Something About You (Just Me & You)

by Lelaina Landis

  If they hadn’t been interrupted by Sebastian’s phone call, they both could have gone down for the count.

  Gage pulled the car into his side of the driveway and killed the motor. Beside him, Sabrina was sniffling quietly and trying to rub away mascara smears with the ball of her hand.

  “I meant to tell you something earlier,” he told her.

  “What’s that?” The look on her face was unreadable.

  “You look beautiful tonight.”

  He got out of the car and went around her side to open the door. As a blast of winter air buffeted them from the north, he could have sworn he saw a brief smile cross her lips.

  From: molly@lechateauduparker…

  To: sabrina@lascasadimarch…

  Subject: Surviving the Partials

  Dear Brini,

  A-ha! I’ve thought of at least one silver lining to this nightmare of a week: A damned good reason to opt out of spending two whole days with Cybil and Shuck over the Christmas holidays. Well, we’ll still put in an appearance for the good eats. Cybil’s personal chef makes this astounding wild mushroom ravioli.

  Anyways, here’s more about my plan. One of the Cole clan always shows up with a tot. I shall hold the child and coo at him/her longingly until it becomes obvious that my hormones are still a little “off.” (Hey, it could really happen.) Once everyone in the room is good and uncomfortable, Sebastian will say something like, “All of this is very hard on Molly.” Then we’ll come home early and watch A Christmas Story.

  That’s such a good movie. I love the part when Ralphie chokes on Santa’s lap. I could watch it over and over.

  I can’t believe Les wanted to draw names when there are all of four of you. And I can’t believe you caved and bought Chit — I mean Chet — that ludicrously expensive single-serve espresso-latte brewer either. Sounds like a plot if you ask me. He probably figured it was the very last thing on the wedding registry he and Fay would get and made you the chump. If it were me, I’d get him a Mr. Coffee. But hey, it’s your moolah.

  Happy Holly-Daze. Please survive.

  Love,

  Molly

  P.S. Your “home-cooked” dinners are terrible. I know you were aiming for comfort food, but really, Brini. Ramen noodles mixed with tuna fish and peas? I’ll give you one chance for a do-over the day after Christmas. We’ll pretend that I’m still distraught and physically fragile. You can stick one of my yummy frozen casseroles in the oven, and we’ll dine together on something edible and do girl talk. Sound cool?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Les March’s bright idea to put everyone’s name in a hat and draw names may have worked in theory but not so much in actual execution.

  Wrapped boxes spread out from under the Christmas tree like a slow flow of lava, which continued to grow once Chet and Fay arrived and added to the pile. Sabrina pushed Chet’s gift far beneath the tree so that it was obscured by one of her stepmother’s custom window panels. Let him wonder, she thought viciously.

  The tree was the kind Sabrina particularly loathed: Large, fake, perfectly symmetrical and festooned with color-coordinated ornaments purchased from specialty holiday boutiques. The theme changed every year. Last Christmas, her stepmother chose butterflies and bows in pink and turquoise. And the year before that, the tree looked like a bizarre art school project, exploding with bright sprays of tinsel and what looked like empty bird’s nests sprayed in complementary colors of bronze and silver.

  This year’s theme appeared to be brass. Small glass tubas, French horns, trumpets and trombones were paired with milky sky blue and sapphire-colored globes. Strings of tiny white lights neatly crisscrossed the boughs. Sabrina much preferred Molly’s Christmas tree, a bottom-heavy fragrant balsam fir adorned with tiny patchwork ornaments, felt Santa faces, and scratched-up glass globes that were boxed up in the Parker attic.

  Sabrina’s stepmother emerged from the kitchen long enough to give her the obligatory hug. Sabrina caught a whiff of tamales. Olivia March had donned a quilted red sweater trimmed with little bells over black velvet stretch pants. Never one for seasonal attire, Sabrina wore a long, white silk blouse with poet’s sleeves over her most comfortable pair of jeans, which were beginning to look a bit ragged around the knees.

  “Make yourself at home, Sabrina.” Olivia’s congenial smile didn’t quite meet her eyes. “Your father’s gone out for ice. Dinner’s on in thirty minutes. I hope you brought your appetite.”

  Then she swished back into the kitchen where Chet and Fay were gathered around a cheese tray, leaving Sabrina standing in the living room alone.

  Family gatherings aside, she could count on the digits of both hands the number of times she’d interacted with Olivia March one-on-one. Her stepmother hadn’t been an unattractive woman when she and Les first met — Sabrina grudgingly understood her father’s attraction — nor had she been a complete stranger. When Sabrina was a little girl, her stepmother had been just another one of the employees at her father’s fledgling dental practice. There was the short, chubby, pink-cheeked receptionist who seemed in a perpetual whirl of office business, and there were the two older hygienists, both of whom had short gray hair, grandmotherly features and wire-framed glasses.

  Then there was Olivia. Her slender build had been rounded out by an ample bosom and a generous bum. She always wore her long honey-colored hair in a neat French braid, from which curly wisps of hair escaped at the temples. Over the years, her hair had become shorter and more ashen, and her once-svelte figure was padded by middle-aged spread. Riddled with otherwise vague impressions of the woman who fell in love with Daddy, it was several years before Sabrina could bring herself to look at Olivia. Really look. When she finally did, she didn’t notice the color of her stepmother’s eyes or the shape of her face, only the small details. Like how the nostrils of Olivia’s nose pinched together whenever she became upset. And how her overly plucked eyebrows, shaped into perfect half-moons, had finally abandoned their roots, making her resemble a seventies disco diva.

  Make yourself at home. Sabrina didn’t know how. She wandered around the room, idly peering into the china cabinet where Olivia’s Tiffany crystal was displayed. To his credit, Les had tried his best not to rub more salt into fresh wounds. He’d waited a year after the divorce was finalized and Sabrina’s modest childhood home in the Corners had been sold before he married Olivia. His first order of business was to buy an expensive house in Peyton Heights for his new family with far too much floor space for only three.

  The house was always kept meticulously clean, but not through any effort on the part of the humans in residence. Sabrina knew that Olivia employed a team of housekeepers and personal chefs to come in three times a week to keep the baseboards buffed, the laundry cleaned and the refrigerator stocked with enough meals to last an entire week. Olivia had given notice months before Chet was born and, to Sabrina’s knowledge, hadn’t worked since she and Les married.

  What does Olivia do all day? Sabrina wondered as she peeled the foil from a chocolate kiss.

  Les burst through the doorway with a boisterous “Ho-ho-ho!” looking like a store greeter in his green vest and Santa’s cap. After the ice was stashed, Olivia called everyone to the table for dinner. Chet brayed on about the market. Les groused about paranoid patients who came in to have amalgams removed. Olivia’s contribution was limited to passing around serving bowls and asking everyone if they wanted more. Sabrina mentally put the conversation on mute, a talent she’d eventually acquired after attending numerous tedious filibusters.

  As long as she could remember, there had never been a holiday dinner at her father’s house that involved traditional food. Instead of ham, turkey or prime rib and their customary potato-based sides, Olivia had Tex-Mex delivered from a downtown restaurant in massive takeout containers. A rare native Austinite not fond of salsas, moles and spicy chili sauces, Sabrina picked the chicken out of her enchiladas verde and nibbled on chips and guacamole.

  After dinner, Les dragged out
the industrial-sized blender and whipped up batches of margaritas— heavy on the Cointreau, because Olivia liked her drinks sweet. Sabrina trailed behind the others into the living room. She checked her watch. Two hours down. Only a couple more to go, and it would all be over.

  “I found this at a sample sale.” Olivia was showing Fay a crocheted cardigan that resembled an elaborate doily. “It looked like it would be the perfect fit for you.”

  Fay mumbled a thanks. Clutching the cardigan in her lap, she surreptitiously snuck a pink-faced look at Sabrina, who was sitting in an armchair calmly dipping her spoon into a pot of flan.

  “Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?” Les brayed, his third margarita in hand.

  “Chet, open this one,” Olivia retrieved a long box with a Nordstrom sticker over the bow.

  “I thought Chet’s gift was supposed to come from Sabrina,” Fay said in a hushed tone. “Isn’t that why we drew names?”

  “That, Fay, is a very good question.” Sabrina lifted her spoon to emphasize each word. She felt a little tipsy from the margarita.

  “Liv—?” Les shot his wife a vexed look.

  “C’mon, people.” Chet ripped into the box. “Like I’m not going to buy a gift for my parents and my fiancée at Christmas? I appreciate the effort you put into trying to save us money this year, Dad. But there are only four of us in the family. We should be able to give each other gifts if we want to.”

  “One, two, three, four.” Sabrina counted noggins with the bowl of her spoon. “Yup, Chet. That’s what I get too.”

  Fay looked like she wanted to rush down the hall and climb in the laundry hamper.

  “Sweet, Mom. Thanks.” Chet held up a pricey designer dress shirt.

  Looking slightly abashed, Les handed him a larger box from underneath the tree with a “From: Dad” tag. It was a brown leather messenger bag, the same style and model as Sabrina’s own.

  “Wow, Sabrina. We didn’t expect you to go all out.” Chet tried to sound surprised as he nudged the single-serve coffee maker to Fay’s heels for her inspection.

  Olivia got a sapphire dinner ring from Les and a gift certificate to a day spa from Chet. Fay, the only other person clearly unaware of the name-drawing opt-out, gave Les the Marumen Majesty driver he needed to complete the rest of the set, which Olivia and Chet trotted out in a wheeled caddy. The gift opening died down as Fay unwrapped an envelope that contained a spa certificate identical to the one Olivia had received and a box of earth-colored cashmere sweaters from her future in-laws.

  Sabrina, tuned out to the entire affair, reached into her purse and glanced at her cell phone. The display registered a single text message from Molly: Chump!

  “We seem to have one more gift left under this big ol’ tree,” Les said with a broad smile. “I think this one’s yours, Sabrina.” He handed her a small, slender white box wrapped with a loopy blue satin bow.

  “Thanks, Dad.” Aware that everyone else had stopped unwrapping, gabbing and showcasing their loot, she opened it rather perfunctorily, giving passing reference to the gift tag that said “To: Sabrina; From: Santa Claus.”

  As soon as she lifted the lid, she did a double take. At first her eyes didn’t register the dollar amount on the piece of paper inside. But no, there it was, crisply written in blue ballpoint in Les’ handwriting: Pay to the order of Sabrina March, followed by a figure with a lot of zeroes.

  “You got a gift certificate to the spa too, Sabrina? How wonderful!” Olivia feigned glee. “We’ll have to plan a girls’ day out soon. Won’t we, Fay?”

  “Um, Dad. I don’t—” Sabrina lifted the check gingerly as though it might disintegrate. “—I don’t really know what to say.”

  “‘Thank you’ is good enough,” Les said. “You’re too old — no, too mature to have a housemate.”

  “What the hell, Dad? Is that a check?” Chet looked at his father suspiciously.

  “Lester?” Olivia’s nostrils pinched shut. “Is there something that you forgot to discuss with me?”

  “Baby doll, this is Sabrina’s money.” Les’ voice was calm but firm. “She’ll inherit it anyway after I kick off. May as well let her have it now when she really needs it.”

  “God, Dad. That is bleak,” Chet said unhappily. “Sabrina already told you she didn’t want any money. And you gave it to her anyway? I'm not snapping to it here. My wedding is this summer. I’m sure Fay wouldn’t mind if someone handed her a check for a house. In Cadence Corners,” he added nastily, shooting a dark glance in Sabrina’s direction.

  “Chet, it’s Christmas. So put a sock in it, for the love of baby Jesus,” Les said irascibly. “And you might want to show your sister a little consideration while you’re at it. She is sitting in the same room.” He turned back to Sabrina. “I’m sorry for springing this on you in front of everyone, honeybunch. It was the only way I could get you to accept a leg up from your old man.”

  “Daddy, I am grateful from the bottom of my heart. I mean that.” Sabrina was overwhelmed. She thought of the money Les continued to funnel to an Ivy League school after Chet’s multiple scholastic probations. The semester Chet spent studying in Zurich. The new Porsche. The expensive messenger bag and the damned single-serve coffee maker (chump). In an instant of clarity, Sabrina realized that the dollar value on the check leveled the playing field in terms of how much money Les had invested in each of his children. Then she looked up and saw the look on her stepmother’s face; it was one of disorganized shock, as though she’d just discovered that her wallet had been pilfered at the mall.

  “But I can’t accept this money,” Sabrina forced herself to go on. “We’ve had this discussion before, Dad. Nothing’s changed.”

  Her stomach pitched as she handed the check to Les. With it went her freedom from a forever-string of housemates and living comfortably within her means. She sensed rather than heard Chet exhale with relief.

  “I want to help you, Sabrina. I’m really trying to do something that—” Les began. Finding no other words he finished the sentence by shaking his head.

  “Sabrina, please sleep on this. Your father wants to give you this gift.” Fay spoke up. Chet stared at his future wife, stunned. Then she added in a stronger voice, “Don’t give me that look, Chet March. Sabrina’s my future sister-in-law.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Fay,” Sabrina said, and she genuinely meant it. “Once again, thanks for the offer, Daddy. I won’t ever forget it.” She looked around at Chet, Fay and Olivia, all of whom were studying various corners of the room.

  Sabrina quickly swung on her jacket and gathered her purse and keys. “I really need to go now,” she told them, coasting on her last reserve of graciousness. “Thank you for the dinner, Olivia. And to the rest of you for your company.”

  “Is there a family dinner that you don’t walk out on, Sabrina?” Chet groused.

  “Sock, Chet,” Les warned his son before he looked at her with concern. “You’ll call me soon and we’ll talk. Promise?”

  “I promise I’ll call, Daddy,” Sabrina assured him. Discussion about the proffered check, however, was already off the table.

  “Well, you shouldn’t leave completely empty-handed,” Olivia said briskly as she rose from the couch. “Take some of these leftovers off of my hands.” The bells on her stepmother’s sweater tinkled as she rounded the dinner table.

  Sabrina bit her bottom lip. “Olivia, you know what? I don’t like Mexican food. I never have.”

  The other woman swiveled and glared, hands on hips. “Well, for crying out loud, Sabrina. If you would have said something sooner, I would have gotten a damn ham!”

  Seconds after the front door closed behind her, Sabrina heard the room erupt in furious discourse. Les’ defensive barking and Chet’s gruff harangues were drowned out by a shrill female voice that Sabrina had never heard her stepmother use in polite company. Sabrina paused on the landing long enough to hear Les’ voice shake with frustration.

  “Because she’s my daughter
, Liv — that’s the hell why!”

  Feeling curiously calm in the wake of the sound and fury going on behind her, Sabrina bounded down the steps to her car and drove to the nearest all-night market, where beggars couldn’t be choosy about their comestibles. She watched the checker scan a packaged pimento cheese sandwich date-stamped the day before, a package of baked Lays and a Diet Dr Pepper and then drove straight home. By the time she walked through the front door, her cell phone was already ringing. Nola inbound, she thought wearily as she accepted the call.

  “I can’t believe that you and Dad are heating up the towers on Christmas Eve,” Sabrina said into the phone.

  “And I can’t believe I raised a jackass. Sure looked like a human child coming out of my ladybits, but I could have been mistaken. What the hell were you thinking tonight, Sabrina March?” Nola’s voice was almost drowned out by background noise of raucous laughter and Van Morrison’s “Moondance.”

  “Where are you, Mom?”

  “I’m on Rex’s houseboat out at Lake Travis. We’re with friends,” Nola said loudly. “I’ll be back on Sunday.”

  “Have you been drinking?” Sabrina asked.

  “I may have had a few glasses of Malbec. But do not try to change the subject. It won’t work on this old gal. Why did you turn down the money? Why?”

  “Geez, Mom. Do I have to explain it to you again? If I took Dad’s money, the partials would make my life hell. And because my life is bound to Dad’s, said hell could last indefinitely.”

  “Bull,” Nola said promptly. “This isn’t about you and Chet or you and Olivia, Sabrina. If you haven’t learned how to say ‘Screw them!’ by now, you are not half the woman I thought you were. This is about your relationship with your father and why the lingering dysfunction between the two of you makes you do ridiculous things like getting married to Mr. ‘My Way or the Highway.’ So take Les’ money or don’t take it. But regardless of what you decide to do, you need to figure that out.”