Francesca almost expected Chris’s mother to do room inspections, and was afraid she would. She had brought them a bottle of wine and wondered if it was enough of a gift for a whole weekend. Maybe she should have sent them flowers instead. They were so proper, she was afraid to do the wrong thing. Nothing about them put her at ease. And his mother had been polite but not warm the night before.

Chris had breakfast with his mother, and then came back to find Francesca while she was getting dressed. She had breakfast in the dining room with assorted houseguests at eight-thirty and found herself sitting next to Chris’s sister Hilary, who was too busy taking care of her four-year-old twin boys to say more than hello. They were all going to church at ten, and Chris said it would be a good idea if she went. She had no objection, but clearly these people were used to doing everything together. It was a little like military school, or camp. And Chris was much more uptight here than he was in New York. All the men were supposed to play golf together that afternoon, but Chris said they wouldn’t if it snowed. And in summer they played football at the Vineyard. There were trophies for various athletic events all over the house. One of his cousins had won a gold medal in the Olympics. And his brother had been captain of the rowing team at Harvard. Francesca met him after breakfast, and he looked her over and said a cursory hello. He was four years older than Chris and planning to run for a congressional seat in the coming year. He introduced Francesca to his wife, and then they went upstairs to dress for church. They all seemed so different from Chris. They seemed like very competitive people to her. Tennis was a big deal to them, and football. All she knew anything about was art, not sports. She could barely contribute to the conversation at breakfast and hardly spoke. Chris could see how nervous she was when he found her afterward. She had worn black leather jeans and a black sweater. All the other women were wearing twin sets and plaid skirts, and none of them short. Francesca didn’t own a plaid skirt, of any length.

She sat next to Chris’s mother in church, with Chris next to her and Ian between them. His siblings and their families were on either side. She had the feeling that his mother could tell if she was praying or not, or faking it, and she had X-ray vision. Francesca had changed into a black suit to wear to church, and she felt overdressed. His mother was wearing a navy blue twin set and gray skirt. Francesca couldn’t think of a single outfit she’d brought that seemed right. They had a kind of sporty but formal style. But his mother was extremely polite and very pleasant. His cousins seemed nice, and his father very jolly. And his siblings were distant but friendly. His grandfather had been governor of Massachusetts. They were a daunting lot. She couldn’t imagine telling any of them that her mother had been married five times. His mother would have fainted. His parents had been married for forty-four years, to each other and not a whole collective. Francesca recognized that these people were the real deal, old-fashioned American aristocrats. It was a closed world, and Chris was the only one who seemed different. They were the definition of Old Guard.

It was stressful being there, but by late afternoon Francesca had started to relax. Several people had gone to play tennis at their club, or squash. The children had been whisked away somewhere. It snowed, so no one played golf, and they were expected to be downstairs for cocktails at six-thirty sharp. Dinner was at seven-thirty, and since it was Christmas Eve, it was a fairly formal event. The children would be eating at a separate table in the hall, adults in the formal dining room. And they were going back to church at eleven-thirty for midnight mass. His mother said it was optional, which Chris said meant you had to be there under penalty of death. Nothing Chris had said to her before had prepared her for these people. They were the rock-solid foundation of the establishment. Chris had none of their stuffiness, but these were his roots. He was worried they would scare her off. And he kept watching her for signs of panic but so far there were none. What she had noticed more than anything was that they weren’t warm. They were perfectly behaved and polite to everyone. They were nice to the children whenever they were around, but there was no sign of affection or warmth. No one was laughing, no one was hugging, there were no family arguments. They were all intelligent and very polite, and watching them made Francesca feel sad, especially for Chris. What was missing from what she saw around her was love.

Francesca was in the living room at exactly six-thirty in a black cocktail dress that looked demure enough, with heels that were too high, and an evening bag that was too jazzy, with rhinestones on it, a gift from her mother from Paris. She wore her hair in a bun, which seemed right. His mother wore a plain black dress with a high neck and long sleeves, and her regulation pearls that she wore with everything, and that Francesca suspected she probably slept in. The fantasy of their two mothers together nearly made her choke.

“How did you and Chris meet?” his mother asked her over cocktails. Francesca had no idea what to say to her. He was living in my house didn’t sound like the right answer. I’m his landlady… I run a boarding house… In church? There was no right answer. Chris had warned her not to say she lived at 44 Charles with him.

“We met through friends.” Chris had been listening, and wandered by to fill in. Francesca smiled silent thanks. She was constantly afraid to do or say the wrong thing.

Chris’s father asked what kind of work her father did, and she said he was an artist. She mentioned his name, and they were impressed by that, which was a relief. And she mentioned that her mother was in Gstaad for Christmas. They looked a little shocked by that. Her father being in Sun Valley was okay. They knew it and liked it. But a ski resort in Europe sounded like Sodom and Gomorrah to his mother.

“The only way to get through these dinners is to get blind drunk and keep smiling,” one of his cousins told her in a whisper as they headed to dinner, and she laughed. The suggestion had a lot of appeal, but she wouldn’t have dared do it. You had to be alert to field their questions. They wanted to know where she’d grown up, where she’d gone to school, whether she went to boarding school, whether she’d ever been married, and of course she didn’t have children, and where did she spend her summers? Maine was good. Running an art gallery was questionable, but since her father was an artist, it was forgivable. His sister and brother spoke to her from time to time. She felt like she’d been playing tennis all night by the time they finished dinner, and she collapsed in her room for a minute, before they went to church again. They were so much more impressive than she had expected, and being face to face with them was even dicier than she had imagined. Particularly his mother. The thought of his mother in the same room with hers made her feel faint. It was a frightening prospect that meant that if she ever married him, they’d have to elope. There would have been no way to have her family and his under one roof, let alone at a wedding. Only Avery would have passed muster. Her father was much too racy and unconventional too. He hadn’t gone to Harvard, he hated sports, and knew nothing about football. And introducing her mother to this very proper conservative group was out of the question. They were as white-bread, pure, holy, church-going, and athletic as it got. And they were successful, social, and important on top of it. There didn’t seem to be one rebel in the group, except Chris, who was a renegade by their standards and no one else’s.

Chris burst out laughing when he saw her sprawled out on her bed before church, looking like she’d run a marathon, and exhausted. She had ten potential outfits spread out on her bed for upcoming events.

“Having fun yet?” he teased her. “Don’t mind my mother. She’s a little like Scylla and Charybdis, or whoever they have posted at the gates of Hell these days, but when you get past her and she gives you her seal of approval, you can pretty much do what you want. All you have to do is show up for meals on time and not do anything to seriously annoy her.”

“She’s your mother. I don’t want to offend her.” Francesca couldn’t remotely imagine ever getting his mother’s approval.

“It’s rude to ask people that many questions. She should be worried about offending you. Start asking her stuff, like where she went to school. She loves that. She went to Vassar when it was an all-girl school. She’s very proud of it.” It was an easy entree to a benign conversation with her.

“I’ve never been to church twice in one day in my life,” Francesca said with a look of desperation. “If God sees me there, He’ll throw me out, and the whole congregation will be hit by lightning.” He laughed, grateful for her patience.

“It’s good for you. Brownie points in Heaven,” he said, as he pulled her off the bed. “Speaking of which, I’m sorry to do this to you, but it’s time to leave for church.” There were twenty of them going to midnight mass. Francesca couldn’t remember their names or who they were, except his siblings, with whom she had nothing in common. They were just Harleys to her, en masse. The only one who stood out to her was Chris. She was almost angry at him for bringing her here, but staying home alone in New York would have been depressing too, and she loved him. So here she was, on her way to church again, for the second time that day. Her father would have laughed, and even her mother would have been amused. Thalia hadn’t even gone to church for her last three weddings.