The Kiss Plot: Book Two of the Quicksilver Trilogy

by French, Nicole

  “Hush.”

  The word was spoken kindly, quietly, but was still effective. My mother wasn’t the type to use nicknames. Unlike my dad, who had a backpack full of monikers for me, my mom was like a lot of Koreans who didn’t readily call their children by anything less formal than their given name.

  Ironically, the only other person I really knew whose family treated him that way was Eric. Yet another random thing we had in common.

  “You should be here,” I said. “Or I…I should be there. Holidays are for family, Eomma. I’m sorry about how I’ve treated mine.”

  Suddenly, there was nowhere else I’d rather be than my parents’ house in Evanston, wrapped in one of the old seventies afghans my dad insisted on keeping. My mother would jabber away in Korean with her cousins, and Dad and I would make small talk with his coworkers and try to decipher whatever sporting event was on the TV. I felt harsh, nasty pangs of regret for every holiday I’d spent without them, for every time I’d avoided my mother’s calls, for the three years I’d spent in Boston instead of around my dad while I could. The house in Evanston might be gone along with him, but that didn’t mean the soul of our family wasn’t alive and well.

  It didn’t matter that I’d found a new family of two over the last six months only to lose it again. It only mattered that I’d squandered the one I’d always had.

  “Christmas,” I started to promise before I realized it wasn’t possible.

  I had to stay with Eric until after the New Year to meet that sixty-day requirement. I wanted to promise the lunar new year, but realized again I had to stay here to take the bar a week after that. No, as much as I wanted to run home to squeeze my mother right this minute, I wouldn’t be able to do it until the spring.

  My heart ached that much more.

  “Jane?”

  I cleared my throat. “Yes, Eomma?”

  “I love you,” she said.

  I blinked my tears away in surprise. She rarely said that sort of thing. Our closeness was more bound up in bickering, shopping, harping on daily life. She showed she cared by caring. Open displays of affection usually made her very uncomfortable.

  “We don’t say it enough,” she said quietly. “And today, we are thankful, right? I am thankful for you.”

  I opened and closed my mouth, unsure of how to reply to this uncharacteristic compliment. I was overflowing with regret and the desire to fix something, anything, in this mess of my life.

  Maybe my next move wasn’t to hold on to a relationship that was clearly doomed from the start. Eric might have felt like home more than anywhere else I’d known. But in six weeks, we’d be completely free of each other, and I’d be worth fifty million dollars. I could buy my mother back her house in Evanston. Give up men for good. Maybe we could live there together, two bickering old maids. She could teach me how to make her dumplings and kimchi. All the things I’d resolutely refused my whole life. I’d finally learn Korean, sew blankets, spend my spare time playing godori and be the good daughter she always wanted me to be…

  “I am thankful,” she continued, “I have a strong daughter that can make her own life. Much better than I ever could.”

  And just like that, the house, the life of two old crones squabbling at each other on the porch—it all disappeared. I blinked, and I was back on this porch, back in this life. But lifted, somehow, by my mother’s faith and my own determination to make it right.

  Whatever that meant.

  “Thanks, Eomma,” I said. “I love you too.”

  There was a shout behind her, and before she could reply to me, my mother rattled off something indecipherable in Korean, something I couldn’t understand. Would never really understand.

  I had never felt so clearly that we lived different lives. Or understood better that it was the way it was meant to be.

  “Call me soon,” she ordered.

  “Okay,” I said, still swiping at tears. “I will.”

  “Okay,” she said, and in that strange, yet familiarly abrupt way of hers, she hung up the phone, leaving no room for sweet goodbyes or kind words made of nothing but reassurance. The conversation was over. The important things had already been said.

  “Everything all right?”

  I put my phone in my coat pocket, then turned around to find Zola stepping onto the porch. He was a bit more dressed up than I’d seen him last weekend, in a gray button-down shirt and black pants. With his dark hair and olive skin, he looked a bit roguish. But his eyes were open and friendly. There was no mask at all.

  He gestured with his half-full wine glass. “They sent me to find you. Ray’s carving the turkey, and they’re dishing up.”

  I offered a small smile and ran my finger under my glasses. “Yeah. Yeah, everything is okay. I’ll be right in.”

  But instead of leaving me to gather myself, Zola took one look at me, set his glass on the railing, and crossed the deck to gather me into his arms. He left no space for refusal, and while I stiffened at first, once it was clear there was no ulterior motive, I allowed myself to enjoy the comfort.

  Because in my mind, it wasn’t him who was hugging me. It was another solid, lean body. Another pair of arms that were wiry, but strong. It was the subtle hint of Tom Ford I was smelling, and it was a gold-stubbled cheek pressed against my forehead.

  When I closed my eyes, I could pretend it was Eric offering me solace, not this kind man who barely knew me at all.

  I allowed myself exactly three long breaths before I stepped out of Zola’s embrace. My eyes were dry again, and I felt like I could eat pie with everyone.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I—I needed that.”

  Zola smiled kindly. “You looked like it. The holidays are hard when you’re not getting along with family. I’ve been there.”

  “Yeah?” I pulled off my glasses to check my eyes in my window reflection. “Why aren’t you with yours now, by the way? I thought you had a big Italian family.”

  “Well, my ma would kill me if she knew I was here instead of in Belmont. I’d never get away with it at Christmas, but sometimes I feel like a little white lie doesn’t hurt for the sake of my sanity.”

  He reached out and squeezed my hand, and I squeezed back, grateful in this moment to have a friend.

  But before I could reply, I spotted a shape lurking behind the sliding glass door. Because of the way the afternoon light bounced off the window, it was hard to spot him at first, but as soon as I did, his gray eyes cut through every distracting flash. Eric, watching me with an expression full of hurt, but also anger. And I realized that he had seen the entire thing.

  Nineteen

  When Zola and I found our seats across from each other at the big farmhouse table, Eric was nowhere to be seen. All of the dinner attendees were seated. Parents, friends, kids, even Annabelle and Christoph, Skylar’s French half-siblings, had emerged from their bedrooms for the meal.

  “Where do people keep going?” Brandon demanded as he helped Sarah bring out the platter of carved turkey. “The food is getting cold. No one wants a lukewarm bird.”

  “Relax, babe,” Skylar chided him like she was speaking to a child.

  “Don’t worry, Brandon,” I said. “You’ll still get dessert if you finish your green beans.”

  For that, I received a blue-eyed glare.

  “Oh, Aunt Janey,” Jenny said, “Daddy always eats his veggies, ’cause he knows if he doesn’t, I won’t either.”

  “Yeah,” Luis agreed beside her.

  I smirked at Brandon, who just took a long drink of beer. I didn’t think the man particularly cared that he was wrapped around his daughter’s little pinky.

  “Eric had to take a phone call too.” Skylar appeared with a couple of bottles and proceeded to pour everyone a drink, ignoring thirteen-year-old Annabelle’s pleas for a taste of the wine. “Sorry, Anna. The kids get sparkling cider.”

  “But Brandon said I could have some special for tonight!” Annabelle argued. Her French accent, I noticed, was almost completely
erased after several years of boarding school in Andover and weekends here in Brookline.

  “Why?” asked Christoph, whose accent was completely gone. “You’re just a kid.”

  “I am not!”

  “Brandon!” Skylar turned to admonish her husband, but the big man pretended to hide behind Sarah, whose five-feet-and-change form wasn’t exactly up to the task. At the sight, however, even Skylar couldn’t help but crack a smile, and everyone relaxed as she went back to pouring the kids’ beverages.

  “Don’t worry, kid. Wine’s not that great.”

  Eric flopped into the empty seat between me and Annabelle, warmth practically radiating from his body. There was a slight sheen on his skin, like he’d just been running, and as he spoke, I caught a hint of vodka off his breath. He ignored me completely and grinned at Annabelle, with whom he was obviously familiar. Of course, I realized. Eric had probably spent nearly every holiday I didn’t in this house for the last five years, considering he had been so deeply estranged from his own people. He knew the kids like they were his own nieces and nephews.

  “How’s Andover treating you, Belles? Are you on the headmistress’s good side yet?” Eric asked.

  Annabelle gazed at him adoringly. “H-hi, Eric. We—I mean, Chris—was hoping you’d be here for Thanksgiving this year.”

  Eric’s smile widened. The girl practically melted. I rolled my eyes. He really couldn’t help himself, even with a gawky eighth grader, could he? Jackass.

  “We, um, we heard about the wedding.” Annabelle’s eyes danced to my bare fingers, asking the questions that reporters still called me about.

  Eric smiled again, but this one was much grimmer. “Ah. Well. Don’t believe everything you hear, beautiful.”

  The girl flushed all over again, but before she could reply, Eric reached for his wine glass and took a nice long drink.

  “I thought you didn’t like wine that much anymore,” I murmured.

  He set the glass down. “It’s a party. I’ll adjust.” His eyes were glassy, and I could still smell the vodka, even under the wine.

  “Who were you talking to?” I asked in a low voice. “Or was it a private conversation between you and Brandon’s stash of Beluga?”

  Eric refused to look at me, turning his wine glass back and forth instead. “Nina called to say Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Oh? That’s really sweet of her.”

  The steely look erased any lingering goodwill. “Yeah. Everyone says hi. Including Caitlyn.”

  My skin prickled. “What?”

  His slim blond brow rose. “You heard me. She said to tell Jane and Desi hello, apparently. So I said hello back.”

  That idiotic nickname of hers—the one that marked him as hers somehow—made it very difficult not to break my wine glass. “You didn’t. Not after. After we—after you—”

  “Let’s not do this here,” Eric said with that calm that absolutely infuriated me.

  “Then when?”

  “How about never?” he said between clenched teeth and the fakest smile I’d ever seen. “Since you’re too busy prepping your next move, I don’t really see the fucking point.”

  His eyes flashed at Zola, who was too immersed making Christoph laugh with some bad French to notice. On his other side, however, Annabelle’s eyes widened at the sudden profanity.

  “Stop it,” I hissed.

  “Stop what?” Eric suddenly drained his entire glass of wine in one go, then immediately refilled it. “Seems to me you’re the one who lacks self-control, Lefferts.”

  My eyes widened. “Excuse me? Who tackled who on the—”

  “Ahem!” Eric coughed loud enough to interrupt me, and before I could recover, there was the sound of a chair screeching against the hardwood as Brandon lumbered up at the end of the table, and everyone quieted.

  “I—well, we, Skylar and me—wanted to say thanks to everyone for coming today. We, ah, honestly didn’t expect everyone to show.”

  There was a small titter of laughter. Brandon was always good with a crowd, even his own family.

  “But we’re damn glad—”

  “Daddy!”

  “Ah, darn glad you did,” Brandon finished with a meaningful look at Jenny. He held up his glass, and we all mirrored him. “Cheers,” he said. “To family and friends.”

  “To family and friends,” we repeated dutifully.

  “Whether or not they stay that way,” Eric muttered.

  “I’m sorry, what?” I asked.

  “Shouldn’t we say grace or something?” Brandon asked loudly just as everyone was reaching for the food set out up and down the table.

  “Daddy!” Jenny moaned again. “I’m hungry!”

  Skylar bit her lip. I snorted. Sometimes you really can’t take the Catholic out of the boy, and according to Skylar, Brandon had gotten a bit more…pious…since taking in Annabelle and Christoph on the weekends. Having a teenage girl running around his house had recently inspired the epiphany that Jenny would also, at some point, have boys sniffing around. Apparently, he had started taking the kids to Mass with him every so often and had been talking a lot of abstinence crap at Jenny. Which, of course, only induced Skylar to make wry comments about how well those celibacy vows were working for the church, and to buy various sex education books for all the kids in the house.

  “Grace?” Ray put in. “Brandon, I’m a scientist. I don’t believe in God. And you don’t either, for that matter.”

  “I never said I don’t believe in God, Ray,” Brandon replied, looking nervously at Christoph and Annabelle, as well as Jenny, who was observing with a keen eye. Luis, still too young to really follow the conversation, was already dipping his spoon in the sweet potatoes Skylar had put on his plate.

  “Well, I do,” Sarah said, whose love for Brandon couldn’t be quashed by a mere difference in religion. “The Jewish one, at any rate.” She looked kindly at Brandon, and he grinned back at her.

  “Come on, you shiksa goddess,” I jeered at Brandon, making Skylar, her dad, and Zola all snort. He was really too easy to tease. “Just clear your conscience so we can eat. My stomach is growling a prayer right now.”

  “Daddy, what’s a shiksa?” Jenny asked.

  “It’s a pretty gentile girl, matoki,” Sarah said automatically, petting her great-granddaughter on the head. “Brandon, maybe just a simple blessing? My Daniel is very good at that sort of thing.”

  “Ma.” Danny just shook his head. Skylar patted him on the shoulder. She knew he didn’t really like being the center of attention.

  “What?” Sarah asked. “You love being on the stage playing the music, don’t you?”

  Jenny screwed her freckled face up in confusion. “Daddy’s not a girl. How can he be a shiksa?”

  “I’m not, pea. Auntie Jane thinks she’s being funny.”

  I couldn’t stop giggling, however, and soon, Christoph and Annabelle had joined me, while several other people hid smiles. Eric, however, remained stone-faced.

  “Very nice, Jane,” Brandon said.

  But when he bowed his head and crossed himself, his daughter as well as his wife’s siblings all automatically mimicked the movement. Apparently, Mass wasn’t completely lost on them.

  Across the table, Zola sighed and did the same, and slowly, the rest of the adults bowed their heads out of respect as Brandon gave a short, awkward blessing that was only slightly better than “Good bread, good meat, good God, let’s

  “Poetic,” I remarked to Eric.

  “It had a rhyme scheme,” he said without any humor. He dished himself potatoes and turned to pass them without offering me any.

  I handed him my plate. “Um, do you mind?”

  “I do. But I’ll do it anyway.” Eric smacked a spoonful so hard they splattered across the plate.

  “So, Matthew,” Sarah asked from the other side of the table as she gestured for Zola’s plate to serve some turkey.

  “Zola,” he corrected her with a good-natured grin. “The only person who ca
lls me Matthew is my mother when I’m in trouble, Mrs. Crosby.”

  “And why aren’t you with her?” Eric asked nastily as he accepted the stuffing from Annabelle.

  This time I didn’t ask for some—he just dumped a bunch right on top of my potatoes. I used my fork to separate them, then passed my plate down for some green beans.

  Zola looked up uncomfortably as he took his plate back. “Well, my parents’ place is pretty small, and I have a lot of siblings. And now they have kids, so…”

  “What’s wrong with kids?” Eric asked. “There are kids here too. Do you not like them either?”

  Zola looked around at the children currently present, all of whom seemed to be very interested in his response. “Ah, no, no, they’re great. And I love my nieces and nephews. It’s just…I see them a lot, especially at Christmas, so I usually take Thanksgiving to get away for a bit, you know? See other friends. Other towns.”

  “Other girls?”

  Zola paused mid bite of turkey. “Ah, sure. Sometimes there are girls present.” He smiled at me. “Like today.”

  Eric looked like he wanted to hurl the bowl of cranberry sauce he was holding at Zola’s face.

  “Why are you so interested, Petri dish?” I asked. “Did you need a wingman to help you refill your sample?”

  Eric’s eyes narrowed at the use of the nickname. “Maybe,” he said, just because he knew it would hurt. “But apparently he doesn’t need one. He was able to make his move all on his own, wasn’t he, pretty girl?”

  “Ah…I’m sorry?” Zola’s gaze ping-ponged between Eric and me. “Hey, man, if I did something—”

  “He’s talking about the fact that you hugged me on the porch,” I said, though I was still staring at Eric. His blond hair was now deliciously mussed, and his silvery gray eyes had gone completely black. If I hadn’t been so furious with him, I would have wanted to drag him back to the lab.

  But the entire table had gone quiet—they were all watching this little display. All I wanted was for Eric to make it end.

  Sadly, he did not. “I’m talking about the fact that you molested some guy right here in front of me and the kids, Jane.”