Chapter Seventeen
You OK? Foster mouthed across the table at her. At least she thought that was what he mouthed. The flickering candles and the three glasses of wine were making it hard to focus.
She was OK, if that was what he was asking. She was surrounded by cousins and uncles and neighbors and friends from the country club whose names she would never remember. It was so loud she could barely hear the conversation. She’d eaten so much she thought she would bust a seam on her dress.
It was perfect.
“It’s snowing!” The shout of one of the many child cousins rang out through the formal dining room, which was impressive because the child cousins were relegated to a table in the parlor.
“Imagine that, snow on Thanksgiving,” Grandfather Deacon said, his tone as dry as the white wine.
The woman on her right—the wife of one of Foster’s father’s most important clients—turned to her and asked, “When’s the last time we had snow on Thanksgiving?”
Becky thought about it. It had been a few years. She was about to turn to the woman and tell her that, in the grand tradition of polite small talk, but she was talking to her husband across the table. He was looking at his phone. “Are you looking up the last time we had snow, Timothy?”
Timothy grunted.
Ooo . . . people not saying what they meant but expecting the other person to understand anyway. The elusive passive-aggressive relationship. Now her Thanksgiving was complete. She should have made a bingo card.
Maddie came in to the living room carrying a girl in a pink dress that was all tulle, except for the big wet mess down the front of it. Foster’s friend Franny—the one he hadn’t been on a date with the other night and who really was just a friend—hopped up and retrieved her messy daughter. Maddie shot her own mother a dirty look and stomped back to the parlor.
Poor Maddie, relegated to the kids’ table. But apparently, last year Maddie had sat at the adult table for the first time and took so many sneaky sips from Grandmother Deacon’s wineglass that she made a “terrible fuss”—Mrs. Deacon’s words—at dessert and then passed out under the table before the dishes were cleared away. So as bad as Becky felt for Maddie, she couldn’t really blame Mrs. Deacon for her seating arrangements.
“It’s really coming down,” said a cousin. No, an aunt. The new wife of an uncle. Whoever she was, she was wearing a purple feather fascinator and Becky loved her for it.
“But it wasn’t supposed to snow today.” Mrs. Deacon looked desperately at Mr. Deacon. As if she had consulted the atmosphere and the weather had agreed to knock it off until after dessert. Mr. Deacon didn’t seem to be paying attention.
“Whatever happened to that global warming you’re always going on about?” a drunk uncle asked Foster’s college-aged cousin who Becky was pretty sure was named Tara, but it could also have been Megan or Colleen. Those were all three names that had been bandied about during cocktail hour, but Becky couldn’t for the life of her match the face to the name.
“It’s climate change, Uncle Gene,” said Tara or Megan or Colleen with a very impressive eye roll. “That doesn’t mean it’s never cold. It means the weather’s all wonky.”
“We should get going before the roads get bad,” said the youngest uncle. (Dave? George? Felix? She had no idea.)
“Since when is snow in Colorado wonky?”
“I’ll start getting the kids ready,” said the youngest uncle’s wife. (Deborah. Becky was moderately sure it was Deborah.)
“But we haven’t served dessert yet,” said Mrs. Deacon in a tone that, if Becky was less nice, could be described as a whine. “The boys will want their football and cigars first.”
“Oh, let them go, Lydia,” Mr. Deacon muttered.
“It’s wonky when it’s unpredictable like this. We were all wearing shorts yesterday.”
“Oh, she’s a feisty one,” said country club dad, who was probably named Chip.
“The thing is, Lydia, I don’t want the kids to have all that refined sugar.”
“Remember when she was too young to talk? Those were the days.”
“Geez, Uncle Gene, don’t get mad just because a woman knows more about something than you do.”
“A little sugar won’t hurt them. It’s the holidays.”
“Drop it, Lydia.”
“Oh, here she goes again, on her little man-hating soapbox. You know, Megan—”
“Megan!” Becky shouted. Yes! That was it! Megan!
Or maybe she hadn’t shouted. Megan and Uncle Gene were still arguing over whether she was allowed to be smart, Mrs. Deacon was shooting daggers at youngest uncle’s wife’s back while she coached her children on giving everyone at the table a kiss good-bye. Becky watched as Foster leaned down to receive a sticky kiss from a towheaded boy in a bow tie. She fumbled for her wine because that hurt her ovaries. He looked up and gave her a quizzical glance. “My ovaries,” she explained.
Out loud.
She didn’t like being on the receiving end of a glare from Mrs. Deacon.
Real smooth, Becky.
Foster shook his head, but one of the corners of his mouth lifted up in a little smirk. She couldn’t decide whether she wanted to smile back or melt into a puddle of shame under the table.
Possibly she was a bit tipsy.
“Kickoff’s in ten,” said a guy she was fairly certain had not been there before. “We watching in the den, Uncle Andrew?”
“You go on,” Mr. Deacon replied. “I’m going to watch the kickoff in my study with a Cohiba. Beautiful dinner, Lydia.” He kissed his wife on the cheek, then left the table. Becky wouldn’t swear to it, but she thought she saw him snap his fingers and Foster got up, too. Except instead of following his father, he walked around the table—the long way ’round—and leaned over her.
She didn’t tilt her head up because she was expecting a kiss. She just did it to hear him better.
“I’m going to my dad’s study for a cigar. You’ll be OK out here?”
“What? No! Don’t leave me here. Your mother hates me.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“Then why does it look like she’s gritting her teeth and staring at us?”
“That’s how she always looks on Thanksgiving.”
“Yikes.”
“My father is much worse.”
“Fine, I’ll stay here. Preserve the gender dichotomy.”
“Good girl.”
Before she could tell him that she was not a girl, he’d leaned down and kissed her on the lips, just quick, like it was the most natural thing in the world. When he straightened, he looked as surprised as she felt.
“Becky? Join us in the parlor so Foster can go talk to his father.”
She gave Foster a look she hoped conveyed both sympathy and desperation, and prayed his conversation with his father would be short.