CHAPTER ELEVEN
Art made creamy scalloped potatoes and pot roast for dinner, using the rest of us as unwilling sous chefs. Jackson and I collaborated on a spinach and berry salad that I thought turned out pretty well, and we’d dumped it in a big, fancy serving bowl to showcase our work. As Art served up the food, I volunteered to carry out the plates.
It had been a long time since we’d gathered for a family dinner and the lack of coordination in our chairs showed it. Some were from the original dining set, but others were from various locations in the house—fold-up chairs, a bench from the front hall, and something I was pretty sure was an ottoman. Bree and Brittany sat in comically low fold-up chairs, elbows propped on the table. Hiding my amusement, I watched them thumbing through their phones frantically, utilizing every last second on social media before Lane would make them put their phones away for dinner.
“Girls! It’s time!” Lane’s voice floated from the kitchen, and they groaned.
I put Jackson’s plate and mine as far as possible from my father’s place setting, even though I knew it wouldn’t stop the grilling that was coming. My dad was enamored of Jackson, but you didn’t date a cop’s daughter without getting the business, even if that cop was retired. I shifted our plates another place away from the head of the table. Can’t blame a girl for trying.
The table looked nice, if I did say so myself. I’d thrown myself into setting the table, digging out linen napkins with porcelain ring holders. I’d even dug out the good silverware. Everything sparkled and glittered under the prisms of light thrown off by the chandelier.
I glanced up at the chandelier in fond remembrance. I remembered many a weekend on a step ladder in cutoff shorts with a sullen expression, taking down each of the crystals to clean. That Saturday-killing bitch lived on, looking much like it did on the first day it was installed. Now that I didn’t have to polish every inch of it, I could appreciate its beauty a little more.
I carried out two more plates, setting one carefully before Rick. When I reached Lane on his other side, she looked at me, positively ashen. I gave her a concerned look. “You okay, honey?”
“Yeah. It’s just that…someone…someone let you cook?”
“Shut it,” I growled. I sat her plate down hard enough to send some sauce splattering. She sent me a glare as she dabbed at the speck of gravy on her wrist. Noticing the way everyone was looking at their plates in alarm, I admitted, “Art did the cooking. I’m merely the delivery girl.”
I pretended not to hear the collective sigh of relief that swept through the room or Jackson’s guffaw as he dropped into his chair. Instead, I zipped off for another plate, disappearing haughtily through the kitchen doors. By the time I returned, Jackson was under the spotlight, being interrogated by my über nosy father. I ignored the woeful glance Jackson sent me as I took my seat on his left side. Mostly because he hadn’t defended my culinary prowess. Enjoy your interrogation!
“So what is it you do, son?” My father was clearly less interested in scalloped potatoes and more interested in shining a bright light in Jackson’s eyes.
“I’m a lawyer.”
“Successful?”
“I do well enough.”
“What’s well enough?”
“Well enough that I’m comfortable, but not well enough so that I can quit.”
My dad’s grunt let me know that he wasn’t all that pleased with such an ambiguous answer. Not to mention Jackson’s answer wasn’t exactly true. I wasn’t going to rat him out about being a trust fund baby, though. My dad soldiered on, determined to ferret out something. “How long have you guys been seeing one another?”
“Two months,” I said quickly. I figured I’d better cut in before Jackson could float his old couple idea. The corner of his mouth lifted as I nudged his knee with mine, and I knew my instincts had been right.
“Two months?” My dad raised an eyebrow.
“Two months,” I repeated.
“Two months,” Jackson confirmed, poker-faced.
My dad stabbed at his potatoes with his fork. “That’s not very long.”
“That depends on who you ask,” I said smoothly.
“Is that so?”
“It is.” I sent him a sweet smile.
“Well, if you’re asking me, I think it’s not very long.”
“When you’re in a relationship, it doesn’t seem to matter what anyone else thinks.”
I wondered if he would catch my double meaning. It certainly hadn’t mattered to him and Irene what the rest of us thought.
“Mmhm.” From the squinty-eyed look he gave me, he caught my drift and wasn’t pleased. I knew I was pushing it. Pushing it like an ’82 rambler running on nothing but fumes. He shifted the squinty-eyed stare to Jackson. “So why haven’t we met you by now?”
“Good question,” Lane murmured to my left, and I, already prepared to do something unspeakable, stabbed her thigh under the table with my fork. Gently, of course.
She yelped and glared at me, rubbing her thigh. In the wrong spot. Drama queen. The heavy denim fabric of her jeans had taken the brunt of the poke. “You’re meeting him now,” I said with an innocent smile.
The old man soldiered on. “You have any kids, Jackson?”
“No sir.”
My dad’s eyebrows furrowed. “So you don’t like kids.”
“I love kids.”
“Then why don’t you have any?”
“I haven’t met the right woman,” he said smoothly.
“So my AJ isn’t the right woman?”
“Dad,” I said through gritted teeth. “That’s enough grilling, don’t you think?”
“I didn’t know it was a crime to ask questions.” He widened big blue eyes that none of us had inherited. “Is it a crime to ask questions, Avery Jane?”
“No, but I think there’s about to be another crime in progress here.”
“I think I have the right to know if I’m going to have any more grandchildren. I bet Jackson’s parents wouldn’t mind knowing the same thing. Do your parents have any grandchildren yet, Jackson?”
“My parents died. A while ago.” Jackson’s smile was a little strained, and I touched his leg under the table. He gave me a grateful look. “But no. No grandchildren.”
My dad looked chagrined. “I’m sorry, son.”
“It was a long time ago.”
Irene’s gaze darted back and forth nervously. She liked peace and harmony at her dining room table, no matter what. “Anyone need more iced tea?”
My father ignored her, firing off another question in Jackson’s direction. “Do you love my daughter?”
He demanded this with the same fervor the police would demand an alibi from a suspect, and Jackson and I both choked a little on our drinks. As I continued to splutter incoherently, Jackson recovered smoothly, saying, “I think it’s a little early for love, to be perfectly honest. But what I do know, I like.”
Damn, he was good. I didn’t know what I’d even been worried about. With his arm draped casually over the back of my chair, playing with the end of my ponytail, I almost believed we were a couple. Obviously, he didn’t need my help. He was a natural with people, putting them at ease without appearing to do so. He made them laugh as he told manufactured stories of our first date, and even my dad couldn’t help a chuckle or two.
The feeling of well-being, surrounded by people I loved in the home I’d grown up in, washed over me like a hot bath on sore muscles, healing places I didn’t even know were strained. The sounds of plates and serving dishes being passed and people chattering made me feel good…good in the present, the here, the now… not accompanied by that bitter tinge of nostalgia that it usually came with. So I was completely unprepared for someone to rain on my parade. But rain it did.
The thunder rumbled as we were finishing dinner, and Bree and Brittany were clearing the table. “Coffee on the deck?” Art suggested.
“I’m in,” Jackson said.
“We should do this again,” Lane said suddenly.
“We will,” I said dryly. “We’ll probably eat again tomorrow.”
Her fingers found a patch of skin on my arm and pinched. “I meant we should do this again for the upcoming holiday. Thanksgiving, maybe.”
“That’ll be wonderful,” Irene piped in. “Even if the house sells by then, we can still get together.”
For the second time in so many days, Irene’s announcement met pin-drop silence. She was getting a little too good at those. I looked from her to my father’s slowly reddening face, and realized it was a little more than a slip of the tongue.
“I’m sorry,” Lane said, clearing her throat. “You’re selling the house?”
I tried to come up with something supportive to say, but I drew a blank. In the end, I could only manage one word, stupefaction personified. “Why?”
“Irene and I want something a little smaller. We’re not getting any younger, you know. We need something with a little less maintenance.” It was hard to even look at my father as he patted Irene’s arm. “Isn’t that right, honey?”
Maintenance? He was reducing our childhood memories to maintenance?
Irene nodded so hard in agreement, I was afraid her hair clip was going to fly off. “Absolutely. It’s only the two of us, after all. What do we need with all this space?”
I gave her a cold stare and her hands fluttered nervously. Space, my ass. She just wanted a blank slate with my father, a place where my mother had never been. I understood it. That didn’t mean I had to like it.
Lane finally found her voice. “Where…where are you guys planning to move?”
“Maybe a condo? Hopefully we’ll get something by the beach, like this one,” Irene gushed. “Your father loves to relax on the deck and watch the ocean go by, so that’ll be perfect for us.”
As long as I could remember, my mother had begged him to take more time off. Take some time to relax, she’d said. Take some time off for you. For us.
He’d never even missed one day of work. Not in twenty-five years. Not when he was sick. Not when we were sick. Even in a fucking hurricane, he’d gone in with the auxiliary unit, to help control street chaos. Immediately after her death, he’d retired, taken up bowling, reading, and an overall relaxed mode of living. Apparently, he liked to watch the ocean’s waves roll in. And now he was going to sell the house…no, the home my mother had helped create for us, and move his bubble-headed fiancée into a beachfront condo with the proceeds.
Two million, six hundred seventy-five thousand, five hundred, twenty minutes. I’d never missed her more. My mom would know exactly what to say to diffuse this awful pall that had dropped over the table. I didn’t bother to try my own skills at smoothing things over. Right now, I couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t begin with something foul. I was leaning toward either “fuck you” or “fuck this,” and I was pretty sure neither option would help lift anyone’s spirits.
I swallowed hard, and Jackson’s hand was suddenly in mine, squeezing so hard it almost hurt. When I finally looked at him, he rubbed his thumb over the back of my hand and gave me a small nod.
Truthfully, it was time for me to realize that part of my life was over. It was officially separated into BM and AM, Before Mom and After Mom, and I had to accept that things were going to change. Things were different now. It was time for me to stop clinging to old memories and create new memories of my own.
I just wasn’t sure where to start.
*
“You need a hand?”
Later that night, I glanced up from the kitchen sink to find Art standing there holding two dirty saucers and a cup. I shook my head and took the dishes. I plunged them in the hot water to soak and went back to scrubbing a pot. “You cooked, so there’s no way I’m letting you clean. You even made the after dinner coffee. Besides, it’s helping clear my head.”
“I hear you.” He sighed and picked up a dish towel. He joined me at the sink, and began drying dishes out of the drying rack. “You know what would clear my head? A little Jack Daniels.”
Amen to that. Unfortunately, he was shit out of luck. I shook my head sadly. “I already raided the place. Only thing we’ve got alcoholic is Dad’s craft beer. And apparently only he and Jackson can drink that.”
Art sighed. “Where is Jackson anyway?”
“His firm has a big project going on. He had to take a call.”
“This late?”
I shrugged. When you were the owner of a company or business, nothing was too late. Proverbial fires and real fires were alike that way. Real fires never happen conveniently, when you were dressed and ready with a fire extinguisher at hand. They usually happened when you were in your pajamas, the ones too ratty to even get the mail in, with your hair standing on end. Proverbial fires were no different, and whether it was night or day, you had to put them out.
I squirted some more dish soap in the water and swished it around. “Speaking of work, how’re things at the Bleu?”
“Fantastic. As usual,” he added without a hint of modesty. It was well-deserved—I’d eaten most everything off his menu and it was fantastic. “I hired a new sous chef and it seems to be working out pretty well so far.” He smiled. “Maybe I’ll get out of the kitchen before midnight sometime.”
“You work too much.”
“You should talk.”
I made a face as I washed soapy lather off the pot’s well-seasoned bottom. Guilty as charged. We were both workaholics with no lives. We would start a club, only we worked too much to make time for meetings.
“At least you made time for a relationship. Which is more than I’ve done in the past few months.” He looked off thoughtfully. “Although that does give me hope. I mean, if you can find someone…”
“Shut it.”
“I mean, really,” he teased. “How is the karma of the universe working when you have someone and I don’t?”
“Even karma has its limits. There’s no help for your cheesy pickup lines.”
He swatted me with the dish towel.
A wave of nostalgia suddenly hit me so hard it was hard to draw a breath. God, we’d had the same kind of argument at least a dozen times in this very kitchen. From the look on Art’s face, he kind of felt it, too.
His shoulders drooped a bit as he leaned against the sink, bracing his hands on the edge. “Can’t believe he’s selling this house,” he said with a sigh.
I shook my head. “You and me both.”
“It’s going to be hard seeing another family living here.”
“Not like we have much say in the matter.”
“We could buy it,” he suggested.
“And then what? Are you going to leave Vegas and live here? Should we ask Lane and Rick to give up their jobs in New York? Things are financially sound on my end, but I can’t afford to buy a three-way timeshare. Not something this expensive. We’d have to rent it out to another family.”
“But it would still be ours.”
“It wouldn’t be the same and you know it. Part of what made this feel like home is gone, and there’s no amount of property and a four-figure tax bill that’s going to fix that.”
“You’re right about that.” He sighed again, gustier this time. “Hell, maybe it’s for the best.”
“That’s what I’m trying to convince myself to believe. If you have better luck, tell me how.”
It was a full minute before he spoke again. “Can you tell me why it feels like he’s moving on so quickly and we’re stuck in a rut? Stuck in the remnants of the past?”
I used the hand sprayer to wash a pot, turning it over gently in my pruney hands. No, I couldn’t. I could tell him he wasn’t alone in that feeling, but I thought that was kind of obvious. Instead, I nudged his shoulder with mine and handed him a pot.
“Dry,” I instructed.
We worked in quiet unison for a little while, the clink of dishes comforting in the quiet of the kitchen. Most of the household had retired to their rooms, and the usual sounds of people going about their night routine could be heard. The soft patter of the shower upstairs, the buzz of an electric toothbrush, the sound of the hair dryer…it was peaceful and quiet, which was a nice contrast to my riotous thoughts.
Art slung the dishtowel over his shoulder and began putting away dishes to make room in the drying rack. Most of them were still damp, and I had to grin. The fool had been doing that since we were little kids, and then we’d both get in trouble for doing it wrong.
“Would it be possible, sometime before I die, for you to learn how to do dishes properly?” I asked.
“Maybe when you learn not to be such a smartass.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
He flipped me the bird before shutting the cupboard quickly. Mostly because he’d stacked them so precariously, they threatened to fall out. The next person who tried to get a cup out of that cupboard was probably going to get some Tupperware right to the noggin.
The door swung open as Lane came in, clad in a fluffy sheep robe and fuzzy blue slippers. She came to a halt, surprise on her face. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself.” Art raised an eyebrow. “What’s up?”
“Nothing’s up,” she said with a shrug. “I came down for some water.”
“Irene put water next to our beds,” I said, hiding a grin. “Evian, I think.”
“I meant I’m looking for a snack,” she said huffily. “Not a crime to come down for a snack, is it?”
Art and I shrugged innocently. “Not at all,” we chorused, continuing to wash and dry.
She opened another cupboard door, moving around a bunch of canned goods to see what was in the very back. “I thought we had some almonds in here.”
“I wouldn’t know,” I said.
“I didn’t see any,” Art said.
“Pecans?”
He smiled. “Nope.”
I rolled my eyes and decided to put her out of her misery before she began looking for secret trapdoors. “There’s no booze in here,” I said. “We already checked.”
“Fuck.” She ran her hands through her dark hair, sending the strands in all directions. The dark silky strands fell back in place, too afraid to rebel for too long on her orderly head. “Let’s go out, then.”
“Don’t you have kids?” Art teased.
“They’re already asleep,” she replied. “Besides, the youngest is a nasty drunk.”
Art laughed. “Same old Lane. I’m in if AJ’s in.”
I made a face. I couldn’t think of something I wanted to do less than shove my ass in some clothing two buttons away from cutting off my circulation for good, and have someone serve me overpriced drinks all night. Drinks that were heavy on garnish and light on liquor.
“I have a better idea.” I pulled the plug in the sink and let the water drain. I turned to them and snagged the dishtowel from Art to pat my hands dry. “Art, you go to the store and rectify this prohibition crisis. I’ll change into my pajamas and we’ll wait for you in the den. Then we can all sit on some comfy furniture and drink booze out of whatever random assortment of cups we can find. What do you think?”
“I think what I’ve always thought.” Art grinned. “Clearly you’re the brains in this family.”