That last part was directed at me.
“Of course. I brought something nice,” I assured her.
“Nice by whose standards?” Aunt Sarah asked with a little laugh. “No offense, dear, but your idea of nice and this resort’s dress code might not align.”
“I’ll manage,” I said.
Back in my room, an ocean-view suite that I’d reserved under my name without anyone noticing, I changed into a simple black dress that cost more than most people’s monthly rent.
One of the few concessions I made to my actual financial status was quality clothing.
I just rarely wore it around my family.
The main restaurant was as impressive as everything else at Clear Water Bay.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, white tablecloths, candlelight reflecting off crystal glasses.
I’d hired the executive chef away from a Michelin-starred restaurant in Charleston, and the results had been worth every penny.
My family had already gathered at a large table near the windows, and I could see Mom holding court, gesturing animatedly as she described something to the others.
“Emily,” she called when she spotted me. “There you are. We were just discussing the wine list. Absolutely impressive selection.”
I took my seat at the far end of the table, next to cousin Michael, who was too absorbed in a work call to acknowledge my presence.
“The somalier recommended this Bordeaux,” Uncle Harold was saying, holding up his glass. “$200 a bottle, but you can taste the quality.”
“We should order several bottles for the table,” Aunt Sarah suggested. “Split the cost among all of us.”
“Actually,” Mom said quickly, “let’s just have those of us who appreciate fine wine split the cost. No need to burden everyone.”
She glanced at me as she said it.
The implication was clear.
I couldn’t afford to contribute.
“I’m fine with water,” I said, which was true.
I rarely drank and certainly didn’t need to prove anything with expensive wine.
“See,” Mom said, as if I just confirmed her point. “Emily is perfectly content with her simple choices.”
Dinner arrived in courses, each one more elaborate than the last.
Seared scallops, lobster bisque, dry-aged ribeye, deconstructed key lime pie.
My family exclaimed over every dish, praised the presentation, discussed the flavor profiles with the kind of performative sophistication that came from reading too many food blogs.
“This must be what it’s like to eat at the really elite establishments,” Jessica said, posting a photo of her ribeye to Instagram. “Not the chain restaurants normal people go to.”
“Normal people,” Aunt Carol repeated with a laugh. “You mean like Emily’s usual spots?”