“Max, stop being a parrot. I still want you to come for Thanksgiving, and there is a way to get you here.”
“Mom’s driving to Grandma’s, you know, over in Iowa? I could probably go with her.”
“Talk it over with your parents,” I said. “We’d love to have you.”
“Really?”
His teenage angst was palpable and I ached to pull him close in a great big hug. “Really.” We said good-bye and I slid the phone back into my purse. In all likelihood Max would end up going with his mother. Maybe the kids and I would take a trip to Illinois during Christmas vacation. It’d be nice to—
“That’s two down,” Marina said.
“Huh?”
“Once so eloquent,” Marina said, addressing an invisible crowd, “she now resorts to the monosyllables of youth. What lies in store for our fair maiden? Her future, I fear, is bleak.”
I could fake Shakespeare as well as anyone. I cast caution to the winds. “What, pray tell, is the topic of yon conversement?”
“Hooray!” She clapped her hands. “Beth’s in the game!”
“One sentence doth not a play make.”
“Ooo, good one. What I meant was two down, two to go, with your family for Thanksgiving. At least you don’t have to buy as much food.”
“I suppose.”
She slid me a glance. “Methinks I detect a smidgen of downcast spirits.”
I was pretty sure “smidgen” wasn’t a word in the vicinity of 1600, but I didn’t feel like calling her on it. “Maybe a smidge.”
“You’re taking this personally, aren’t you?”
“No.” But I was. How could I not? “Kathy and Tim have good reasons for canceling. If I were either of them I’d do the same thing.”
“Oh, you would not.” Marina signaled and pulled into my driveway. “You’d move heaven and earth to keep a commitment. Especially a Thanksgiving commitment, even with that dysfunctional unit you call your family.” She jammed the gearshift to Park. “You have a thing about Thanksgiving, don’t you? Why?”
“Not sure.”
“Bet you a hundred bucks you just don’t want to tell me.”
I casually reached for my earlobes, trying to feel if they were hot. Ever since I could remember, my ears turned red when I lied.
Marina was looking at me expectantly, doing the oneeyebrow thing.
“Everyone has a favorite holiday,” I said.
“Sure. Mine’s Flag Day.”
“It is?”
“Yup. All you have to do is put out the American flag. No presents, no cards, no family get-togethers. Put out the flag at dawn, take it in at sunset, and recite the Pledge of Allegiance in there somewhere. Can’t get much simpler than that.”
Was she making that up, or telling the truth? With Marina it was hard to know.
“So what’s your deal with Thanksgiving?” she asked. “Cook a bunch of food, invite a bunch of people. Who cares if they’re blood relations?”
Straightening the strap of my purse suddenly became a huge priority. I fiddled with the leather. “It’s because of Norman Rockwell.”
“That guy who painted all those magazine covers?”
“
“Sure, I remember.” Marina looked thoughtful. “It’s one of those pictures that make you wistful for the perfect family Thanksgiving.”
Exactly.
“It’s impossible, of course.” She squinted at me. “You know that, right?”
“That magazine cover was printed in March. The painting isn’t really about Thanksgiving.”
“Which makes it about every family Sunday dinner. Even worse.”
“How’s that?”
She made a face. “Please. Talk about setting yourself up for failure. Cooking a meal the volume of a Thanksgiving dinner every Sunday is the definition of insanity. Can you imagine eating with my in-laws once a week?” Her face scrunched so hard it looked inside out.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” She patted my arm. “It’s the hope that gets you,” she said. “The hope that one day things will be better, that we’ll grow out of our anger and drop all the baggage and just
For all her poking and prodding, I knew she understood. “First time I saw that Norman Rockwell picture,” I said, “was right after my Grandma Chittenden died. Once she was gone the family fell apart. Without her, there wasn’t any pull to get together. Everyone went their separate ways and it hasn’t been the same since. That picture reminds me of the way things once were.”
Silence ticked away between us.
“Well, maybe someday things will be that way again.” Marina grinned. “Say, how do you feel about a white apron for Christmas?”
I was laughing as I got out of her car, but by the time I got to the house my laughter was gone. Tomorrow’s appointment with Rachel was already starting to sit in my stomach like an undigested ball of dough, and I had a feeling that the closer tomorrow came, the larger the ball was going to grow.
If tomorrow didn’t come soon I might need surgery.
Evan and I sat on the couch in front of my fireplace, flames flickering, coals glowing. The radio was playing quiet classical music, and Evan’s arms were around me. He was talking about the Thanksgiving plans he’d been making with his daughters, and, as I listened, I was enjoying how my house looked in the dancing firelight.
Here in the dark I couldn’t see the dirty windows, or the dusty surfaces, or the baseboards that hadn’t been cleaned since . . . well, I didn’t want to think that the last time I could remember cleaning them was soon after Oliver was born, so I went back to paying full attention to Evan.
“. . . but they’re both concerned about another murder in Rynwood,” he said. “How are Jenna and Oliver taking it?”
I’d almost become used to Evan’s questions about my children. He’d been carefully casual the first few times he’d spent time with the three of us, never holding my hand, never telling them what to do, never once acting as if he had any right to be part of our group. Ever so slowly, he’d spent more and more time with us, and now his presence most weekends and occasional weeknights was a given.
The whole situation still felt strange, though, and I still wasn’t sure if I was doing the right thing in seeing him. The kids were polite and seemed to enjoy his company, but every time I pressed either one about how they really felt, all I got was “I dunno” or “Okay, I guess.”
“How are they taking Sam’s death?” I asked. “As you might expect. Jenna won’t talk about it and Oliver won’t stop talking about it.” Gender reversal had nothing on my children.
Evan brushed his hand against my cheek. “And how are you taking it?”
“Me?” This was something I hadn’t considered. “Um, okay, I guess.”
“Like mother, like daughter,” he murmured. “Any ideas about who killed Sam?”
I hesitated. Was this a trick question? Last year our relationship almost ended before it began, thanks to my amateur investigations and Evan’s inclination to dispense unwanted advice.
But even if he was trying to ferret out my intentions, the question was simple enough to answer. “No ideas,” I said sadly, watching the fading fire. “No ideas at all.”
Yet.
