CHAPTER 13
Magali
Thanksgiving
“So, he called back?” Syd was peeling and coring apples for the apple-cranberry lattice pie.
“A lot. Last time was this morning. Mostly he’s apologetic then asking me stuff like which restaurant I’d recommend for a solitary Thanksgiving dinner.”
“Gunning for an invite. But he’s a Brit, what does he care about Thanksgiving?”
“He was married and has two American kids.” I wiped my hands on my apron and got the dough out of the refrigerator.
“His ex should have him over.” Syd was concentrating so hard on the apples, she looked as if she were about to give a speech to the president of the United States.
“I doubt that family is about to be blended, whirled, or in any way mixed together. Anyway, I feel awful for him. Holidays on your own . . .” I shuddered. “So, speaking of tomorrow, is Perfect Hair coming?”
“Stop.”
“Seriously, do newscasters have a special stylist just for insiders? There must be a secret code or handshake to get The Cut.”
“I don’t know if Aidan will be here.”
“Do you want him to be?”
“Good question. But if he does come and you start talking about any type of mousse other than chocolate, I’ll smite you with a drumstick.”
“Got it. Though I don’t see why. A lively conversation on hair products could carry us through an entire course.” I was layering sweet and regular potatoes for a gratin. Between each layer, I sprinkled a mixture of fresh herbs. “But Syd—”
She stopped chopping and held up her hands, the right one still brandishing the knife. “Please. Not the lecture again. I know I have a thing for divorced men. Like I could fix them or something. They always go back to their wives.” She rolled her eyes and went back to work on the apples. “I bet I could turn it into a business or something. Forget about couples therapy, just date me for a few months and any broken marriage will mend.” She downed half a glass of the hot Pimm’s we were drinking.
“Maybe you should try Simon. I doubt he’s going back to his wife, seeing as she’s newly married and pregnant and all.” I’d finished layering and started on the garlic, which would be added to the cream. I would heat it up then pour it over the potatoes.
“Two problems: One, I don’t do out of town. And two”—she lowered her voice—“he’s crazy about you.”
“Who’s crazy about you?” Leo walked into the kitchen.
Syd bit her lip and handed me the bowl of Jonagolds.
“Uh . . . Terry, the baby agent.” I dumped the apples into a pot of hot clarified butter and added the seasonings.
“Just coming in to get a beer. Need any help?” He stood behind me and his arms encircled my waist. I leaned back for a few seconds.
“No, we’re fine,” I said.
Leo left to watch the game and Syd widened her eyes at me. “Anyway,” she said loudly enough to be heard two doors down, “there are still days I can’t believe I’m helping to prepare a meal that other people are actually going to eat.”
“As opposed to?”
“I don’t know, scrape into the disposal like we did with Mom’s meals.”
“How is your mom?”
“Still on a diet. Will do anything to get out of having to eat.” Syd started rinsing dishes.
“Could you grab the rolling pin out of the middle drawer? Today, you roll pie crust.”
“But—”
“Syd, not brain surgery, remember?”
When the apples had boiled and reduced, I threw in the cranberries to precook for about a minute, then set the filling aside to cool a bit.
“To get back to the subject”—I lowered my voice, throwing what I hoped was a meaningful glance in the direction of the family room—“I’m afraid he’s just going to show up. He’ll be in town, he’ll want to see his kids.”
“Gali, he’s a Brit, remember? Now Boxing Day, that’s a whole other pair of shoes. Or gloves. Or whatever. Besides, doesn’t he work on Thanksgiving? The show must go on, and all that.”
“Not on Thanksgiving Day. All weekend though,” I said.
“That hardly seems right. What about the people who don’t have a family, hate parades, are averse to football? Don’t they get to do something fun on Thanksgiving?”
“Somehow, I doubt that Seussical would be their musical of choice. Besides, that’s what restaurants, DVDs, and movies are for. Not to mention NPR. I’d like to play hooky from the whole thing, just once, and sit around, watch movies, and relax.”
“Sure. And that’s the day monkeys in christening gowns will rain down from the sky. Gali, you did Thanksgiving even when you were still living in Belgium, for Christ’s sake.”
“You’re doing great with the crust. You know, I regret ever having translated that expression for you.”
“Too late,” she said.
Art sauntered into the kitchen wearing a white shirt over black jeans. He hadn’t lost any of his muscle tone since he’d been living here and the yard had never looked better. “Hey Gal—oh, sorry. I didn’t know you had company.”
The temperature in the room could have frozen the dough Syd was suddenly so intent on rolling out.
“You goose. It’s not company, it’s Syd. My best friend? Used to almost live here?” I rapped my knuckles against his skull.
“Hi,” he said without looking at her. He opened the fridge and got a beer, then vanished as if my baby brother had just developed supernatural powers.
I looked at Syd with one eyebrow cocked, an expression it had taken me years to perfect. Wasted years apparently, since she didn’t even notice. “You can stop torturing that pie crust now. What has it ever done to you?”
She looked up. “What’s wrong with your eye?”
I relaxed my facial muscles, musing that Joan Crawford had nothing to fear from me. “What the hell is going on between you two?” I put the dough in the pie plate and handed Syd a fork so she could prick it.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, come on, Syd. We don’t have enough oil to heat this house for an entire meal with you two in the same room!”
“We had . . . an argument.”
“About what?”
She shook her head. “Too silly to talk about. I’ll call him later and fix it.” She slung an arm around my shoulder, making me feel tiny, a feeling I didn’t dislike. “Promise.”
“I’ll hold you to that. You know how I get if there’s even the slightest tension at my table.”
“Drunk?”
“That’s the least of it.” I stirred the cream. The first pie was ready to be popped into the oven. “Here, brush some egg wash across the top.”
“I can’t believe I actually know what you’re talking about when you say egg wash, that, you know, it’s not—”
“Something to wash eggs. Though why anyone would want or need to do that is beyond me. Anyway, I do admire how you veered off the subject.”
“You’re the one who changed it in the first place. As I recall, we were talking about Simon.”
“Simon? Who’s Simon?” Leo had just padded into the kitchen. I really needed to lay down some rules about wearing just socks around the house. Tap shoes maybe.
“Smells fantastic in here. Maybe I’ll switch drinks.” He indicated the pitcher of Pimm’s on the counter. “Refills?”
“You really need to ask?” said Syd, smiling.
“So, who’s Simon?”
“Oh, just this divorced guy I met . . .” Syd finished spreading the egg wash over the top of the pie.
“I thought you were already hooked up with your divorcé du jour.”
“Hardy har har,” she said.
“Children. Behave.” The cream was hot. I poured it over the potatoes. Tomorrow I would sprinkle grated cheese over the top and pop it in the oven.
“We are, Mommy.” Elly and Charlotte had just entered. “We’re hungry.”
“And thirsty.”
“Okay, time to eat.” Saved once again, by food.
That night, after we made love, I curled up against my husband and felt very, very thankful.
Thanksgiving Day
I awoke, feeling a bubble of happiness for a day that would be filled with good food and great people. By the time the day had dawned properly, the orange-cranberry and pumpkin muffins were already cooling on the sideboard, ready for breakfast. I’d serve them with yogurt and juicy Comice pears.
During breakfast, I surveyed my brood: my husband, daughters, and my baby brother, gathered around the kitchen table, eating and joking.
“This is my favorite time of any holiday,” I said.
“Why?” asked Elly.
“Because every morning is a promise but a holiday morning is an extra special promise.”
“If this is the high point of the day, why bother going through that whole feast thing?” asked Art before helping himself to another muffin.
I punched him.
Once breakfast was over, Leo went out back to chop some firewood, the only chore he liked to do. He must have been a lumberjack in a previous life. I shooed the girls into the den, where they were watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade on TV, and Art had disappeared on some mysterious errand. Hopefully, to patch things up with Syd.
This year, Thanksgiving would be intimate, not many strays. It would just be us, Tante Sola, Syd, and a young couple from Leo’s firm, newlyweds far from home who knew no one. Syd had called this morning saying Aidan wouldn’t be here. Ana said she’d stop by for an apéritif before grabbing a plane to have dinner with her son and family in Texas. And Daddy was in Belgium, as always, which, as much as I hated to admit it even to myself, was another reason to be thankful.
My kitchen was fragrant with the smell of cornbread baking. The turkey was stuffed and ready to go. Thanksgiving was my one absolute wholehearted concession to American cuisine. Every other holiday remained stubbornly Old World. Probably because that’s how Maman and her sisters had done it.
I’d even prepared a Thanksgiving dinner on my own in Belgium one year, not without trepidation, feeling a bit protective of this holiday. It had been a huge hit, until we’d come to the pumpkin pie, which cleaved the table in two: half thought it was incredibly disgusting, and the other that it was surprisingly delicious. I was certain it had to do with an attitude toward cinnamon, a spice admittedly overused in American cuisine. I loved it though, and couldn’t imagine pumpkin without it. Apples could go either way: I’d made both that year, a traditional deep-dish apple and a normande . Thinking of tarte aux pommes à la normande made me crave it. Oh, what the hell. I began peeling apples.
Leo, smelling like a forest, stepped in and stomped his feet on the mat. After removing his work boots he came over and put his arms around my waist, making me instinctively suck in my stomach. He looked over my shoulder.
“What are you doing?”
“Making a tarte aux pommes à la normande.”
“Good idea. I was worried that with only two pies, we would be faced with a pie shortage.” He shuddered. “Terrible fate.”
“Don’t you know”—I swiveled to face him, taking in the woodsy smell of his plaid shirt—“that it’s inadvisable to tease a woman holding a knife?”
“I’ll risk it. I’m going to grab a shower before everyone gets here.”
Everything here was under control. I made an espresso lungo and went to watch the parade with the girls.
They were already wearing their party dresses and looked like they’d stepped out of a painting.
“Mommy, watch with us. Please?”
Life was good. They say love is blind. But, actually, happiness is the one that needs its eyes surgically enhanced.
The fire was roaring, the maple tree outside the living room window was crimson, everyone was talking, laughing, eating, drinking champagne. We were all beautifully dressed. I was wearing the dress I’d bought in New York. The day was shaping up to be everything I’d hoped. I was pulling off the perfect Thanksgiving. Mentally I saluted Maman. I was sure I’d culled the cooking gene from her side of the family. Though I’d never inherited her love for fast cars.
We were finishing our drinks when Art walked in. Not alone. I almost dropped the tray of appetizers I was passing to go grab my sunglasses. Dazzling didn’t do his companion justice.
“Hi, guys, this is Brandy,” he said.
Of course it was.
Syd shot them a look that could have sliced steel. A second later it was gone, as was her champagne.
Leo refilled her glass and she glowered at him.
“I’m going to run up and get my camera. All this”—I swept my arm around the room, sloshing a bit of champagne on my wrist—“deserves posterity.”
It would be fine. I had no idea what was going on between my best friend and my brother but I’d deal with that later. Not on Thanksgiving.
The girls followed me. I pointed the camera at them. “Strike a pose.” They were both such hams. They twirled in their party dresses, dark curls bouncing, eyes bright, almost out-shirley-templing Shirley Temple.
“Ready?” They were always ready. When did it stop, the wanting to bask in the spotlight, the basic love affair with any mirror? I took a few shots, then Elly scuttled to her room to dig out her own camera.
Memories of my own first camera washed over me. I’d been ten. We’d all been ten. It had been like a rite of passage. At least I’d gotten a few good years of pictures before Maman left us. I sent a silent promise to my girls: I will not abandon you so young. I’ll be here for you and your kids. You won’t ever have to know.
I chased the thought away. It wouldn’t do to start crying today.
“Gali! Come down. Ana’s leaving,” called Leo.
By the time we were all seated around the table, it was almost three-thirty. The afternoon light was already fading, making the lit candles, if not strictly necessary, at least inviting.
We were still on our first servings. It was my intention that everyone have, at the very least, seconds, if not thirds. Well, everyone but Brandy, who was making a great show of rearranging homeopathic portions of her food around her plate. I guessed her to be about seventeen. Her jeans hugged hips the size of my upper arm, and her sweater, which ended just above her amber belly-button ring, was shorter than her sheaves of black hair.
“Arthur? Could you give me a refill?” she beamed, holding out her empty water glass.
“Yes, Arthur, do take care of your guest,” I said.
He made a face at me and filled Brandy’s glass. She rewarded him with a brilliant smile.
“Thank you so much for having me at your table,” she said to Leo.
“Oh, no problem . . . uh . . . anytime.” He was actually stammering. To her breasts.
At that moment, the phone rang and Leo sprang up to answer.
“Just leave it, we’re eating,” I said.
“Which everyone knows. It might be important.”
Not as important as hiding that flush spreading up across his face. Syd and I looked at each other.
“This is delicious, Magali. The turkey is not at all dry this year,” said my godmother.
“Thanks, Tante Sola.”
“And I must say, you look très belle. The extra kilos make your face look younger.” She took a forkful of gratin and smiled.
I would not let her spoil my meal.
“You know what Coco Chanel said. After a certain age, a woman must choose between her face and her derrière.” I knocked over my glass of wine. Luckily it had been almost empty. I sprinkled salt on the stain.
“Only after forty, chérie. But there is no harm in getting a head start.”
“Mama is perfect.” Hotly blurted by my precocious seven-year-old.
“Naturellement.” Tante Sola raised her glass. “A toast, to the most fantastic cook in the family.”
I refilled my glass. Had I gained weight? I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, sucking in my stomach. If I’d gotten fatter I’d have to starve myself between now and Christmas to pass Daddy’s scrutiny. Didn’t want to spend that holiday in his line of fire.
Tante Sola was past sixty now, her eyes must be going. I was sure I hadn’t gotten any heavier. The dress I was wearing, the one I’d bought in New York, fit perfectly. I picked up my knife and fork. The young couple from Leo’s firm, Paola and Mark, was chatting with Brandy and Arthur. Syd looked miserable and was eating at an alarming rate. The girls had polished off most of their meal and were starting to fidget.
“Charlotte. Elly. You may both be excused,” I said.
“But what about dessert?” asked Elly.
“I’ll call you in when it’s time.” They went to the family room to watch a movie. Art left the table with them to set it up just as Leo returned holding out the phone.
“Your sister,” he said.
“Which one?”
He grinned. “Which one do you think?”
The ever-dutiful Jacqueline. “I’ll call her back.”
“She insists. Do you want me to hang up on her?” It wasn’t a question.
Annoyed, I stood and left the table, taking the phone into the kitchen.
After handing the phone to my reluctant brother, I went to find my godmother. She was just leaving the guest bathroom when I cornered her. “Where’s Daddy?”
She gave me one of her don’t be daft looks. “Where he always is this week every year. In Belgium.”
I shook my head.
“Non?” Her eyes widened.
She scurried to the dining room, and Art said a quick good-bye before handing the phone to Tante Sola. She went to the kitchen. Art was still standing. I hated when people left the table during a meal. I felt like shouting to please sit down and eat. “Sit,” I said to my brother.
“We have to get going.” He grabbed Brandy’s hand and she rose.
“What?”
“I promised Brandy I’d take her out.” He slung his arm across her shoulders.
“Today? What about dessert?”
“Later. Look, I’m not hungry right now,” said Art.
“Oh,” said Brandy, with a giggle, “I never eat dessert. Do you know what all that fat and sugar do to your body?”
“Pure poison, yes, I know.” I tapped my fork on the table.
The young couple looked uncomfortable. “Maybe we . . .”
“Stay.” They didn’t move. I turned to Art and Brandy. “Sit down. Both of you.”
“Yes, Mom.” But Art sat, tugging Brandy’s arm till she perched on a chair beside him.
Tante Sola came back, looking worried.
“We will sit and finish. No more phones,” I said.
Obediently, they all passed around platters and resumed eating.
“So, has anyone been to the movies lately?” asked Syd.
I threw her a grateful look. “Oh, I just saw—” I began, searching my brain for the last movie I did see.
The doorbell rang. I threw my napkin on the table and blew all the air out of my body as if I were about to do a deep-breathing yoga pose or something. Tomorrow I was going to get the phone and the doorbell disconnected.
“I’ll get it,” I said.
“Too late, I’m there,” Leo said.
“So the movie?” prompted Syd.
“Yeah, it was that new Meryl Streep thing. What was the title? She had a British accent in it?”
Leo was back with Ana in tow. My spirits lifted.
“They closed DFW. An ice storm just hit.”
“Thank God,” I said.
“What?” said Ana.
“You know what I mean. You could have taken off and—” So intent was I on Ana that I only then noticed a second person trailing behind her. My mouth hung open.
“Everyone, this is—” Ana started.
“Simon. What are you doing in my house?” asked Leo.
“I hope you don’t mind my crashing the party. Hi, Gali.”
“How do you two know each other?” I asked Ana.
“We don’t. We just met outside.”
Leo looked confused but stuck out his hand. “So, Simon, apparently you know my wife?” His tone was cold.
“Technically, that would be correct, though we haven’t known each other long.” With an easy smile, he grasped Leo’s hand, then turned his gaze to me.
Cold fear spread through my veins. Leo knew him? And didn’t seem overly fond of him either. “Food.” I sprang up. “Have you eaten? Never mind. You’ll eat more.”
Leo shot me a bewildered look and went to get two more chairs while I hurried to the kitchen, glad to hide. I would have happily stayed there for the rest of the evening. Syd appeared at my side, as if by magic.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
“I know. Leo knows him?”
“It’s a nightmare. But honey, you didn’t mention he was so hot.”
“Yes I did.” My hands shook as I got two fresh plates out of the cupboard. “What am I going to do?” How did Leo know him?
“I know. Seat him next to me,” she said. “You can say you met Simon and intended him for me. Which, if you were a true friend, would be the case.”
“Yeah, except we already told Leo that you’d met a Simon.” I bit my lip and my sore finger throbbed.
“We’ll wing it. It will work. Come on. Let’s get back out there before Leo comes in asking questions.” She tugged on my arm. I took a few deep breaths and tried to quiet the pounding in my chest.
The rest of the meal took on a surreal aspect—I kept expecting a train to drive through the living room wall, or something. Syd flirted brazenly with Simon, who clearly enjoyed the attention, though his gaze kept sliding back to me. Leo ignored me and spent his time with Art and Brandy and her breasts. Ana chatted and charmed Paola and Mark. Which left me with Tante Solange and several glasses of wine. By this time she was quite tipsy and teary-eyed about her son, whom she hadn’t seen in the past I-can’t-recall-how-many years. Time was always a bit fuzzy with my aunt.
And through it all, concern for my father needled me.
I wished Syd would stop laughing so loudly. What was wrong with her?
If only that train would make its entrance. It would have been a welcome distraction. Where was Magritte when you really needed him? Surrealism wasn’t to be trusted.
By the time dessert had been demolished, the girls had fallen asleep on the couch, and everyone, including Syd, had left, it was after nine o’clock.
We carried the girls to bed before starting on the kitchen.
“So where did you meet Simon?” asked Leo, carrying dishes in from the dining room.
“In New York—I thought he’d be perfect for Syd.”
“Apparently she thought so too. Is he any relation to Simona?” He put his hand on my arm. “Quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”
Busted. “Okay. There is no Simona.”
“Gee, I’m astonished.” His voice flatlined. He turned his back to me. “I can’t believe you lied.”
“It’s not a big deal. It just seemed . . . simpler.” I scraped food into the disposal, my heart racing.
“Why? Why did you need to lie?”
“Look, it was nothing. I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.” I put down the plate I was holding and it broke cleanly into two pieces. It was too hot in the kitchen. I couldn’t breathe.
He swiveled and faced me. “And you thought lying about it was going to achieve that?”
I remained silent.
His eyes went so dark, they looked gray. “You’re my wife. I trust you. Or should I say trusted you.”
The tense sliced through my legs.
“Look. It just seemed . . . complicated to explain that I’d been out half the night with a guy. It was late, I was tired, and I didn’t want to get into it.”
“Why? Unless you felt guilty.”
“No. I just thought you might misunderstand, okay?” I took a step toward him. He stepped back.
“There was no misunderstanding those looks he kept giving you. Pretty eloquent.” He picked up the dishrag and started wiping the counter.
“He spent the whole time talking to Syd.”
“Who was putting on a great show.”
“How do you know him?” My voice croaked.
“Handled his divorce. I represented his ex.” He folded the dishrag and put it on the drainboard.
“Oh.” Shit.
“He has quite the reputation. Likes them married.”
“Leo.” I reached for his arm, but he backed away.
“I’ll be in the living room straightening up.”
And so we cleaned in silence.
“I’m going up. Good night.” No look, no kiss.
“I’ll be just a few more minutes.” I didn’t dare look at him. To tell the truth, I wasn’t thinking, or seeing straight, for that matter. I felt too full. I wondered how many calories I had consumed. With all the wine and cognac, probably about five thousand. Or maybe ten. I sighed. Tomorrow it would be nothing but fruits and vegetables. And lean protein. Had lots of white meat left on the turkey.
I was finishing up the dishes when the phone rang. I pounced on it, heart beating. I checked caller ID, hoping it wasn’t Simon. Not that there was anyone I wanted to talk to at this point.
Anyone except my baby sister.
I tried to keep my usual light banter, but my heart wasn’t in it. She must have heard it in my voice. At her insistence, I spilled. It tumbled out of my mouth as I slumped at the desk, head in hand.
“My career is a disaster, I haven’t convinced Ana not to leave me. Our brother has turned into a cradle-snatcher, unless he’s planning to adopt his current date—”
“Again?”
“Yeah, and I’m pretty sure this one isn’t even legal. What is it with him?”
“Nothing new. Not a hell of a lot we can do about Artie.”
“I think you mean Arthur.”
“Oh no! You’re kidding?” She began to giggle. “Gali, sweetie, your career is fixable. Ana leaving isn’t the end of the world.”
Then why did it sometimes feel that way, as if someone had just thrown a shroud over the sun? Hey, that was good. I should write it down to use in my novel, the one I would probably never write because who gave a shit about what I had to say anyway? Shut up and cook.
“Not finished with the list, yet. So”—I ticked off my fingers—“Ana, Artie, my marriage is probably over—”
“What?”
“It’s bad, Colette.” Tears stung my eyes. I blinked.
“It can’t be that bad. How much have you had to drink?”
“Too much.”
“Besides, if it was really serious, you would’ve led with that, instead of Ana.”
“Maybe I just don’t want to talk about it.” Which was the truth. “By the way, is Daddy with you?”
“What? Is he on his way here?” Her voice swerved.
“Not that I know.”
“Gali,”—back to her normal voice—“you know Daddy doesn’t recognize California as part of the United States. It wasn’t one of the thirteen original. Besides, he spends Thanksgiving in Belgium.”
“Not this year.”
“Huh.” Colette paused. “He’s probably fine. I’m sure he’s fine. So, what’s up with you and my yummy brother-in-law?”
I got up and poured myself a fresh glass of wine and told her. Everything. The train ride, the restaurant, the hospital, Leo’s visit, my lie, that night in his apartment, and his showing up here.
“Thank God Syd was here to deflect the horror,” I finished.
“Well, it’s weird, I’ll give you that. But nothing happened, right? And you were feeling alone and vulnerable,” she said.
“But I wanted to be alone.”
“So you say.”
“When exactly did you get your PhD in psych? Anyway, it was the lie that did it. I told him Simon was a girl: Simon-a.”
Colette started to laugh.
“Not funny.”
“Sorry. So, he made the connection.”
“Worse than that, he knows the guy. His firm handled his divorce, represented Simon’s ex.”
“Oh, merde!”
“My sentiments exactly. So, Daddy, Ana, Art, Simon, Leo . . . what did I miss? Syd. She’s acting like a lunatic.”
“Again, nothing new.”
I let it pass. “And . . . oh yeah, I’m fat. But it suits me.” I took a sip of wine without tasting it.
“Let me guess. Tante Sola?”
“Bingo.”
“The girls?”
“The girls are amazing and oblivious and happy.”
“I miss them.”
“They miss you, too. The light at the end of the tunnel is seeing you at Christmas.”
“Uh, about that?”
“If you bail, I will come out there myself and drag you here by the scruff of your neck.”
“Impossible, neck has no scruff to speak of.” She paused. “Of course I’ll be there,” she said very—too?—brightly.
“You’d better.”
“Okay, now, listen to me. Empty that glass in the sink, rinse it out. Go to bed, go directly to bed. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Got it?”
Guiltily, I poured the wine I was drinking into the sink. California was doing wonders for her powers of perception. “Done.”
“Call me tomorrow.”
She clicked off and I realized I had no idea how she was. How long had it been since I’d had hard news from her? I mounted the steps, the cat trailing behind me. Something else to worry about. I felt like having a cigarette. Maybe I should take up smoking again. Lung cancer, after all, is a great solution. I stopped in to check on the girls and pulled up Charlotte’s duvet, smoothed Elly’s hair back. I planted a light kiss on each perfect forehead.
“Don’t worry, I’ll never let anything bad happen to you, I promise.” But even as I said it, I knew it was a lie.
Black Friday
As per tradition, still wearing pajamas, the girls and I made pancakes the next morning. I couldn’t understand how, after eating such a huge amount the day before, I was starving in the morning. I remembered the diet I was going to start today.
No one started dieting on a Friday. There was probably a law against it. I’d start Monday. Besides, I didn’t believe in diets.
Charlotte cracked the eggs and beat them with the milk. Elly measured the flour and salt, though I did rectify her pinch, which in her tiny hands ended up being all of four grains.
They’d even set the breakfast table themselves.
By the time Leo came down, the setting was picture perfect. “Hi, Daddy, look what we made!”
He picked up a girl in each arm and spun them. “You two are the most fantastic chefs. I can’t believe how lucky I am.”
They giggled and basked in his love and approval. My stomach clenched. I had to make sure nothing would ever take that away from them. I set a cup of fresh, hot coffee in front of him.
“Morning. Thanks.”
I tried to gauge his mood. I knew from Maman’s diary that my parents had argued hard and often. They both had strong personalities, but just like milk that was boiling over, tempers died down as soon as the heat was removed.
He took a sip of coffee. “No kiss?”
Was it really over? That easily? I leaned over and kissed him, but his lips remained tight. Or was it my imagination? Guilt was a mirage-maker, after all.
“Should we start on putting up the lights once the Thanksgiving stuff is all packed up?” I forced a note of insouciance, of brightness, into my voice.
“Sure. Maybe Simon can come over and give us a hand.”
“He’s nice. And he talks like Harry Potter,” said Elly.
I kept my eyes on my plate and began to eat.
“Are they good, Momma?” asked Charlotte.
“Perfect,” I said. I swallowed and took a sip of coffee. My appetite was gone. Probably not a bad thing. “Could you come and help me with something in the attic? Once you’re done?”
“I’ll be right there.”
I went up and started getting the empty Thanksgiving boxes down from the shelf. The last one had just toppled on my head when Leo came in.
I swiveled. “Look. If you have something to say to me, just say it. Don’t spend all day innocently throwing poison darts at me in front of the girls.”
“Look, I’m trying, okay? It’s not that guy—not just, anyway. It’s that you found you needed to lie to me.”
I looked down at the dust balls at my feet. “I’m sorry. I just thought it would be easier. A white lie. Don’t you ever tell white lies?”
“Not to you.”
“Oh come on. When you tell me I look great when I’m clearly fat.”
“Not a lie. You look great. I mean it every time. Okay,” he said, “how would you have reacted if I’d been the one to tell the lie?”
I opened my mouth but before I could formulate a thought, he put his hand up like a cop stopping traffic.
“Yes, I know—we would have had to dig ourselves out of a blizzard of pastry.” He smiled at me and I felt my own mouth begin to twitch. “But how would you have felt?”
“I . . . I wouldn’t know if I could still trust you,” I said, my voice small.
“Exactly. And that’s what I’m going through right now because I still don’t truly understand the need.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “This is us.”
I felt tears welling up in my eyes. “I know. That’s why it shouldn’t matter. It’s us.”
“Not to mention that the guy’s a bastard.”
“Huh?” I could be very eloquent when the need arose.
“Things aren’t always what they seem. It’s that accent. Makes him sound like that actor you like.”
“Hugh Grant? Colin Firth?”
“Yeah, him.”
“If he’s so awful, should we say something to Syd? She seemed . . . smitten.”
Leo rapped his knuckles against my temple. “For such a smart woman, you’re not always very perceptive.”
“What?”
“Look, I’m freezing up here. Let’s grab some of those cartons and head back down where it’s warm.”
“So what am I not being perceptive about?” I picked up a carton and followed him.
“Because . . . think about it. I shouldn’t be the one to tell you. I’m going to get dressed before digging out the ladder.”
I suddenly felt suffocated, I needed air. I headed to the kitchen. “C’mon, girls, let’s clean this up, get dressed, and go shopping.”
“For us?” asked Charlotte.
“Sure, for all of us and the house, too.”
Once on the road, my claustrophobia had abated a bit. I drove over to Plymouth Meeting Mall and almost lost control of the car when I spotted the line of cars and orange-clad parking attendants. Of course. Today was Black Friday.
“Mommy, where are we going?” asked Elly.
I was maneuvering out of the line of cars, signaling and peering over my shoulder.
“Aren’t we going in?” she persisted.
“I want to go in,” said her sister.
“Change of plan, sweeties. We’re going to the drugstore. Pick up some more lights and stuff.”
We were almost there. I was fiddling with the dial on the radio scanning for some Christmas music.
“You’re not listening,” said Elly.
“Of course I am. What?” I found a station that was playing “Winter Wonderland.”
“Then are they?” she asked, her voice rising above the music.
“Are they what? Who?”
Elly gave an exasperated sigh worthy of a seven-year-old drama queen. “Told ya you weren’t listening. Are Uncle Art and Aunt Syd getting married? And are we getting new dresses?”
“I wanna be a flower girl,” said Charlotte.
“Why would you think they’re getting married? Silly goose.” I turned into the parking lot and cruised up and down the lanes, looking for a space.
“Cause they were loooove kissing—” said Elly.
“—in the backyard,” said Charlotte.
“Yeah. Then Aunt Syd hit him on the face.” She giggled.
“That’s bad, right, Momma? Aunt Syd needs a time-out.”
If I hadn’t been in a moving vehicle, I would have banged my head against the steering wheel. On purpose. Repeatedly.
Dumbkoff! Imbecile! Idiot!
I couldn’t decide which of them suited me better. I’d have to have all three engraved on my tombstone. Expense be damned.