Delilah, meanwhile, seemed oblivious to the interplay between her mother and her boyfriend. She sat with her head against the window.
On the way to Baxley’s, we drove past the creepy new version of the notorious billboard advertising Dr. Zazzle, New York’s most famous plastic surgeon. It was the only billboard in town and was the source of some controversy—apparently, the locals felt it didn’t fit with the community’s “character.” It showed a cartoon version of a smiling Dr. Zazzle standing beside a buxom blonde in a bikini. She was holding a sagging, gray pile of flesh—presumably, her own old skin. I saw it approaching and blanched.
“Ew!” I exclaimed, surprising myself and everyone else in the car with the first word I’d spoken since we started driving. “What the hell is that?”
“Naomi!” my mother exclaimed in the voice she uses when I’ve embarrassed her. “Where did that tone come from?”
“Mom, that billboard is even grosser than last summer’s version. She’s holding her skin.”
“Well, it isn’t her real skin, obviously.”
“Hello? I know that? But it’s a totally disturbing image.”
“It is pretty weird,” Jeff said mildly, and I knew for sure I liked him.
“I can name two people who’ve spent some time with Dr. Zazzle,” Teddy said playfully, looking at Mrs. Fairweather.
“Don’t you start, Teddy!” Mrs. Fairweather nearly squealed. “You are bad.”
“One of them,” Teddy said meaningfully, glancing in the rearview mirror at Delilah, “really nose a lot about him. She really nose what it’s like to go into his office one way and come out another.”
“Teddy,” Delilah said without taking her gaze from the window, “I will beat you.” He erupted into laughter, even though she didn’t sound like she was kidding.
“See, Naomi,” my mother said. “I told you blondes can be tough.”
“You never told me that, Mom,” I said wearily, closing my eyes.
“I did, dear. You just don’t remember.” Her voice had a tiny edge.
“Okay. I don’t remember.” Die die die die die.
“I’m always trying to get Naomi to go blond,” Mom said. “You should’ve seen her when she was twelve, and Jonathan Astoriano did her highlights. She looked so much better.”
“Did you?” Jeff asked in an urgent tone of voice, grabbing my arm. “Did you really? Tell me the truth, Naomi!”
“I really did,” I said dramatically. “I really, really did.” We both laughed, and my mother looked at us in confusion, not sure what the joke was. Jeff’s hand was gone, but I had liked the warmth and the pressure of his touch.
Before long, we pulled up to Baxley’s. Teddy flipped the keys to a valet he greeted by name, and we all filed into the restaurant. Teddy marched a bit ahead of us, and when he approached the thirty-something hostess, he asked her a question in a low voice the rest of us couldn’t hear.
“Folding napkins,” the hostess responded loudly, and Teddy winced.
“Folding napkins what?” Delilah asked sharply, her seemingly permanent languid attitude momentarily gone.
“They were just folding napkins at our table, and now it’s ready for us!” Teddy answered without missing a beat.
Delilah nodded coolly.
On the way to the table, we passed the bar, behind which stood a good-looking Italian kid. He had what they call a Roman nose, and it stood out from his face like a giant sail.
“Giovanni!” Teddy said, reaching out for a fist bump. Giovanni obliged and grinned. He wore the regulation Baxley’s white button-down shirt and tie, but he seemed as if he were wearing a costume. I got the feeling this was a guy more accustomed to sleeveless cotton T-shirts and spotless sneakers.
“Best bartender on the island, this guy,” Teddy said with hearty enthusiasm. Giovanni smiled and replied, “Naw, man, just doing my job. Go have a nice dinner.”
“You know, we’ve got a great deal to celebrate,” Mrs. Fairweather said once we were all seated. “The Vogue photo shoot this past week; Teddy, Delilah, and Jeff finishing up their junior year at Trumbo; Naomi visiting; and of course, the good news from Bake Like Anne Rye!, Inc.” Mom blushed with happiness and was momentarily at a loss for words.
“Yes, Mrs. Rye,” Teddy said. “I follow the financial news pretty closely to keep an eye on our stock price, and I’ve heard so many reports recently that you’re basically taking over the world.”
“Our stock price” meant the price of Barrington Oil, Teddy’s family’s little global multinational mega-corporation.
“You may all call me Anne,” she said. “I haven’t been a ‘Mrs.’ in years, and I only kept the Rye so that Naomi and I would have the same last name.”
“Although you can still change it back to Gryzkowski,” I offered dryly. My mother looked fleetingly as if she wouldn’t mind if the Hellmouth were to open beneath me and swallow me whole. I smiled sweetly.
“Well, Anne,” said Teddy, “tell us about what’s happening with the business.”
Mom launched into a recitation of all the exciting things happening in her sugar-and-cinnamon-sprinkled world: an end-of-summer celebrity photo shoot for Bake Like Anne Rye! magazine’s inaugural issue; planning the next season of her award-winning Food Network TV show; being a guest judge on a very special dessert episode of Top Chef.
“And of course,” she added, “launching our very own line of branded food products. Cake mixes, baking tools, and my favorite, Bake Like Anne Rye! Secret Recipe Perfect Frosting.”
“What’s in this ‘secret recipe’? What exactly makes your frosting so irresistible?” Teddy asked, wiggling an eyebrow and leaning forward.
“Oh, Teddy!” Mrs. Fairweather giggled. “You make me glad I never had sons! I couldn’t have handled it!”
“Well, you might have to handle it, if this one plays her cards right,” Teddy said, putting his arm around Delilah. She seemed entranced by her napkin and gave no sign of affection in return.
“You’re too young to talk about getting married,” my mother chided him.
“We Barringtons marry young and mate for life,” he said, and Mrs. Fairweather smiled adoringly.
“Yes, he did actually just say that,” Jeff whispered in my ear. I gave him a look that expressed everything I wanted to say but couldn’t, and he nodded in agreement.
Our waitress approached the table. She had dyed blond hair pulled into a high ponytail. Her skin was tan in that orange way, and her French manicure was studded with tiny rhinestones. She was prettyish, with a big chest and a perfect teen girl body. Skags, who is more judgmental than I am when it comes to women’s looks, would’ve said she had a major case of butter face. (Everything is pretty. . . but her face.)
“Hi,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her ample chest. “I’m Misti, and I’ll be your server tonight.” Her Long Island accent was pretty thick, and I thought I saw Jeff’s mouth twitch at the way she pronounced “SIR-vah.”
“Hello, Misti,” Mrs. Fairweather said with a warm smile.
“Hi, Misti,” said my mother.
“Misti,” Delilah piped up. “Is that with a ‘y’?”
“I’m sure it doesn’t matter,” Teddy said heartily. “Let’s order!”
Delilah looked at him, and there was a steeliness in her gaze that I’d never seen before. He seemed to shrink into himself.
“It’s an ‘i,’” Misti said nervously, twisting her hands together.
“Of course it is,” Delilah said, smiling very slowly.
“That’s lovely,” Mrs. Fairweather said with the same expression she’d worn when assessing my clothing.