be up yet. Sure enough, when I went into the kitchen in my fuzzy slippers and bathrobe, he was nowhere in sight. I made some coffee and put out some coffee cake I’d gotten the day before. It was pretty close to time to put in the turkey, so I preheated the oven before I sat down with my breakfast. It was a beautiful day, sunny, and the temperature was expected to reach the sixties, though it was about forty outside at the moment.
I sat gazing dreamily out the window into my backyard, ignoring a magazine lying by my mug on the table. A list of things I had to do was there, too, and not one item crossed off. I found it hard to care. I finished the coffee and a piece of the coffee cake. As a matter of habit, I went to pour my second cup. But I just didn’t want it today. Maybe this was the way my body was trying to get my mind to agree to get up and work. Actually, I needed to go to the bathroom anyway, so I figured I might as well get dressed.
In a matter of minutes, I was in my nice suede pants and orange sweater, my tortoise-rimmed glasses on to coordinate, all made up and ready-and with lots of messy kitchen work to do. I was just going to have a backward day. Normally, I wouldn’t have put on my good clothes until the kitchen had been cleaned right before my guests’ arrival. But I couldn’t bring myself to care about my impracticality.
I scooted up my sleeves, found the apron that provided the most coverage, and turned on the Macy’s parade to watch while I worked. I like that about my kitchen and den area; and that was another change from my former life, when I’d had no desire whatsoever for anyone to watch me while I was cooking, and I’d been glad my kitchen was just a kitchen. Now, I just didn’t care. My kitchen/den/informal dining area seemed just great. I enjoyed glancing at the parade while I worked, and I enjoyed the sun coming in through the big windows on either side of the fireplace. Cooking took me away from Poppy’s death and the mess and chaos surrounding it. Two hours flew by before I knew it. I glanced at the clock with some surprise.
Time to take stock.
Pies ready. Cranberry sauce ready. Dressing ready, prepared with canned chicken stock just so I’d save myself last-minute rushing. I’d gotten the turkey greased and into the baking bag, and now I slid the big pan into the warm oven. Robin would bring the English peas, which just required heating with some butter, and the rolls, which only had to brown-so nothing to do on that front. He’d have the wine, and he would open that. I got out the corkscrew and the wineglasses. Only the sweet potato casserole needed some more fixing.
The sugar was already mixed in, and I tasted to make sure I’d added enough. I’d finished adding the spices and eggs when Phillip at last emerged from the guest bathroom, shiny and dressed. He poured himself a huge glass of juice and cut a piece of coffee cake. He gave me a sleepy smile and settled on a stool at the breakfast bar to watch the parade. After a minute, he flipped open the
Once Phillip had finished breakfast, I asked him to help me with the big tablecloth for the nicer table in the dining room. I set the table slowly, trying to make it look correct… but not ridiculously so. This was not an imposing formal occasion. If I turned it into that, I’d have to go put on panty hose and a dress. Yuck.
Good silver, good china. (I’d be doing dishes all day.) I kept checking the table. Salt, pepper. I got out the gravy boat. Glasses for Ice tea. Sugar. Dish for lemon wedges. Serving spoons. The smaller turkey platter.
I’d be cleaning up at
Suddenly, my energy seemed to leak out through my fingertips, as though my night’s sleep had simply evaporated. I pulled out a chair and sat down with an ungraceful thud.
Could the prospect of meeting Robin’s mother really be that frightening? Martin’s mother and father had been long dead when we’d become engaged, and I’d already known his sister Barby. Arthur had been my only other halfway-serious suitor. I’d known Mindy and Coll Smith, Arthur’s folks, since I was little, at least by sight. So, though I was thirty-six, this was my first “meet the parent” situation.
I rose and pushed the chair back into place, though I hardly felt better. I went back into the den and unwisely sat in my favorite old chair, close to Phillip, who was watching some sports show. In about thirty seconds, I actually dozed off. Phillip woke me up at quarter to one.
“You want to go put some lipstick on or something?” he asked a little anxiously. “It’s almost time for them to be here. The timer for the turkey breast went off thirty minutes ago, and the little red thing was sticking up out of the turkey, so I got it out of the oven. I put the sweet potatoes in. Was that okay?”
“More than okay,” I assured him. “You saved my life, brother.”
He looked justifiably pleased with himself. Groggy with sleep, I had to absolutely push myself into the kitchen. I put ice in the glasses, a stick of margarine on a butter dish to pass around with the rolls-oh my God, the rolls! I told myself sternly to calm down. Robin was bringing them; they’d only take a few minutes. The rolls could go in after I’d gotten the sweet potatoes out. The dressing was baking in the other oven. (Following my mother’s tradition, I always baked it separately.) All I had to do was make the gravy. But first, a look in my bedroom mirror was in order.
Phillip had been optimistic when he suggested I needed only lipstick. But I looked all right after brushing my hair, cleaning my glasses, and slapping on a little fresh makeup. Back in the kitchen, I buzzed around doing tiny things. I asked Phillip if he’d give some attention to his own hair, and with a dark glance, he retired to the bathroom to look in the mirror.
“And it better be perfectly picked up in there!” I called through the door.
“Yes, Mom!” he yelled back.
I stuck my tongue out, since he couldn’t see me. Mom indeed.
And then the doorbell rang.
As I went to the front door, I said a little prayer, which basically went: “Don’t let me do anything really stupid.”
Robin’s mother was really tall. That was my first impression. And she was smiling. That was my second.
Corinne Crusoe was as elegant as… well, as
“Roe, this is my mother,” Robin said, since you have to state the obvious some times. “Mother, this is my…” Robin and I stared at each other, stymied, for a long second. “This is Aurora.”
“Please come in,” I said, floundering for my composure in the face of such elegance. You’d think I’d be used to it, but no.
Mrs. Crusoe was careful not to stare around too obviously, but I knew she hadn’t missed a detail of me, or the house. Phillip, thank God, had come out of the bathroom and was looking very creditable.
“My brother, Phillip,” I said proudly, and he beamed at me. “Phillip, this is Robin’s mother, Mrs. Crusoe.”
“Please call me Corinne,” she said smoothly, nodding at both of us.
Phillip stood a little straighten I wasn’t about to tell him he was too young to call an older lady by her first name, not in front of the older lady.
“Corinne, can I pour you a glass of wine?” Phillip said with perfect composure, and I glowed.
“That would be lovely.”
“We have…” and Phillip faltered.
I inspected the bottles Robin was carrying. “Robin’s brought a zinfandel and a shiraz,” I said. “Or, if you prefer, we have some vodka and orange juice.”
“No, the zinfandel, thanks.”
We got that all settled, then sat in the small formal living room after I’d put the peas on. Corinne was a past mistress of small talk, and we set about getting to know one another through the accumulation of little facts-or, more accurately, tiny indicators of those facts. Corinne, I learned, was well-off, a widow who had no intention of remarrying. She was very involved with her grandchildren by her two daughters, and she was active in her church (Episcopal).
Corinne learned I was also a widow, also financially secure, still working, had two live parents, and was a steady church attendant.
Corinne learned that Phillip normally lived in California. He was here on a visit, I told her, not mentioning his method of arrival. And I hoped Phillip wouldn’t, either, but if he did, so be it.
I excused myself to make the gravy and heat the rolls, and Corinne promptly asked if she could help in any way.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll borrow Robin, to help me with the turkey,” I said. “We’ll be in the kitchen. Would you like
