Page 66 of Forbidden Fruit
Until dessert.
"So," Mother says, delicately placing her spoon beside her crème brûlée, "Jack called us yesterday."
My stomach drops. "Did he?"
"He seemed quite upset," Father adds, watching me carefully. "Said you'd left him. For his stepfather, of all people."
I put down my spoon, my appetite gone. "That's not exactly how it happened."
"We assumed as much," Mother says, surprising me. "Jack has always had a flair for the dramatic."
"You're not... upset?"
Father actually chuckles. "About Jack? Hardly. The boy's been riding Clive Bishop's coattails for years. No ambition of his own."
I stare at them, stunned. "But I thought you liked him. You always seemed so pleased when he came to dinner."
"We liked his connection to Clive," Mother corrects. "The Bishop name carries significant weight. Jack himself..." She waves her hand dismissively.
"So you're not angry that I'm with Clive now?"
"On the contrary," Father says, actually smiling. "Bishop Global Security is poised for an extraordinary year. And Clive himself is a self-made man. We respect that."
Of course. It's about status and connections, not my happiness. I should have known.
"I'm moving in with him," I say, bracing for their reaction.
Mother raises an eyebrow. "Before marriage? How modern." She dabs her lips with her napkin, but there's no real disapproval in her voice.
"We're taking things slowly," I explain, still waiting for the judgment, the lecture about propriety and reputation that never comes.
"Clive Bishop is forty-six, correct?" Father asks, swirling the amber liquid in his crystal tumbler.
"Yes."
"A good age. Established. Mature." He nods approvingly. "Unlike Jack, who at twenty-eight still behaves like a college freshman."
I can't believe what I'm hearing. All these years, I've been terrified of disappointing them, of making choices they wouldn't approve of. And here they are, practically giving their blessing to my relationship with a recently divorced man nearly twenty years my senior.
"I thought you'd be upset," I admit. "About the age difference. About how quickly things happened after his divorce."
Mother waves her hand dismissively. "The Bishops' marriage has been over for years. Everyone in our circle knew it. Kay only stayed for the lifestyle."
"And the Bishop name," Father adds. "Though I hear she's keeping it, despite the divorce."
"Of course she is," Mother sniffs. "Her maiden name was utterly forgettable."
I push my dessert around the plate, processing this unexpected turn. "So you're... happy for me?"
They exchange a look I can't quite decipher.
"We want what's best for you, Rebecca," Mother says, which isn't exactly an answer. "And Clive Bishop is certainly a step up from Jack Hanson."
"He's a man of substance," Father agrees. "Not just riding on his stepfather's success."
It's the closest thing to parental approval I've ever received, even if it's wrapped in their usual pragmatism about social standing and financial security.
"Thank you," I say, because I don't know what else to say.
