Daughter of the Mob (Sample)

02 | Brunch

"I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts." — Herman Melville

"WHAT DID YOU SAY?" Barbara Atwell leaned forward on her pale elbows, the crimson-red tablecloth beneath her crinkling to match the confused expression on her face.

Light poured from the glittering chandeliers hanging from the Biltmore Hotel ceiling where the group was having brunch, illuminating the society lady's soft features and chestnut-brown bob.

In contrast to her mother, Pamela had always found Barbara to be rather amiable. 

She had known the woman since childhood when she would visit the Atwell's grand Victorian mansion on Carnegie Hill to play dress-up with the sumptuous damask dresses and feathered, ostrich-plume hats. Barbara had been quite accommodating with the children who visited her husband's inherited property, allowing them to roam the manicured lawns without chaperones and sneak pastries from the kitchen without consequence.

But on that rainy afternoon, something in Barbara Atwell's polished demeanour had shifted. Anger boiled just beneath the surface of her booming voice, like a volcano about to erupt.

"I am sorry, Mrs. Atwell, but I said that I cannot marry your son. I know I told my mother I would reconsider, but his continued unfaithfulness prevents me from accepting a proposal." Pamela let her eyes wander over toward her mother, who was simmering over her untouched plate of toast, marmalade, and assorted berry jams.

"Unfaithfulness?" Barbara's mouth hung open. "What are you accusing my Timothy of?"

Pamela felt Timothy squirm beside her. His cologne tangled with Barbara's perfume, making her throat itch. She hadn't wanted the server to seat them together, but her mother had insisted, as though his nearness might make her change her mind.

Timothy's cheeks flushed. The expression could have been endearing if placed within a different context. He glared at Pamela. "I don't know what she's talking about, mother. I've been nothing but good to her. Frankly, I suspect she's been going around with other fellows. Everyone at the club says it."

He was referring to the gentlemen's club on Sixth Avenue he often frequented to play pool and discuss the stock market with other young lawyers and aged businessmen.

The accusation was preposterous. They both knew Pamela had never been the most popular girl. Men had rarely approached her, perhaps because of her reserved nature and affinity of reading books instead of going on dates. Besides, between attending an all-girls school and never venturing off to college, she had met few eligible bachelors outside of her mother's unpleasant social circle, and most of them were already courting the daughters of society ladies.

At that moment, Pamela desperately wanted to spill some of her ketchup onto Timothy's crisp white cardigan. Or slap him across the face—like an outraged heroine in one of her favourite motion pictures.

"You know he's being ridiculous." Pamela snapped, overcome by the anger pulsing through her.

What was Timothy trying to do? Coerce her into a marriage where neither of them would be happy? Force their future children to endure their shared unhappiness? Surely he could find a more agreeable girl who was willing to ignore his bad habits—though she hoped it would not come to that.

"How dare you say something so vile!" Barbara's eyes flashed with anger. Turning to Pamela's mother, she straightened her shoulders. "Caroline, dear, I'm no longer sure that Pamela is well-suited for my Timothy. I thought she was quiet and well-mannered, but she seems to share more in common with your beatnik son than your daughter."