by Nella Tyler
She sighed, clearly relieved. “I’m always afraid to get calls out of the blue. I just naturally assume the worst.”
I couldn’t fault her for that, considering she’d received a call about BJ being killed on the highway.
“Sorry,” I replied. “Maybe I should’ve texted instead.”
“No, it’s fine. I just worry.” She giggled, sounding even more relieved. “I know generally where your parents live. BJ talked about going there as a kid and loving it. I’ve just never been out there myself.”
I explained how to get to the house from where she was, and gave her the code to get into the gate at the front. They used to have a security guard, but Dad got rid of that needless expense a few years after I graduated from high school. Not much crime happened in Danbury to warrant that. There’d been a string of break-ins during the 80s, but, after that, things had been relatively quiet.
“What time should I be over there?” she asked. “Your mom said between 11 and noon, but I’d feel better having a definite time.”
“Split the difference and show up at 11:30,” I suggested, and she laughed. I smiled at the sound of it. She laughed more easily these days. I knew she needed time, and I tried to remind myself not to push her, that I needed to look elsewhere for a girlfriend. I just liked everything about her. Our deep, mutual love for BJ had made us pull together in our grief and bond in a way that we never would have if he hadn’t been killed.
“I’m worried it’s going to be weird,” she said. “Being there with your parents and my mom. She doesn’t really have a filter sometimes.”
“My parents aren’t easily offended. I think it’ll be fine. They run in the same circles, anyway. Every charity function they attend, they see your mom.”
“That’s true,” she replied. “I guess I’ll be the odd one out.”
“Nah, I’ll be there to whisk you away on a tour of the property if things start to get weird.” I pictured us walking in the dormant gardens, which had been prepared for the coming winter a month earlier. It was still pretty out there even without all the flowers.
“Have you found your next project yet?” she asked.
“Not quite. But I have some promising leads.” I went into detail with her in a way I wouldn’t with anyone else but my dad. She wasn’t born a car person, but she’d inherited it from BJ, and we’d had great conversations before that started with cars and then went on to other things. I went through a few of the cars I’d found online, realizing too late that I’d been talking nonstop for about 30 minutes.
I apologized, but she said, “No, this is nice. I miss talking to someone at the end of the day. It’s comforting. Tell me more about what you did today.”
“It’s your turn,” I said, grinning at no one. Even Alice had jumped down from the couch, choosing to snuggle into her dog bed next to the entertainment center.
She started talking about her day, which hadn’t involved the shop, since it closed yesterday for the holiday. She mentioned wishing she could teach, which was why she went to school, and we talked about that for a while—the grades she’d choose, what kind of teacher she’d be, and what subjects interested her the most. I finished one more beer while we went back and forth, sharing details about our lives and chatting about Danbury, cars, teaching, and New York City. It was just past 11 when my eyelids started to get heavy, but I didn’t want to hang up just yet. I loved hearing her voice and knowing that she was curled up on her couch across town just like I was curled up on mine.
I started awake, shivering in the semi-dark, the TV on mute in front of me. It was past 3 am. My cell phone had fallen on a nearby pillow, but I could hear light snores through the speaker.
“Night, Mags,” I whispered into the phone, and then hung up.
Maggie
Thanksgiving
Mom was coming by to pick me up just after 11. I showered, took great care to flatiron my wavy hair and apply makeup, and dressed in my nicest sweater, skirt, leggings, and boots. Mom and my late father had been well off, but nowhere near the Wheatons. I hadn’t even ventured into the upper crust part of town where they lived. I’d grown up with more than what I needed, but Banks’s family was on a whole different level. After marrying for the second time and inheriting even more money when husband number two passed away, Mom was well beyond financially secure, but that wasn’t how I was raised. I still felt quite a way out of Banks’s league.
We pulled into the gate around the property, which was set so far back, you couldn’t see it from the street. I drew in a sharp breath once we passed the gate and drove far enough onto the property that the house came into view. Mom’s place was gorgeous, but the Wheaton mansion was more like a castle than a house. I’d been inside of museums that were this massive, but never a private residence.
Banks was standing outside, dressed in slacks and a winter coat. The temperature had dropped drastically overnight and was now hovering near 10 degrees. Luckily, there was no snow or ice on the ground, but the wind was bitterly cold. A small, scruffy mutt was jumping around his legs and yapping happily as he bent to play with her. He straightened as the car approached the circular driveway—it reminded me a little of Downton Abbey, and I wouldn’t have been shocked to see a line of servants out front of the massive house to greet us—and waved, a smile lighting up his face.
“He’s very attractive,” Mom said, seemingly offhand.
“That’s enough of that,” I replied, not even looking over at her.
She chuckled lightly, but didn’t say another word on the subject.
Banks came over to help Mom out of the car while I got out myself. He leaned down to allow Mom to apply light air kisses to each of his clean-shaven cheeks.
“I’m so glad you’re both here,” he said. His little dog came running over to me and jumped up onto my legs. I leaned to give her back a good scratch and she jumped up to lick my face. I stood to my full length, laughing as she turned in a circle in front of me before running off to find Banks again. Mom sidestepped her, making a face. She wasn’t a fan of pets, not liking the hair or the unnecessary mess they created. I’d never had them growing up. BJ and I spent so much time working that we hadn’t gotten one as adults either, though we had talked about it—he’d had a few dogs growing up and knew how great they were. I wouldn’t mind a companion now, though it felt like a weird thing to do when I’d never had one before.
“Thanks for inviting us,” I said. “This house is amazing.”
He smiled a little guiltily. “Make sure to tell Mom that. This is her dream house. She spent years getting it just right. Still, there are times I come over after two or three weeks and find it completely redecorated.” He walked around the car to give me a hug as Mom watched, one eyebrow raised and a light smirk on her perfectly made-up face. I pointedly ignored her, turning to give my full attention to Banks instead.
“The little mutt’s name is Alice, by the way,” he said, grin widening as his eyes fell on his panting dog. She kept running from me to him in search of attention, turning in circles and hopping up on her rear legs. “You’ve probably heard me talk about her before. There was no way she was going to let me leave her at home alone all day today.”
We went inside, Banks linking arms with Mom, who looked tiny next to him. She was only about 5-foot-3 and as small-boned as a bird. I’d gotten some of my dad’s height—I stood about 5-foot-8—but also his larger bone structure. I was at least a good 60 pounds heavier than Mom. I used to pine after Mom’s tiny frame as a teenager, but had finally come to the realization in my early 20s that there wasn’t much I could do about my curves but embrace them.
We entered the huge wooden double doors of the mansion, and the scent of cinnamon and cloves hit me. It smelled like fresh baked pumpkin bread, strong but not overpowering, which was quite a feat, considering these ceilings had to be 20 feet high. There was so much light pouring into the humongous front foyer, and fall decorations everywhere, all placed in a tasteful manner—gourds of all siz
es, displays of fall leaves, and that luscious smell of baking bread.
“This is beautiful,” I whispered.
Mom craned her neck to look at the skylight in the middle of the ceiling here in the foyer. Further inside the house, a grand staircase led upstairs, but Banks directed us through a soaring arch and further into that magnificent aroma of baking things, the fall décor spread out as far as the eye could see. Alice ran ahead, yipping like mad as Banks tried and failed to shush her.
Mr. and Mrs. Wheaton appeared out of another arched doorway, smiles on their faces. Mr. Wheaton was dressed simply in dark slacks and a light blue button-up shirt, but Mrs. Wheaton had on a striking green dress made of shiny fabric that gathered tightly at her tiny waist and then flowed outward into an A-line over her nearly nonexistent hips. Only someone as tiny as she was could pull something like that off. At her throat was a necklace with a ruby bigger than a quarter.
“Welcome, Maggie and Philippa,” Mrs. Wheaton said, and she crossed to greet us with light kisses on each cheek, as the Europeans did so often. I’d grown up with that, since Mom was essentially French. Mr. Wheaton gave us each a hug.
“We’re so thankful to have you here today,” he said, squeezing my hands before stepping back to stand next to his beaming wife. I could tell just by the look on her face that she lived for entertaining. The Wheatons hosted all kinds of major events throughout the year for charity, for the good of the community, and for various politicians. From the constant buzz around town, I knew they were great people, but it was funny how little I’d been around them considering Banks was one of my closest friends.
“Lunch is ready,” Mrs. Wheaton said. “We had the chef stick to all the traditional dishes, but told him to put whatever spin he wanted on them to keep it fresh. Hopefully, you’ll enjoy that.”
“I usually have a steak,” Mom replied, sounding more French than usual. Her mood seemed to dictate how pronounced her accent was. “So, it will all be new to me.” She gave her signature high laugh and Mr. and Mrs. Wheaton joined her while Banks and I exchanged a look. I slapped a hand over my face to keep from laughing at his expression. Here we go, it seemed to say.
He stepped closer to me and whispered in my ear, “I’ll give you a proper tour of the house after lunch. Mom’s going to explode if we postpone the meal for even a few seconds.”
I nodded, biting the inside of my cheek to keep the laughter at bay.
The dining room was as grand as the rest of the house and the table was laid with fine china and gleaming silver flatware. A butler was positioned at the door to one side of the room, his face perfectly serene as he refused to make eye contact with anyone but Mrs. Wheaton.
“Tell James we’re ready,” she said, and the man gave a curt nod before leaving.
We sat to one side of the table, with Mr. Wheaton at the head, Mrs. Wheaton beside him on one side and Banks beside her. Mom was seated to Mr. Wheaton’s right, with me next to her and directly across from Banks. Alice took her place under the table, running around our feet for a bit before Banks called her over and ordered her to lie down like a good girl.
A few well-dressed men and women came through the door, carrying steaming dishes on fine white platters and bowls. A platter of turkey, mashed potatoes, yams covered in bubbling marshmallows and pecans, fresh-cut green beans drowning in butter, rolls of all kinds, freshly made cranberry sauce with a garnish of thinly sliced oranges, a cheesy broccoli casserole, mushrooms stuffed with fresh crabmeat, cornbread stuffing, buttery gravy flavored with turkey drippings, a salad of crisp fresh greens and winter vegetables. I’d never seen so much food in my life. I’d already felt out of place the second I saw this house—like I was some street urchin who’d been lucky enough to win a golden ticket into Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory—but this only made it worse. I wondered how many damned people they had working here.
“Let’s eat family style, shall we?” Mrs. Wheaton asked. “Leave the dishes on the table, please.”
The staff obeyed immediately, moving to put the dishes down with their serving utensils. It really was like Downton Abbey. Did the Wheatons really have staff serve their meals each night, dishing out sides and cuts of meat? I felt even more out of place and reminded myself not to speak without thinking about what I was going to say at least five times. The last thing I wanted to do was look as uncultured and low class as I already felt. Just what I’d seen of this house made the very nice home I’d grown up in seem dilapidated in comparison. Mom didn’t seem to have any trouble assimilating. She looked like she’d been born and raised in this house, she was so comfortable. Of course, her parents had been loaded in France, and she’d gone back to that way of living after meeting her second husband, not that she’d struggled before that.
“I’d like to thank our guests for coming and sharing this meal with us,” Mrs. Wheaton said, her blue eyes as warm as the smile on her face. “It’s lovely to have close friends with us for the holiday. We hope you enjoy our company as much as we enjoy yours.”
I found myself smiling too at the warmth of the speech. “Thank you so much for inviting us to your lovely home. This is much better than dinner at the steakhouse.”
Everyone laughed at that, even Mom, who loved the steakhouse, but I could tell by the gleam in her green eyes that she was impressed by this place, even if she was doing a better job of hiding it than I was.
“I second everything Eloise just said,” Mr. Wheaton said, grinning like a man who was used to playing second fiddle to his wife and didn’t really mind it one bit. “Let’s dig in before all of this wonderful food gets cold.”
We all visibly relaxed at that, and reached at the same time for different dishes. My mouth was watering and I wanted a little of everything, and then a little more. I looked over at Mom as she was dishing some of the fluffy mashed potatoes onto her plate. Our matching green eyes met—cat’s eyes, Dad used to call them—and we smiled, pleased to be together in this beautiful home.
Banks
Thanksgiving
The conversation kept rolling on its own, everyone smiling and taking part, even Maggie’s mom, who I usually found somewhat standoffish. It felt like a real family meal over the holidays, except without any of the drama that made things uncomfortable. The food was amazing—of course, everything James prepared was top-notch; Mom had managed to poach him from one of the better restaurants in Manhattan—the atmosphere was relaxed, and my view was incredible. Maggie and I kept meeting eyes and smiling. I was trying not to make my feelings too obvious, but being around her made that difficult. Mom, Dad, and Philippa spent most of the meal talking about traveling throughout Europe, which they’d all done extensively. Mom was mostly fluent in French, so the women spent some time going back and forth while the rest of us watched, amused but clueless. Maggie seemed to understand part of it, but not all. I knew she was trying to learn French because her mom hadn’t taught her growing up.
I looked around the table as the meal came to a close—everyone had slowed down quite a bit, most of us even going so far as to put down our utensils and sit back in our chairs—and my heart was just so full of love for everyone in this room, but especially for the woman sitting across from me. I was so grateful to still have her in my life. I’d wondered if she wouldn’t feel uncomfortable in my presence after BJ died, and we’d had some moments where it felt a little awkward, but we got over it quickly. I had to thank BJ for that. He’d loved us both and had brought us together in ways he never would have imagined. It was a constant struggle to balance what my heart wanted with the loyalty I felt for him. I never wanted to dishonor his memory, but, sometimes, things just felt so right between Maggie and me.
“That was an incredible meal,” Maggie announced as the staff appeared to remove our dishes and silverware.
“Wait until you see dessert in a few hours,” Mom said, chuckling at Maggie’s surprised expression. “We have pies upon pies. Wild berry, apple, pumpkin, coconut, whatever you’d like.”
“What will you do with all of this leftover food?” Maggie asked, still looking stunned at the idea of so many varieties of pie. I cursed myself for not taking her back to the industrial-sized kitchen to see the sheer amount of untouched food. There would still be a ton left over, but nothing beat seeing it before it was served. There was always Christmas, right? My heart rate quickened as I considered the possibilities.
“The staff eats after we do,” Mr. Wheaton said. “And they are given first option to take home what they’d like. You can take several plates as well. There’s more than enough to go around. We keep a few slices of the pies, but the rest goes to one of the soup kitchens in the area.”
“That’s wonderful,” Philippa said with a small smile. She was an extremely expressive woman, and you could see Maggie had gotten all the softness to her face from her mother, as well as her dark green eyes. But Philippa’s hair was sandy blonde while Maggie’s was a rich chocolate brown. And she had curves for miles, which I preferred to her mother’s bonier frame. The color rose to my face and I steered my mind away from those kinds of thoughts as quickly as I could, not wanting to draw attention to myself.
“Shall we retire to the study for our after dinner drinks?” Mom asked. “We have coffee, wine, and even stronger digestives, for those who desire them.”
“I’d love a scotch,” Dad said. It was his go-to drink after a meal. He didn’t usually have it after lunch, but we’d been at the table talking and eating for a few hours. It was getting close to 4 o’clock at this point. I couldn’t believe how quickly the time had flown by.
We walked next door to the study in a clump, Maggie and Philippa looking around at the artwork and architecture. Mom and Dad had built this house before I was born, working closely with an architect Dad had known since college to create the home they’d dreamt about for years. They then proceeded to fill it with fine furnishings and curated artwork. It had taken more than a decade to get it exactly right. Mom still did sporadic reboots in certain rooms, depending on her mood. She didn’t follow trends. She was too original for that. Dad had his study and the garage. The rest he left in Mom’s hands.
