“Sure.”
“Really?”
Annie had had the thought just this morning: how stifling to be almost fourteen and have your mother always down the hall—at school, at home.
“No, not really,” Laurel said. She propped up on her elbows. “We were all drinking because we’re teenagers. There’s not some mysterious reason.”
“Okay, but—”
“And you don’t need to punish me. My body punished me enough. My headache is like, just now gone. Do you think you’re making such a big deal about this because you’re the school counselor?”
“What you did is dangerous, Laurel.”
“You don’t need to make some example out of me. Everyone’s done something like this.” Laurel’s lips twisted as though she was trying to squelch a smile. “People thought it was hilarious.”
“Anyone who found it funny isn’t your real friend,” Annie said. A pinched quality had crept into her voice.
Laurel’s sigh—indicating Annie was the one who’d never get it—made Annie want to grab her by the shoulders and shake comprehension into her.
“You have no idea how dangerous alcohol can be,” Annie said. “There are people who don’t have an off switch, do you understand?”
Laurel bent over to tap the pad of her index finger against her big toenail, check its dryness.
The dark shiver Annie had felt when Laurel was a watchful toddler, the slight wedge between them had been this. On some subconscious level, Annie had been bracing for the time bomb in Laurel’s DNA.
“Look me in the eye, Laurel. Like that”—Annie snapped her fingers—“what starts as fun becomes a lifelong struggle. I’ve seen drunken mistakes literally ruin lives.”
Laurel kept silent, but from the way she held Annie’s gaze, Annie suspected she’d finally gotten through.
“Like your friend?” Laurel said. Her eyes moved from Annie’s to the wall behind them, filled with framed family pictures. “The guy you went to prom with? Bryce?”
“Yes.”
Annie tried to hide how his name sliced through her, left behind a dull ache.
If she ever found herself trying to rationalize Laurel’s performance at Fall Fest, all Annie had to do was think of Bryce Neary.
FIFTEEN YEARS EARLIER
It occurred to Annie, as she spied on the Meekers’ party from behind a cistena plum, that this could all go horribly wrong.
For starters, was he even here?
The lawn was a sea of indistinguishable middle-aged guests: men in pastel linen button-downs and women with expensive pashminas draped around their shoulders.
And, if he was here and she managed to find him, the band was so loud. Was she supposed to shout the news in his ear, over that weighted bass line?
Surprise! You’re going to be a father!
In the plum bush, branches tickling her arm, Annie considered for the first time that just because she could see the future laid out in front of them did not mean he would.
He liked late nights more than early mornings. He prized spontaneity. They’d been talking about taking a real trip together—somewhere requiring immunizations and a visa—and so much for that.
Most people Annie’s age wouldn’t be excited about an unplanned pregnancy. There was something wrong with her, and why was she just realizing that now? She had driven all the way out here on a whim.
But it had seemed like fate, the way Annie had been half watching a daytime talk show about vision boards and seen the post on Bryce’s MySpace page: a party, tonight. The more the merrier!
At the Meekers’ of all places.
They had plans for the next day, and she’d been planning to wait until then to tell him, but screw it, she’d decided, she would drive to the party, tell him tonight.
You’re insane, Mike grumbled over the phone, that’s way out in the boondocks. Still, he had promised to try and make it after work, so that Annie wouldn’t have to “go it alone.”
Annie felt painfully, deliciously exposed at the phrase: she would never ever have to go it alone again.
It was horribly cheesy, but now, in the bushes, Annie closed her eyes and visualized it, just like the daytime television show had instructed.
He was here somewhere—or he would be soon—and he’d find her and they would sit in that gorgeous garden, on a stone bench. She would fish out of her pocket the flimsy ultrasound print and she would watch him looking at it, and they would be together, encircled in joy.
Annie opened her eyes, reached into her jean jacket pocket, pulled out her phone.
There was an uncrowded spot near the house, far from the liveliness of the dance floor.
If u r here, she texted, I’m waiting by the house.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“A neighborhood book club,” Rachel repeated. “Well, why not?”
“That’s what I think,” Lena said. She opened the oven and peeked under the foil. The turkey legs were still pale.
“What happens if you don’t approve of their selections, though?” Rachel’s voice grew ominous. “Watch out, ladies of Cottonwood.”
When Rachel attempted jokes about how dangerous Lena was—never gracefully, never with any actual wit—Lena felt like snapping at her. But she hadn’t ever.
“Did you know anyone at book club?” Rachel’s voice was back to normal.
“Just Harriet Nessel, and she didn’t miss a beat. It felt like I saw her just last week. What time are you and Evan’s family meeting at their club for the big meal?”
“Seven. What time is Uncle Ernie coming over?”
“Four. He’s got an early flight tomorrow.”
Ernie apparently no longer felt sorry for Lena and had already grumbled at length: friends of theirs spent Thanksgiving Day in Hawaii. He didn’t understand why Lena was commanding him to stay here and go through the motions.
You’re a grown man, Lena replied. I can’t command you to do anything.
He and Rachel probably had long, unjustified conversations about how incorrigibly bossy Lena was.
Alma had had a very strong personality, and her mantra was: family is everything. That’s why Ernie was sticking around. It had nothing to do with Lena. And as far as Rachel went, Lena had called the shots fourteen years ago, in a moment of crisis.
It was the very definition of parenting, and Lena had always hoped that as Rachel matured, she’d understand that life wasn’t always so black and white. Sometimes, laws must be broken for a greater good.
But Rachel was already in her thirties. The lesson seemed to have eluded her.
“Do you remember the Thanksgivings we used to have?” Rachel said.
“I remember cooking for a full month before.”
They’d used to host almost fifty people—Alma and all of her relatives, a few locals from Tim’s side, plus whatever strays he’d dragged along.
And then suddenly there had been no one.
During Rachel’s angry years, Lena had forced herself to fly east for meals at hotel restaurants that never felt right. Once, Lena had arrived to find that she was being punished and Rachel had made other plans, so she’d ordered room service and eaten Thanksgiving dinner alone on her bed.
“Not the big family meals,” Rachel said, “how we used to go to the Bahamas. Just you and me.”
But that had only happened twice—a slippery attempt at a tradition in the years before Tim died, when it was still the two of them against the world. Lena opened her mouth, about to correct the memory before stopping herself.
There had been a time that Rachel had trusted Lena more than anyone or anything. Lena wondered if every parent had that window at some point, and if they all, inevitably, exploited it.
“I made a friend at book club,” Lena ventured. “Annie Perley. She’s older than you, but she said she’d been to our house for a swim-team dinner.”
“Annie Perley,” Rachel repeated. “Does she have brown hair?”
“Light chestnut,” Lena said. “Chin length. S
he’s pretty. Her face has very delicate bone structure.”
“Maybe I’m thinking of someone else.”
“I bet your paths didn’t really cross. Her husband owns a restaurant downtown and they’ve got these two kids—”
“Was she there the year we had paella? Or the year there was the big thunderstorm?”
“That wasn’t the same year?”
The skies had turned ocean gray, the wind tipped over the outdoor umbrella, melamine plates with food were rushed inside, and kids had grouped around the window to watch lightning flash over the mountains.
“Paella’s an odd thing to serve children,” Rachel said.
“People loved it.”
“If you say so.”
“You’d like Annie. She’s sharp. And kind. And closer to your age than mine.”
“But she—Annie—had already graduated when—” Rachel paused.
Hearing the familiar tremor in Rachel’s voice, Lena sprang into action. She’d mostly lost Rachel long ago, but there were still moments like this, of reliance.
“If Annie had any clue what I did, Rachel, do you think she’d want me at her book club?”
“Right.” Rachel’s laugh was small. “I don’t suppose she would.”
* * *
“He’s here!” Abe said. He had been stationed at their bay window for the past fifteen minutes, watching for Colin’s blue car.
“Colin’s here,” Jen repeated to Paul, who had the oven door open and was squinting suspiciously at the precooked turkey.
We barely know this kid, he’d said.
Paul wanted a Thanksgiving like they usually had: the three of them eating takeout on the couch, treating the holiday as a breather before the frantic bounce of Christmas—from Jen’s mom in northern California to Paul’s sister in the middle to Jen’s dad and young stepmother in Los Angeles, worrying all the way, ha, ha, ha, about whether Abe was going to behave, and were his cousins being little jerks.
The official arrangement with Colin, what he was being paid for, involved his driving Abe home after school four days a week and staying until dinner so that Jen could work. But Colin seemed desperate for family time and tended to stay longer. He ate with them most nights and always helped clean up afterward and had even volunteered to come over on any weekend, really, he was never doing anything anyway. Like them, he was relatively new in town and didn’t know many people.
And he was so good for Abe: reasoned and calm, but he gently challenged him to venture outside of his comfort zone. Last weekend, they’d walked to the Cottonwood playground and shot basketball hoops.
Unprecedented.
When Colin chewed on the cuff of his plaid flannel shirt and mumbled that he had no plans for Thanksgiving, all Jen could think about was Abe as a lonely young adult.
She had extended the invitation to Thanksgiving dinner, and Colin’s entire face lit up with disbelief. You mean me?
Obviously, the women of book club—with their chocolate turkeys and kids’ tables and Thankfulness Trees and traditions up the wazoo—were getting to Jen, because she’d ordered the full catered Thanksgiving dinner from Breadman’s Market.
And as she opened the door to Colin, Jen felt a wash of genuine thankfulness toward him.
“Colin,” she sang, “come on in.”
DECEMBER
To: “The Best Book Club in the World”
From: [email protected]
Tis the Season, Ladies!
The book: THE GIVING MITTENS, a “heartwarming tale of one pair of mittens passed through ten different owners over several decades.”
Follow THE GIVING MITTENS from the Great Depression to a closeted 1950s housewife, from a homeless son reunited with his parents in the 1970s, to a present-day single dad, newly laid off, and unable to purchase the “it” toy for his disabled son.
It has been called “emotionally resonant” and “touching” (literally, ladies, this one is not for the germophobes among us, am I right?) and:
“kind of like the sisterhood of traveling pants. But with mittens. And strangers. And even less realistic.”*
Like last year, we acknowledge our own #luck and #blessings with a clothing drive for those in need! Please collect all outerwear (mittens, scarves, coats) prior to the meeting.
Jen Chun-Pagano has volunteered to deliver everything to the Kingdom School and will be parked in PRIYA’S DRIVEWAY (8323 Red Fox Way) to collect your bags and boxes so dig deep into those closets, Ladies!!!
Whew! You still with me or are you all still hung over from last month’s club meeting??? (Hahahahahaha! But seriously Deb, maybe you could bring an aspirin chaser this month?)
*Okay Deb said this, but I thought it was perfect;););)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
It was a tale as old as time: being in the “in crowd” required so much more effort.
This was why Jen found herself standing in Priya Jensen’s driveway, huddled against a cold so bitter that she could feel the tiny hairs inside of her nose freeze, listening to Deb Gallegos talk about air mattresses.
After the November book club, Jen had been initially tickled to be included on the “inner circle” text group, which so far had consisted of reports of coyote spottings, an invitation to an exercise class called Feel the Burn, and a long discussion about which wines were safe for a Paleo diet.
But there was a quid pro quo to all this information sharing: assumptions of availability, demands on Jen’s time. Nobody had asked her about tonight, it had been: Jen will be in charge of the clothing drive!
“The platforms don’t make a difference,” Deb, who amazingly hadn’t yet exhausted the topic of air mattresses, said. “In price, yes, but comfort no. You’re still sleeping on what is essentially a plastic balloon.”
Jen felt a surge of hope for a topic change when Annie Perley drove up, her hatchback full of Lena’s boxes for donation. As soon as Annie stepped out of her car, though, Deb cupped her hands around her mouth. “I brought the air mattresses!”
It turned out Deb was lending them to Annie because Mike’s family was staying with the Perleys over Christmas. Not only did Deb have some strong opinions about the quality of the borrowed air mattresses, but also several thoughts on where Annie should place them.
Jen, increasingly desperate, asked the first thing that came to mind. “Annie,” she said, “how’s Laurel been?”
Deb shook her head slightly, shot Jen a warning look.
“Hey wait,” Jen said clumsily, trying to save the moment. “If these are Lena’s boxes, where’s Lena?”
Another misstep.
Even though Annie was wearing a beanie, Jen could tell her brow had furrowed beneath it. There was a weirdness when Annie talked about Lena, like Lena was a favorite porcelain doll and couldn’t be jostled. Jen wasn’t sure why this protectiveness annoyed her so much, but, like everything else, it did.
“Lena’s not here yet?” Annie said. Her blue eyes were big, her voice tremulous.
“She’s probably just running late,” Jen said. “Deb, do your air mattresses have remotes, because I saw that once?”
“You know, though,” Deb said, “I always lose remotes.”
“Guys, I’m worried,” Annie said. Stuffed into a winter coat, hands hanging at her sides, she looked like a lost child. “Why isn’t Lena here?”
“She’ll come,” Deb said. “Who would donate all this and not show up?”
“There she is.” Jen pointed down the dark road toward a figure walking in their direction.
Annie squinted. “No, that’s Harriet.”
When she reached them, Harriet thrust a brown paper bag in Jen’s direction.
“Hats,” she said. “All knit by my sister and itchy as heck. She gives them as gifts.”
“Thanks?”
“I’m happy to get rid of them, actually. So. I assume everyone heard about the Donaldsons?”
“What about them?”
“The vandal cut up their Frosty the Snowman
inflatable. Snipped off the little carrot nose like a psycho.” Harriet scissored her gloved fingers. “Their grandkids found the remnants this morning and are traumatized.”
“Don’t the Donaldsons have that doorbell camera?” Deb said.
“It didn’t catch anything.” Harriet eyed the boxes they’d stacked in Jen’s trunk. “Is someone moving?”
“These are Lena’s donations,” Annie said. “Most of it still has tags. She snuck two brand-new pairs of gloves to Laurel, and I’m like, thank you, Lena, for teaching my fourteen-year-old about cashmere.”
“She’s always been very generous,” Harriet said. “Money’s never been her issue. They sold the family’s company for hundreds of millions, apparently.”
Annie peered fruitlessly down the street. “I should call her.”
“I wouldn’t count on her coming, dear,” Harriet said.
“She had fun last month!” Annie insisted.
“She’s different now. Tentative.”
Jen was unable to stop the exasperated sigh that escaped from her mouth in a puff of vapor.
She was too cold and irritated to care about the shocked looks. Everyone had their shit: Jen certainly did, and she’d brought her own donations and managed to come early, thank you very much.
“I’m sorry,” Jen said impatiently, “it’s tragic that her husband died, but wasn’t it like years ago?”
“He didn’t just die.” Deb sounded scandalized. “He killed Bryce Neary in a hit-and-run. He went to jail for it.”
“That’s horrible.” Jen frowned. “Was Bryce—did he live here too?”
“How do you not know this, Jen?”
“I thought I did,” Jen said.
“Apparently not,” Deb said.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“First of all,” Deb said, “I’m not the best person to tell the story. Annie went to high school with Bryce.”
“A million years ago.” Annie’s lower jaw spasmed, which briefly altered her face into something ugly.
“And Harriet was literally at the accident,” Deb said. “It happened in her front yard.”
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