They fell silent. Spencer stared at the hand-thrown ceramic plate in front of her. Her mother ran her pointer finger around the lip of her glass. After sixteen years of playing second fiddle, Spencer had no idea what to say to her mom. She couldn’t even remember the last time they’d been alone together.
Mrs. Hastings sighed and stared absently at the oak bar in the corner. A couple of customers were sitting on high stools, nursing lunchtime martinis and glasses of chardonnay. “I didn’t mean for it to get like this between us, you know,” she said, as if reading Spencer’s mind. “I don’t really know what happened.”
Melissa happened, Spencer thought. But she just shrugged and tapped her toes to the beat of “Fur Elise,” one of the last pieces of music she’d learned during her piano lessons.
“I pushed you too hard in school, and that pushed you away,” her mother lamented, lowering her voice as four coiffed women carrying yoga mats and Tory Burch purses followed the hostess to a back booth. “With Melissa, it was easier. There were fewer standouts in her grade.” She paused to sip her water. “But with you . . . well, your class was different. I saw how you were satisfied with being number two. I wanted you to be a leader, not a follower.”
Spencer’s heart sped up, yesterday’s conversation with Melissa fresh in her mind. Mom wasn’t exactly Ali’s biggest fan, Melissa had said. “Do you mean . . . Alison?” she asked.
Mrs. Hastings took a measured sip of her sparkling water. “She’s one example, yes. Alison definitely liked to be the center of attention.”
Spencer chose her words carefully. “And . . . you thought I should have been?”
Mrs. Hastings pursed her lips. “Well, I thought you could have asserted yourself more. Like that time Alison got the spot on the JV field hockey team and you didn’t. You just . . . accepted it. You usually had a little more fight in you. And you certainly deserved that spot.”
The restaurant suddenly smelled like sweet potato fries. Three waiters paraded out of the kitchen with a slice of cake for a stately, graying woman a few tables over. They serenaded her with “Happy Birthday.” Spencer ran her hand over the back of her neck, which was a little sweaty. For years, she’d hoped someone would say out loud that Ali wasn’t all that, but now, she only felt guilty and slightly defensive. Was Melissa right? Had her mom disliked Ali? It felt like a personal criticism. After all, Ali had been her best friend, and Mrs. Hastings always liked all of Melissa’s friends.
“Anyway,” Mrs. Hastings said after the waiters had stopped singing, lacing her long fingers together, “I worried that you were settling for being second best, so I started pushing you harder. I realize now it was more about me than it was about you.” She tucked a strand of pale hair behind her ear.
“What do you mean?” Spencer asked, gripping the edge of the table.
Mrs. Hastings’s gaze fixed on a large Magritte Ceci n’est pas unepipe print across the room. “I don’t know, Spence. Maybe it’s not worth getting into right now. It’s something I haven’t even told your sister.”
A waitress passed, carrying a tray of Waldorf salads and focaccia sandwiches. Out the window, two women with Maclaren baby carriages were chatting and laughing. Spencer leaned forward, her mouth dry as paper. So there was a secret, just like A said. Spencer hoped it had nothing to do with Ali. “It’s okay,” she said bravely. “You can tell me.”
Mrs. Hastings pulled out a tube of Chanel lipstick, coated her lips, and then shook out her shoulders. “You know how your dad went to Yale Law?” she began.
Spencer nodded. Her dad dutifully donated to the law school every year and drank coffee out of his Handsome Dan the Yale Bulldog mug. At the family’s annual Christmas party, he always drank too much eggnog and sang that “Boola Boola” Yale fight song with his old school buddies.
“Well, I was at Yale Law too,” Mrs. Hastings said. “It’s where I met your father.”
Spencer pressed her hand to her mouth, wondering if she’d heard her mother wrong. “I thought you guys met at a party on Martha’s Vineyard,” she squeaked.
Her mother gave her a wistful smile. “One of our first dates was to that party. But we met the first week of school.”
Spencer unfolded then refolded her linen napkin on her lap. “How come I never knew?”
A waitress arrived, handing Spencer and her mom their menus. When she flounced away, Mrs. Hastings continued. “Because I didn’t finish law school. After my first year I got pregnant with your sister. Nana Hastings found out and demanded that your dad and I marry. We decided that I’d defer Yale for a few years and raise the baby. I planned to go back. . . .”
An expression Spencer couldn’t gauge flickered across her mom’s face. “We fudged the date on our marriage certificate because we didn’t want to make it seem like it was a shotgun marriage.” She pushed a pale blond strand of hair out of her eyes. A BlackBerry beeped two tables over. A man at the bar let out a loud guffaw. “It was what I wanted. But I’d also always wanted to be a lawyer. I know that I can’t control how your life turns out, Spence, but I want to make sure you have every opportunity in the world. It’s why I’ve been so tough on you about everything . . . grades, Golden Orchid, sports. But I’m sorry. I haven’t been fair.”
Spencer stared at her mother for a long beat, speechless. Someone dropped a tray of plates in the kitchen, but she didn’t flinch.