Chapter 2
While Molly set the table with the Kings’ plain white plates, Felicity poured water into three tall everyday glasses. Nell rarely used the Waterford crystal and the Lenox tableware she had received at her wedding shower. The pieces held too many memories of the days when Nell and Joel King had been—or at least had appeared to be—a happy couple.
“That smells soooo good,” Felicity said, refilling the pitcher at the sink.
Nell smiled. “I know.” She had made batch upon batch of pesto during the summer, harvesting the basil from the garden, until the freezer was full of containers that brought back memories of the days when the sun provided light if not warmth until eight or nine o’clock.
“What did Mick want earlier?” Nell asked as the three took their seats around the table and began to eat.
“Nothing,” Molly said.
“It couldn’t really have been nothing,” Felicity pointed out. “There has to be some intention behind calling someone, even if it’s just to say hi.”
“Okay, he called to say hi.”
“See?” Felicity cleared her throat and looked meaningfully at her mother. “I was looking again online at the J. W. Anderson bag I really want for Christmas. It’s made in Spain.”
“I know,” Nell said. “You already told me.”
“So what if it’s made in Spain?” Molly asked.
“It means the workmanship is high quality. A bag like that is an investment piece.”
Molly laughed. “What does a seventeen-year-old need with an investment piece? And it’s not even something important. It’s just a bag.”
“Women keep their designer bags forever,” Felicity argued. “One day I could pass it on to my own daughter.”
“Assuming it hasn’t gotten lost or stolen or hasn’t totally fallen apart.”
While her daughters argued about the relative importance of a handbag, Nell thought about the larger issue at hand. Before Felicity had announced her plans to spend next Christmas with her father and stepmother, Nell had considered the coveted bag out of the question. Since her daughter’s announcement, however, she had given the idea of buying the bag serious consideration. If Pam and Joel could give Felicity a trip to Europe, the least Nell could do was to give her something equally extravagant. She might be able to scrape together the money, even though her salary as office manager of Mutts and Meows, a local veterinary practice, wasn’t grand. And there were online luxury consignment stores, though the chances of a new design having already been given up for sale seemed low.
Nell suddenly became aware that her daughters’ friendly disagreement was threatening to turn into an outright argument about the dangers of materialism. “I was reading an article in today’s Portland Press Herald,” she interrupted. “It was about the Yorktide and Oceanside Land Bank Commission. Seems there are always volunteer posts open on the Emergency Shelter Assessment Committee.”
“That’s the bunch of services and government reps and advocates who make sure the homeless are safe and taken care of?” Felicity asked, using tongs to add more pasta to her plate.
“Right. I was thinking that once Molly graduates next June she’ll have some time to give back to the community.” Nell turned to her older daughter. “I thought you might be interested since you took that advanced psychology seminar last year on the causes of homelessness and what being homeless does to a person’s state of mind.”
“Some of the stuff you told us really freaked me out,” Felicity said to her sister. “Like that when a non-homeless person looks at a homeless person, the part of the brain that activates when relating to other people and empathizing with them fails to activate.”
“The medial prefrontal cortex,” Molly said without looking up from her plate.
“It’s like the brain dehumanizes the homeless before, I don’t know, before a person can really see an individual.” Felicity shuddered. “Awful.”
“It is awful,” Nell agreed. “This article said that last month on any given night there were an average of four hundred and thirty people in shelters in Portland alone. That’s an appalling number.”
“Molly could volunteer,” Felicity said, “if co-managing the Williams’s farm doesn’t kill her! Farmers don’t exactly have a lot of downtime.”
“Molly won’t be co-managing the farm until she and Mick are married,” Nell pointed out. “Before that she’ll have some room in her schedule.”
Molly didn’t comment.
“This pasta is awesome,” Felicity said, heaping yet more onto her plate.
Clearly, Nell thought, her daughters were done with the subject of volunteering. “Do you taste the special ingredient in the salad dressing?” she asked. “It’s coriander.”
Felicity shrugged. “I can never identify individual ingredients. Frankly, as long as there’s a lot of something, I’ll probably enjoy it.”
For a moment Nell wondered if Pam was a good cook, but it wasn’t a question she would ask Felicity. She didn’t need to know that Pam was as proficient in the kitchen as she was at so many other things. Like winning gold medals and luring other people’s children to Switzerland for Christmas.
Molly suddenly got up from her seat and brought her plate and glass to the sink. “I’ve got some homework to do,” she said.
“Can I help you clean up, Mom?” Felicity asked. “I know teenagers aren’t supposed to complain about their mothers doing their chores, but seriously, you didn’t have to vacuum my room and do my laundry yesterday. Those are my jobs, even though I’m not very good at them.”
“That’s okay. Cleaning up is exercise, right? All the bending and reaching. And I’m sure you have homework, too, like that trig you mentioned before dinner.”
“Ugh,” Felicity said. “I still have three more problems to solve.”
When both girls had gone upstairs, Nell looked at the dirty plates and empty glasses with a sort of fondness. Some day in the not too distant future she would be making meals for one and cleaning up after only herself. She felt a keen wave of loneliness come over her and considered calling her closest friend and neighbor Jill for no other reason than to hear her voice. Nell had pulled her cell phone from her pocket before she decided not to make the call. I’d better get used to being on my own, she thought, striding toward the dishwasher with her own plate and glass. I’d better get used to the sound of my own thoughts.