Chapter Twenty-Three
A/N: Wow. OK, so three LONG years later, and I have an update. Sorry to all my readers (those of you still care, and those of you who are finding this story for the first time). What happened? Where did I go? Why did I seemingly give up on the story? Very simple: writer's block. You ever have one of those days writing when you know exactly what's going to happen, what the characters are going to say, and what the finale of the story is going to be, but everything you write is drek? Ya, that was the passed 3 years. Both stories I'm currently working on (insert shameless plug for Unbidden and Family Album) ended up sounding like they were written by illiterate blind two year olds from Dunlikus. Or, were so close to the origial show that I may as well have just C&P'd the transcripts. Sigh So, now I'm back, with this humble offering. Please enjoy! And go watch the real thing!
Chili fries.
Heaping platters of chili fries, smothered in cheese and onions--one of the only Lorelai-approved meal-time vegetables--danced in her mind's eye beside an endless cavalcade of onion rings, over-stuffed burgers, frozen pizzas, Red Vines, and every other greasy, cheesy, crunchy, and chewy snack food. She missed them. She missed their subtle differences, their deathly delectableness, and their life-ending preservatives. How could something that keeps something from rotting—that is, prolonged the "life" of a food item—be so unfit for human consumption that it would actually serve to retard or greatly shorten the consumer's lifespan? She never considered that irony could work on a gastro-intestinal scale, but who was she too poo-poo the great cosmic joke?
The table before her contained a rather lavish meal of French and Italian delicacies on every gold-inlaid Meissan platter—each savory dish expertly prepared to meet the dietary needs of an ailing patriarch—beside crystal glasses of ruby red wine. Idly, she wondered if the supposed health benefits of drinking red wine mitigated the probability of contracting lead poisoning from the glass. She doubted it. Rory was not sure, but the theoretical abetment tannins may provide to arteries probably had no impact on insanity.
Everything about the evening had been poisonous, like a rich dessert that had soured even as Rory had begun to savor its wonders. A beautiful reproduction of the Trevi Fountain graced the final curvature of the crushed gravel driveway before the entrance hall of the mansion, lotus blossoms bobbing merrily on the ripples caused by the falling water. A riot of golden flowers clamored at the base of the Huntzberger manse, their heady scents filling the air and tinting the walls with their golden hue. She saw gold everywhere, it dripped from the ceiling amongst Carracci-inspired frolicking deities locked in the throes of passion upon clouds raining crystal beads. Gold clung to the walls in baroque wall sconces and inlaid marble tables; marble floors, auric flecks sparkling amidst aged-ivory tones; every statuette and curio was adorned with gilt. The Velazquez, a woman in coats and dresses worked with spun gold occupied, and the Guillaumin with its golden grains and vibrant fiery sun; shown with resplendent opulence on the walls. Gold throughout. That same muchness she had sensed about Mitchum months earlier filled the Huntzberger mansions with its profundity and grandness.
At first, she had been impressed, inspired, even, by the display of wealth and culture. The Huntzbergers certainly surrounded themselves with things of substance and beauty. However, the silent conversation held between patriarch and hostess in the sitting room—Shira would later inform them it was the salon—spoke volumes to Rory.
They were unhappy.
Instantly, and without fully understanding the source of her knowledge, she also had known that to displease the Huntzbergers, to be the source of their distemper, would be akin to strolling through a lion's den. One would survive, but would also be missing a few pieces. Rory had felt small and frail at that first fateful meeting with Mitchum, now, amidst the larger clan assembled en masse, she felt insignificant and harried, terrified of incurring the wrath of the pride assembled before her. She had felt sorry for poor Hope and Josh; they were so in love, and did not deserve the scrutiny with which they were being regarded. She felt rather guilty at that thought, which only served to add to her own discomfort. She had never enjoyed being favored above others, despite the obvious benefits and the relative comfort of her life, and usually tried to include those less fortunate. This time, however, she could only look on with pity and concern as Logan's sister and her boyfriend were raked over the coals in bitter silence.
Then, dinner.
As soon as Logan's grandfather spoke, the gazpacho curdled into a bitter paste and she had to wash the taste with sip of red wine which suddenly tasted far too much of vinegar.
"She will never be one of us" Shira primmed over her own bowl of soup, daintily dipping her spoon into the broth. "She wants to work. What kind of life could she possibly have here? With a m—the responsibilities of a wife and caretaker of the home?" Grandfather Huntzberger nodded in agreement, while Hope and Josh looked on aghast.
Rory opened her moth to defend herself, to scream, and rave and rant. A thousand arguments came to mind a million testaments to her perfection. Paris Geller's list streamed through her consciousness ready and waiting to refute their claims. A scathing and burning retort, filled with all the acid and subtlety that she could muster from a lifetime spent amongst the Gilmores—true masters of the art themselves—began to form in her mind. She had learned well her lessons of riposte and feint from Friday night dinners and watching her mother banter and twist and cajole everyone into her way of thinking. She was no wilting flower, no damsel in distress! She was Rory Gilmore valedictorian of Chilton, honored Yale student, and future Christiane Amanpour! She would not be attacked, her dreams would not be crushed or held to ridicule!
"She hasn't had the proper grooming or breeding. Look at her mother: that sort of scandal could ruin potential contacts for this family for years to come! And that town she was raised in!"
Her retort died on her lips, the fires of indignation quenched. Her most prized memories, her family, her friends, all measured and found wanting. They did not just find Rory Gilmore the girlfriend inappropriate, they found Rory Gilmore the person lacking. She was a dalliance to them, something that was suitable for Logan's Bohemian college lifestyle, but altogether unsuitable for his more mature and important adult future.
"And that ridiculous affair between Richard and Emily!" Shira continued, undeterred by Logan's fuming and her own ineffectual stammering. "Honestly, a separation, followed by a second marriage, as if one wasn't enough! And the way Lorelai paraded that utter caveman of hers on her arm. Yes, the woman has business sense, but her taste in people—the taste she no doubt cultivated in Rory—is atrocious!" She turned to her darling son and smiled sweetly and benevolently. "You see, darling? It's positively ridiculous!" She turned to Mitchum. "Don't you think it's completely ridiculous?"
Rory gasped for air, her stomach churning into knots, her gorge rising in her throat. Ironic, she thought, that at a time like this, she would wax Tennyson. Ironic, that she would be in a time like this at all. Irony. That thought, her mother's ability to make light of a situation, no matter how painful or inconvenient, was a rallying cry. She was her mother's daughter! She was not just Rory Gilmore. She was Lorelai Leigh Gilmore! Lorelais were fighters. Gilmores were fighters! They had just praised her mother, embedded deep within an insult, but a praise nonetheless. She could use that, she could leverage that into turning this around. But first, a joke. Yes, she needed the Gilmore whit and skill with banter!
"I don't know, it's not totally from left field." Rory took a moment to beam, and steady herself. She had won Mitchum, the veritable tiger himself. "Logan certainly does enjoy going slumming about at Yale. But, that doesn't matter. I've never really put any stock in people's families or background. Their character and drive, that's what matters; their hopes, ambitions, and skills. Rory's got those, she's got a good head on her shoulders, and she's certainly skilled." He chuckled and smiled benignly to Rory. "She's certainly very efficient and organized—just like you, Shira. Those are necessities for managing a household. The office swears she'd make the best receptionist or secretary I would ever have. And, I have to agree with them. Once she plays to her strengths and gives up the journalism dream, she'll be a fine addition to the family."
Forget Tennyson. She wanted to vomit, puke, spew, blow chunks. The room spun about her, the Carracci deities laughed, and the golden hued wall hangings ruffled and swished with mirth. She sucked as a journalist! She would be a good "secretary", she had no talent at writing, but she could manage and order and collate. She breathed deeply, gasping for air to gather a sense of calm and stave off the tears trailing down her cheeks.
"You guys are insane!" Logan, her hero, to the rescue. "She's perfect the way she is. I love her! And you... you... all you had to do was be polite. You couldn't even..." He shook his head with frustration and grabbed Rory's hand, "C'mon, Ace, we're leaving."
"Logan! Please, try to understand, sweetheart!"
And, the two lovers fled across aged marble floors, passed prized pieces of art, and gold-hued walls. They ran down worn granite steps and around the Trevi Fountain with its auric flowers and cloying aromas to a black spider with four wheels that sped back through a dark and enchanted forest. The gravel grinding beneath the spider as the wind and trees hurried them away from the Huntzbergers and their wrath like they did in the fairy tales of old.
Silent tears fell as Logan sped down the highway towards New Haven, and the relative safety and comfort she would find there. She lost herself in the unbroken streak of car lights and tree line, abandoning herself to the nameless, useless, nonexistence such anonymity offered. These people would not hate her nor judge her. To them, she was simply a girl in a car heading to New Haven. Perhaps, lost, perhaps with a purpose, but in either case, they would see a girl in a car with a boy. For now, that was all she needed. "Ace, things will be OK. They'll accept you, in time. They'll love you. You'll see. And, until then, we won't... we won't talk to them. OK, Ace?" Rory dumbly nodded, losing herself in his reassuring words. "They're stupid snobs and..." he sighed and grinned. "So your mom wore a shirt with a rhinestone penis to dinner at your grandmother's?"
"Pull over." Logan looked at her in confusion. "Pull over!"
"Rory, this isn't the best place...."
"Pull over!" She frantically scratched at the door handle, jerking manically to open the contraption. Finally, mercifully, the door gave and she lurched out into the open air scarce moments after Logan had pulled into a parking lot, and emptied her stomach. Gazpacho and red wine spilled passed her lips, a physical manifestation of mental anguish. She felt Logan's hand gently pulling her hair out of the way, and robing soft circles on her back.
"It'll be OK, Ace. It'll be OK." A flask was pressed into her hand once the heaves had passed and she took a hardy sip, relishing the burn of whiskey scouring her throat. "Let's get you back home." She nodded, dumbly, and allowed herself to be guided back to the car and off to the solace of her room.