tristan said.

"It's funny you think you're a man, or that I trust you," she said. She told Francie, "This party is a major networking opportunity for anyone who wants to break in journalism. A lot of the family friends are reporters and editors from major newspapers, or used to be, or know someone who is. I've heard about some openings and I know people who can put in a good word because I come to this every year."

"And harass them," Tristan added.

"I don't harass anyone," she argued. "I just pitch ideas sometimes . . . and ask for professional opinions about articles I've written, sometimes." She shrugged. "It doesn't hurt to ask. The worst anyone can say is no." She added, "Mom has a rival party in the spring. She invites a lot of media people. And then there's her super exclusive Passover Seders. I can't even get invited to that."

Francie was contemplative for a minute. "Can't you just get a job working for you uncle?"

The older girl shrugged. "I've never considered it."

"What about your mom? Has she worked there?"

Guinevere was quiet for a minute, not quick to answer. "She's never really wanted to report for The Herald-Tribune."

Francie thought about it for a while. She wasn't really all that interested in newspapers. She didn't know why owning one was such a big deal. But then again, she wasn't the one living in a giant mansion in New York, so what did she know?

"My dad gets the Sunday edition of The Herald-Tribune most weeks," she said. "He doesn't like The Times, he says it's too liberal."

"Well, it's journalism's job to afflict the comfortable and comfort the afflicted, so newsrooms tend to be full of liberal reporters," Guinevere reasoned. "But he's not wrong."

"Then why did I see it at your house? There was The Courant and The Times, and something else, I think."

"Mom's paper," Tristan supplied.

Guinevere gave a him a strange look for phrasing it that way. "He means the Wall Street Journal. Our mom used to work there, in the 80's."

"But of all those papers at your house, I don't remember seeing your uncle's." Francie asked, "Your mom doesn't read her family's paper?"

"We—she," Guinevere stopped. "No."

"Why not?"

Guinevere inhaled and let it out. "I can't think of a reason that won't sound petty."

Francie narrowed her eyes, thinking about this and how odd it seemed. She looked over at their cousin again. He was with his friends, talking and laughing. It didn't look like he was too concerned with anything the adults were talking about. She asked, "Does Logan work at his school newspaper, like you?"

Guinevere snorted. "I doubt it. He just got kicked out of his third boarding school, so I don't know where he'd find the time."

"Why does he get the company then? Was his name drawn from a hat?"

"Oh no, it's not arbitrary. It's Divine Right. He's the oldest boy of the oldest boy."

Francie frowned indignantly and crossed her arms. "What about the oldest girl of the oldest girl?" she asked reflexively.

Tristan's lips puckered slightly and creases formed at his forehead as his eyes slowly shifted to his sister, who silently frowned at the question. He answered, "She networks the holiday party so she can get a sports writing job after college."

Francie looked at Guinevere. "You should be the dauphin?"

"It's dauphine for a girl. And no. Girls don't count in this family," she said. "We don't get to run the company, and Grandpa doesn't like it when we overshadow the boys."

"But you would, if you were a guy?"

Guinevere tilted her head in concession. "If my mom was also a man, then, yes."

What was it Tristan said about his parents' jobs? They went into companies and cleaned house. And Caroline used to work for an important business newspaper. "She could do it."

"Hmm?"

"Your mom. She could do it, couldn't she?" Francie asked. "Is she mad at her dad for not letting her? I would be."

"It's not that bad," Guinevere said with a frown, shifting from one foot to the other. "They aren't Shari and Sumner Redstone—although that's probably only because Dad has rubbed off on her."

Francie folder her arms and shook her head as she looked out at the guests. "That's not fair. I would be mad every time I saw them."

"Well that's a waste of energy." Guinevere leveled Francie a look. "It doesn't matter what anyone wants around here, or what's fair. This is how things work, and dwelling on it won't change anything," she said. "I'm not going to make myself miserable thinking about the way things won't be. I'm going to write about sports because that's what makes me happy."

They were all three silent for a while, Francie scowling about how unfair it was. She glanced over at Logan again, vicariously feeling the contempt for him. "I would hate Logan so much. How much does your mom hate him?"

"He's family. She doesn't hate him," Guinevere protested, not quite convincingly. Then she admitted, "A lot."

XXX

Caroline glanced up at the clock for the dozenth time and sighed. Alexander wasn't coming into work today. She'd accepted that, she just didn't understand why she cared this much. He annoyed her most of the summer.

But the summer was almost over, she reminded herself. She'd be going back to school soon. So it didn't matter.

Still, it felt like something shifted between them. They had connected on an emotional level, and he was extremely repressed, so that was saying something.

When she was finished with her tasks for the day, she cleaned up her desk and gathered her things. The door to the executive offices opened and Alexander walked out. Caroline did a double take. She inhaled sharply and her heart beat faster. Had he been in there all day? Did he sneak by without her seeing? It was possible, she had finally stopped looking at the elevator every time it dinged.

He wasn't in a suit, but khakis and a button up shirt instead. It was strange to see him semi-casual.

"Oh, you came in today?" she asked flippantly.

He shook his head. He didn't smirk, didn't grin. "I'm just coming for my things from my desk."

"Your things? Why?" Had he quit? Or worse, fired? She hadn't heard anything.

She noticed he looked pale. He swallowed hard, and hesitatingly opened his mouth. He was definitely pale. "My number came up."

"Your number?"

He averted his gaze before looking her in the eye again. "In the draft. I have to go. California for training first, then . . ."

Oh. That number.

She felt stick all of a sudden, and was sure she'd just turned as pale as he was. She racked her brain, trying to remember if he'd ever said whether or not he was for the war. She didn't know. "Isn't there something you can do?"

"Like what?" he asked her desperately, as though he genuinely wanted to know what else there was to do.

She felt prickly and anxious. "Don't they make exceptions when a family loses a son?"

"I have three other brothers, Caroline. The name won't die with me."

She swallowed hard to push down the lump that had risen. He could die. "But, someone like you doesn't have to go."

"Someone like me?"

"Yes, someone who went to Princeton, someone—"

"Someone who can get out of it?"

"Well, yes." She felt bad saying it out loud, but the line was clear between who went to Vietnam and who avoided it. He was in the privileged set.

He didn't say anything for a beat, just nodding once in understanding. "I said the same thing to my brother."

There it was then. He wasn't going to try to get out of it. His number was up and he was going to Vietnam, maybe to his death.

He inhaled and let it out resolutely. "I'm going to kiss you goodbye," he said. "You can slap me after, if you want." He didn't give her much time to think before stepping toward her and gently pressing his lips to hers. She closed her eyes and kissed him back, melting into it.

When he pulled away, she blinked rapidly, and he braced himself for her hand to make contact with his face. It didn't come though, as she just looked at him helplessly. He nodded once before he picked up a box of his things from his desk and walked away.