high beside the sink.
I put the kettle on, filled the sink with hot water, and piled the dishes into it. While I waited for the water on the stove to boil, I went into the laundry room, picked up an empty basket, and carried it to the family room and used it to collect the fallen soldiers.
“You don’t have to do that, Jane.”
“I don’t mind,” I said.
“You are so resourceful,” Winnie said. “I don’t think people give you enough credit.”
I wasn’t too flattered by Winnie’s assumption that I was gifted just because I knew how to pick up a few toys. Still, it’s pleasant to receive a compliment no matter how lame or ridiculous.
The teakettle whistled and I went back into the kitchen. Winnie kept a collection of teas in a cabinet over the stove. Black teas—Darjeeling, Earl Grey, English Breakfast—and herb teas—ginseng, Lemon Lift, Passionate Peach. When Winnie put her home together, she relied heavily on
I chose Darjeeling, and while the tea steeped, I moved the dishes from the sink to the dishwasher. This small domestic task was both simple and satisfying. It made me feel useful and gave me a glimpse into how I might feel if this were my own kitchen and I were part of a young family. I filled a tray with sugar, milk, two hand-painted mugs, and carried the tray in to Winnie. I knew Winnie had painted the mugs at a store in town called Glaze & Amaze. She often went there. I set the tray down on a small table in the corner of the room. The table was covered with a yellow and blue cloth and the bowl in its center held fresh lavender.
“Come on, old girl. Come and sit down,” I said. I sounded like Priscilla—stodgy. Winnie tossed the afghan onto the floor (Priscilla wouldn’t have liked to see it dropped on the floor like that), came over to the table, and sat in one of the white wicker chairs that flanked it. I poured the tea. Winnie looked up at a wall clock, a wooden reproduction with a yellow face.
Winnie was wearing a velour sweat suit, the type you often see on women as they run around town doing errands in their Suburbans. Winnie’s suit was a pale blue that matched her eyes. Her thin blond hair was cut to just below her ears and framed her face with gentle curls.
“I love the mugs,” I said.
“Do you? Do you really like them?”
“I do,” I said, though the colors were murky.
“I just love doing it. It makes me feel so fulfilled. I asked Charlie to buy me a kiln, but he says my love for ceramics is just a phase and I’ll get over it. I think he’s wrong. I think I’ve found my true calling.”
It would have been nice if she found that her true calling was motherhood. Winnie had suffered from an intermittent postpartum depression since her younger son was born—and he had just turned five.
“A kiln takes up so much room,” I said.
“That’s hardly the point, Jane. My creative impulses should be encouraged. You must be careful or you could just die of boredom out here in the burbs.”
Winnie didn’t exactly live in the suburbs. She lived in a town called Dover—part suburb, part country—and she lived in the more rural section.
“Jane, I feel just awful about the house, don’t you?” Winnie said.
I had been working on getting over my feeling of displacement, but yes, I felt just awful about the house.
“It’s only a house,” I said.
“But it’s our house, the Fortune family house. I hate the idea of strangers living in it.”
“We still own it.”
“For now. If you can trust Dad and Miranda not to drive the family into absolute bankruptcy.”
“I think Littleton has a handle on it.”
“That buffoon. He has never had a handle on anything in his life. The only reason he’s a lawyer is that it runs in his family. He’s an idiot. I don’t know how he made it through law school.”
“Did you ever say anything about this to Dad?”
“Of course not. He thinks I’m thoroughly domestic and lacking all other qualities. He wouldn’t listen to anything I said. And if I didn’t know that before, I certainly do now. He never even included me in the discussion about the house. He acted as if it would make no difference to me at all.”
Winnie was right. We were an out-of-sight, out-of-mind kind of family. It didn’t occur to anyone to include Winnie in the discussions about the house. She had her own home and, we assumed, her own life.
“He might have listened to you,” I said, but I knew, even as I said it, that this was disingenuous. No one in our family listened to anyone else in our family. I was just trying to make Winnie feel better.
She squinted at me.
“Please, Jane. Sometimes Teddy listens to Priscilla, and that’s only because he knows enough not to always trust himself, thank God. But we have to face facts—Teddy and Miranda are two of the most dismissive people on the planet. Look what they did to you.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, but I knew what she meant.
“Who is this Dolores character, anyway?”
“She’s Littleton’s daughter.”
“I know that. But why has she wheedled her way into our family and what does she hope to gain?”
“I think she wants Teddy,” I said. “He’s still a catch, even without as much money. It’s hard for us to see it, because we’re his daughters, but he’s extremely attractive to women.”
Winnie made a gagging sound. “You’re making me sick.”
“It’s true,” I said. I started to laugh, a little too wildly, and wiped the tears from my eyes.
“Miranda is deaf, dumb, and blind if she lets that social climber maneuver her way into our family,” Winnie said.
“You don’t even know her.”
“I’ve heard all about her.”
“From whom?”
“Priscilla called me.”
“Stirring up trouble.”
“Isn’t that what she does best?” Winnie took a sip of tea. She sighed. “The Wheaton girls will be home for Thanksgiving. I wish I were still in school. It’s the only time you get a real vacation.”
The Wheaton girls were Winnie’s sisters-in-law, Lindsay and Heather. Wheaton had been a small prestigious girls’ college until the late eighties, when it had finally gone coed.
When we had almost finished our tea, Winnie’s husband, Charlie, came in with the two boys.
“Finally! I thought you’d never come,” Winnie said. “Did you get the pies?”
“Apple, pumpkin, and mince. Hello, Jane.” I stood up and Charlie scooped me into a hug. His wool sweater was rough against my cheek.
Little Charlie, who was actually Charles Maple III—called Trey—jumped onto my lap.
“Did you bring us a present, Aunt Jane?” he asked.
“Maybe,” I said. He kissed me on the cheek and put his chubby arms around my neck. I closed my eyes and took in the little-boy smell of him. He jumped from my lap and Theodore—Theo—named for Teddy, kissed me on the cheek in a formal way. He was already eight and had recently acquired a little man’s dignity.
“You want some tea, Charlie?” I asked.
“Still hot?” Charlie put his palm on the teapot.
“It couldn’t be,” Winnie said.
“I’ll heat up some water,” I said.
“No. I’ll get it,” Charlie said. “Besides, you’re a guest.”
“She’s hardly a guest,” Winnie said.
“That’s right. Jane is family,” Charlie said.
“Boys, I picked up some of your toys and put them in a basket in the laundry room. Please take the basket
