“Well, okay, Rory. Have fun with your little friend. Tell your parents I’ll call them. We’ll do lunch at the club.”
“Shit.” Esther Silverblatt pre-dated Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Myspace, and Snapchat by over a decade; she was the original social media network.
“What is it?” Amir asked.
“That woman. She’s awful. She’s such a chafe.”
“A chafe? Like a skin irritation?”
“Yes. That’s the best way to describe her. Word will be out about us all over town by tomorrow. Brace yourself. The shit is about to hit the fan.”
“How does she even know you?” Amir sounded worried.
“She’s a friend—better said, forced acquaintance—of my parents. I have to at least pretend to like her.”
“I wouldn’t worry about her. Idle gossip. Speaking of parents, when do I get to meet yours, or at least see where they live?”
“What?” I felt a chill in the air.
“Your parents, Rory. They live close by. When do I get to meet them?”
“Um... you want to meet my parents? We probably shouldn’t blow our cover.” I tried to gulp down a piece of falafel, but it was like swallowing chalk.
“Sure I do. I mean, your dad’s a powerful internist, and I’m sure your mom must be just as pretty and sweet as you are. Rory, I’m falling in love with you, and I want to meet your parents. And they would have your back. The last thing they would want is to see you expelled from medical school”
Oh brother. Do I tell him now that I didn’t inherit by mother’s looks?
“Okay, I have to think about it, Amir. You know, baby steps.”
“Huh? Rory, I don’t know what you are rambling about.”
“Let’s try baby steps. Why don’t we take a drive by the house?” was my chintzy offer.
“God, you are acting so weird, but fine. We’ll do a ‘drive-by.’”
22. A Stranger Infiltrates Webberworld
Later the next day, Amir and I jumped into my Jeep and I drove up the windy mountainous road to my parents’ house. Beautiful Tudor homes and stone mansions jutted out of multi-acre properties, evergreens concealing backyard pools and tennis courts.
“Wow.” Amir craned his head to gaze at the mammoth mini-palaces adorning the street. “This is where you grew up?”
“Well, it’s not where I grew up, but we moved here in my teens.”
“You are a spoiled little monster,” he jested.
“What? I am NOT! Would a spoiled little monster go elbow-deep into Mrs. McCormack’s asshole?”
“Ha. Fair enough. But you must admit...this neighborhood. Daddy must have given you everything.”
“You haven’t met Milton Webber.” I flashed back to warming my hands during the dead of winter by the firelight of a candlestick over my history books, re-enacting the Great Depression as we studied it.
We stopped at the empty lot across the street from my parents’ place.
“You know, Amir. Sometimes kidsparkin front of this empty lot. Usually, after about twenty-five minutes, my father calls the cops. Do you want to see how long we could park here?”
But Amir wasn’t listening to my innuendo, his green eyes fixated upon Webberworld. At the top of the circular driveway was a sinuous stone wall hugging its curves. The stone wall ended, giving way to a wrought-iron gate, protecting the modern castle from unwanted outsiders. The driveway was fully equipped with ground warmers to forge a track for cars in the event of several feet of snowfall.
“What’s to think about?” His disposition turned from cheery to defensive. “Are you embarrassed to introduce me to your parents?”
