Free Rescue by Anita Shreve Page B

said, deftly slaying the elephant. Webster was
     grateful. “Come right through,” she added. “We’re having drinks and some appetizers on the porch.”
    Webster sat next to Sheila, who had her hands in her lap. When asked what she wanted, she said lemonade, a large pitcher ofwhich stood next to a bottle of wine. Webster followed suit, which caused his mother to copy them as well. Only Webster’s
     father had the wine.
    “I understand you’re from Boston,” his father boomed from his chair as if Sheila might be deaf. He had on a white shirt and
     tie and had groomed his hair with something that made it shine.
    “Chelsea, actually,” Sheila said.
    “And what’s that like?”
    “It’s a small city near Boston. Most people only ever see it from the Mystic River Bridge.”
    Webster’s mother was seemingly mesmerized by Sheila’s waistline, visible now that Sheila was seated.
    Webster endured a long silence, unable to think of a single thing to say. Nervous, he ate all the nuts in the bowl.
    “How did you end up in Vermont?” Webster’s father asked, even though he’d been told the answer.
    Sheila looked at Webster. She didn’t know her lines and was desperate for a prompt.
    “Car trouble,” Webster answered. “I already told you that.”
    “And how did the two of you meet?”
    “Dad, stop grilling her,” Webster said, willing to risk a confrontation. His father wasn’t buying Sheila as the sweet newcomer
     to Vermont. He knew better. He’d seen the woman in the parking lot.
    Webster’s mother didn’t care how the two had met. She wanted to talk about the baby to come. “You’re taking care of yourself?”
     she asked Sheila. “I had such a hard time bringing that one”—she pointed at Webster—“into the world.”
    “Mom.”
    “Well, I didn’t mean to suggest that you would,” she said to Sheila. “Every birth, as I’m sure you know, is different.”
    “I hope I’ll be a good mother,” Sheila said.
    “Oh, you will, dear, you will,” Webster’s mother said, patting Sheila’s knee, the first time the two had touched.
    Sheila blinked. Webster’s father stared at Sheila’s face. Webster’s mother stared at Sheila’s waist. Webster was horrified.
     They had just under two hours still to go.
    At dinner, Webster and Sheila talked about the apartment they’d found over the ice-cream shop, causing Webster’s mother to
     reminisce about the years when “Petey” had always liked his chocolate cones with jimmies on them.
    Webster shut his eyes.
    Sheila complimented the meal, which seemed to be a soupy concoction of chicken, mushrooms, sour cream, and bread crumbs, with
     sprigs of parsley around the border of the casserole dish. Webster guessed that Sheila would have a hard time getting it down.
     When she did, he thought her heroic.
    His father brought the bottle of red wine to the table, poured a glass, and offered it to Sheila, who hesitated and then took
     it, surprising Webster. He then felt compelled to mention that some doctors thought that an occasional glass of red wine was
     beneficial to the mother and not harmful to the baby. He also wanted to tell his father to fuck off, but that wasn’t anywhere
     in the script.
    Webster checked his watch so often it became a tic. Sheila asked him if he had a shift that night, perhaps hoping that he
     would say he did.
    She drank the glass of wine quickly and used the words
shacking up
to describe her move with Webster into the apartment above the ice-cream shop. Webster’s father seemed pleased andeven went so far as to smile. Was his initial distrust waning, or was he merely proving himself right in his character assessment?
     By the time Webster’s mother served up a Boston cream pie, Sheila was on her second glass of wine, and his father was laughing.
     Sheila was flirting with the man, which made Webster as nervous as hell. Or was she merely opening up, being charming, trying
     to save the occasion?
    Webster’s mother had a