“Do a video!” It was Grant. His mustache slipped and he caught it just in time.
Patrick placed his sunglasses on his nephew, then added a pinch of cotton candy on each side where the glasses connected with his ears to make sideburns. Grant laughed and Maisie looked on in amazement. “You look like Martin Van Buren.”
“Who’s Martin Van Buren?” Maisie asked.
“Who’s Rip Van Winkle? Who’s Dick Van Patten? No one really knows.” He then grabbed the top third of their dessert and placed it like a bun on Maisie’s head. “Okay. Now you’re ready.”
The kids twittered and giggled.
“Do you know what you’re going to say?”
“We’re going to talk about our favorite desserts.”
Grant nodded his enthusiastic agreement; his uncle’s glasses slid half an inch down his nose and he tilted his head back to hold them in place, giving the camera a perfect view up his nostrils.
“Well, I’m not one to chase trends, but baking shows are very hot right now. Okay! Aaaand. ACTION.”
Patrick worked overtime to contain his smile as he hit record.
THIRTEEN
Patrick took one look at Cassie and blurted, “No, no, no, no, no” on repeat, as if a cosmic crisis were bearing down and he had the ability to stop it with the sheer force of his command. “This is a party.”
The trepidation was apparent on Cassie’s face, as she hesitated to even step inside. Patrick could see she thought this was a mistake—the party hadn’t even begun and she was clearly panic-stricken that she’d done something wrong. “I’m well a-aware it’s a party,” she stammered. “I put together the guest list. And hired the bartender. And the valet.”
Patrick admired the feeble defense she mounted; in fairness, she had accomplished a lot very quickly. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come inside.”
The house was immaculate, glimmering white with colorful pillows and ceramics freshly rearranged—glorious vases and sculptures in orange and bronze—including a small metallic-blue Koons. Patrick’s Golden Globe sat in its new home, a shelf above where it had previously lived, out of the reach of young hands; it even had its own key light. And yet it was the seven-foot pink-tinsel Christmas tree with shimmering clear lights and glass ornaments that stood as a sort of pièce de résistance that really drew one’s eye. Patrick grinned proudly, claiming full ownership, when Cassie finally noticed it.
“Was I supposed to be in charge of decorations?” Cassie asked, worried the Christmas tree was there to cover some further failure on her part, the lack of balloons or streamers or some sort of custom banner. “Or maybe supposed to get ice?”
“No, just the guests and the bartender and the valet, and you did all those things flawlessly.” Patrick snapped his fingers three times. “But what are you wearing?”
“A dress.” Cassie’s shift dress was white, sleeveless—perfect, it seemed, for a desert garden party when it was likely to be over one hundred degrees. She twirled like she was on the red carpet, mistaking the horror in his voice for interest.
“It’s white.”
“Yes,” she agreed nervously.
“Am I keeping you from your wedding?”
“What? Of course not.”
“And those shoes?”
“It’s a two-hour drive! I can’t do that in heels.” Cassie’s eyes darted as if she knew she were out of her element.
“You look like Louise Fletcher.”
Even though her MBA was not an MFA and she lacked a formal education in film, Patrick’s remark was perfectly clear: in all white from head to toe, with shoes that were just shy of orthopedic, she resembled not Louise Fletcher but Nurse Ratched. She stared at Patrick. “You’re wearing white!”
“A white shirt! That’s totally different.” As if to underscore that difference, Patrick kicked out a leg to display the loud butterfly print of his pants.
“I see.” Her expression suggested she didn’t really see.
“Well, it’s not a disaster. We can certainly fix it.”
“We can?”
“NOOOOO! But we can burn this and start over. Maisie!”
Instead of Maisie, Marlene came running from around the corner, her nails failing to find traction on the terrazzo floor. She looked even smaller than her sixteen pounds, navigating the steps of the sunken living room, her splotchy face and tail and button nose standing out most against the white tile. A pink tongue hung limply to one side; any eyes Marlene may have had were lost in the sprouts of dark fur.
“I said Maisie, not Marlene!” Patrick exclaimed, but the dog didn’t understand him, and once she found her footing she made her way to his side. “Well, anyhow, Cassie, Marlene, Marlene, Cassie.”
“You adopted a dog named Marlene!” Cassie crouched down to envelop the dog’s face in her hands.
“No, I adopted a dog named Bella, but Jesus Christ. So she’s Marlene now. Maisie!”
This time Grant came screeching around the corner. He was dressed in shorts and a short-sleeve shirt with a dashing bow tie.
Patrick slapped his forehead. “What kind of Martha Marcy May Marlene nightmare is this?”
“I can’t breathe, GUP.” The boy tugged at his tie.
“Breathing is overrated.” But Grant started to stomp and Marlene jumped back to protect her front paws, so Patrick undid the kid’s bow tie until it hung loose around his neck like Grant was Dean Martin after a particularly intense bender. “Here. That looks way cooler anyhow. Where’s your sister?”
“I’m right here.” Maisie appeared out of nowhere in an outfit identical to Grant’s; she, however, liked her bow tie, looking not unlike how one imagines Diane Keaton looked as a tween. Maisie fell in line next to her uncle, her brother, and the dog.
“Maisie, Grant, you remember Cassie? And where is Marlene’s bow tie? Never mind. Maisie, will you take Cassie to
