London Undone

by Nan Higgins

  Grant was silent for a moment, still rubbing her leg. His voice was soothing when he spoke. “I haven’t read a single news article about Tate’s murder. Not online and not in the Columbus Dispatch.”

  “You haven’t?” She was surprised. Grant was a news junkie; he consumed his news like she consumed coffee. He read world, national, and local news in three languages and from more sources than she previously knew existed.

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged. “I just can’t right now.”

  She was relieved to know he felt the same way she did, and her heart filled with love for her friend. She didn’t know what she would’ve done the last couple months if he hadn’t been living here. She rested her head on his and stayed like that until a coughing fit made her sit upright.

  “Want me to make you some chicken noodle soup?” he asked.

  “Are there crackers?”

  He smiled. “I think you’re on the mend already.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Do I look okay?” London asked for the dozenth time. It was Thanksgiving morning, and she was getting ready go to the Williams family gathering.

  “You look great.” Grant didn’t look away from the mirror while he straightened his tie.

  “You didn’t even look at me!”

  He sighed. “Do you look different from the last time you asked?”

  “Point taken.” She sidled up beside him. “Give me some mirror?” He stepped over a bit so they could both see their reflections. London unclipped her barrettes and refastened them in exactly the same places. Grant finished with his tie, and they turned to look at each other.

  “Perfect,” they said in unison.

  She tried unsuccessfully to stop wondering if Reggie would notice the extra time she’d put into trying to look nice. The focus of today was going to be family and honoring Tate, and yet she couldn’t help wanting Reggie to be happy to see her.

  They put on their coats and walked outside together. Before they parted ways, Grant said, “Now, are you sure you don’t need me to come back tonight? Because I can make this a day trip if I have to.”

  “Don’t be silly. You’d be spending six hours in the car, round trip, and I’ll be fine tonight.”

  “Okay. I just know how much you love dealing with Joan by yourself.”

  She laughed. “Don’t worry, I can handle Joan.” She’d received a mass email to all of Compass’s volunteers, asking for people to help with Thanksgiving dinner. It was a tough time to get enough volunteers between people wanting to be with their families and the number of people it took to put out a holiday meal. London hadn’t returned to Compass or spoken to Joan since she’d stormed out weeks before, but she was touched by the thought of those kids being unwelcome at home for Thanksgiving. She remembered all the years it had just been her and Tate for holiday meals.

  She’d written a personal response to Joan, telling her if she was welcome back, she’d like to come help. Reggie’s family ate at noon, so she’d have plenty of time afterward to help prep and serve a meal. Joan responded that they’d be happy to have her volunteer.

  Grant and London hugged each other.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, babe,” he said.

  “Happy Thanksgiving. I’ll see you tomorrow night?”

  “Tomorrow night, we’ll have a post-holiday slumber party.”

  London pulled into the Williams’s driveway a little after eleven o’clock. She parked behind Reggie’s bright blue Toyota FJ and smiled. The SUV was spotless, as usual. Even in the winter, when everyone else’s car was caked with salt and dirty snow, Reggie kept her vehicle almost impossibly clean.

  London knocked on the door, and when Reggie opened it, all the air left London’s lungs. “You cut your hair!” she said and mentally kicked herself. Way to state the obvious. “You look gorgeous.”

  Reggie had worn her hair in shoulder-length braids for as long as London had known her, and based on pictures she’d seen, it had been the same style for much longer than that. The sides were now shaved in a perfect fade, and the top was a few inches long and spiked up in a glorious cascade.

  “Thank you.” Reggie smiled and pulled London inside. Reggie looked behind her, then leaned in and kissed London on the lips, lingering a little before pulling away. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Happy Thanksgiving.” London flushed with surprised pleasure. She had to make herself take a half step back. The allure of Reggie’s lips was powerful, and she wanted more, but this wasn’t the time. “I thought you didn’t believe in kissing me right now. Not that I’m complaining, trust me, but…”

  Reggie shrugged, and her eyes shone. “It’s Thanksgiving, we had mimosas at breakfast, and you’re standing there looking all beautiful.”

  London laughed. “And that’s the combination it takes for you to drop your principles?”

  “I just want to be happy today.” The smile left Reggie’s mouth but stayed in her eyes. “Okay?”

  London nodded. “Okay. Let’s be happy.”

  Reggie took her coat and put it in the hall closet.

  “Regina?” Betty called from the kitchen. “Is that London?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “Well, bring her in here.”

  Reggie grabbed London’s hand, and they walked into the kitchen together. Betty, busy at the stove, turned to them and smiled. “Now, that’s what I like to see,” She turned toward the living room. “Herb!”

  “What?”

  “London’s here. Come say hello.”

  “I’m watching the game.”

  “The game hasn’t started yet.”

  “I’m watching the pregame.”

  Betty looked to the heavens. “Lord, give me strength with this man and his football today.”

  London laughed. “How about I go in and say hi? Here, before I do, I brought your favorite wine.” She handed Betty the bottle of Beaujolais.

  “Oh my, how thoughtful you always are, dear.” Betty picked up the bottle, inspected the label, and smiled. “You didn’t have to go to the trouble.”

  London waved her hand. “It’s the least I can do.”

  “Oh, hey,” Reggie said, “did you bring the—”

  “Yeah, it’s in the trunk of my car.”

  “I’ll get it. Keys?”

  “In my coat pocket.”

  Reggie kissed her on the cheek. “Be right back.”

  London watched her go. She felt a palpable shift in the energy between them. Nothing in Reggie’s body language or actions indicated she wanted them to remain apart. The distance of the last few months seemed to have dissipated. London wanted to pull Reggie outside so they could talk about it, so she could confirm this wasn’t in her head, but it would have to wait until after Betty’s Thanksgiving dinner.

  “You go on and sit with Herb for a spell,” said Betty. “Regina and I can keep working on the meal.”

  London raised her eyebrows. “Is this your way of telling me not to help you cook?”

  “It sure is.” Betty put her hands on her hips. “What are you gonna do about it?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Good. Now, go on. Reggie’s aunt and uncle will be here soon, and we should be ready to sit down and eat shortly after.”

  London walked into the living room where Herb sat in his recliner, facing the television, which was on mute. London bit her lip to keep from giggling when she saw what was on it. Herb was watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. She stepped a little farther into the room, and one of the old wooden floorboards squeaked. Herb jumped, fumbled with the remote, and started mumbling about commercial breaks. When he looked behind him and saw London standing there, he grinned and patted the seat of the recliner beside him, and London took it.

  Herb leaned over and said, “I never miss this damn parade.”

  “Really?” Now she was grinning.

  Herb bobbed his head up and down. He pointed his thumb toward the kitchen. “They’re always
too busy with the bird to notice, thank God. Otherwise, I’d have no dignity left.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me as long as you let me watch it with you.”

  “Deal!” He stuck his hand out, and she shook it.

  They sat for a while and watched the parade, mostly on mute. When a marching band came on, Herb turned the volume up to level two. She remembered that he’d played the trumpet in the Army band, so it wasn’t a surprise. At this quiet level, though, she could barely hear, and she wasn’t sure how Herb could hear at all.

  “I turn up the volume on my hearing aid,” he proclaimed when she asked him about it.

  “I didn’t even know you could do that.”

  “Oh, yes.” He bobbed his head again. “You can hear a conversation in another room with it turned up high enough.” He winked.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Mm-hmm. Or a conversation in the foyer just outside the room.”

  “Oh.” She wasn’t sure how to respond, or if to respond, so she kept her eyes on the majorettes on the TV.

  “My daughter loves you very much.” He put the marching band on mute.

  “I know. I love her too.”

  “She’s set on marrying you.”

  Here it comes. Here comes the part where he tells me to stop being a fool, get my act together, and make an honest woman out of his daughter. She couldn’t bear to hear it from Herb. She was open to considering marriage, which was a first, but the thought of getting a lecture about getting her act together so she could stop breaking his daughter’s heart filled her with forty kinds of anxiety.

  “You’ve never been the marrying kind, though, have you?”

  Her eyes left the television and went to Herb’s understanding face. “No, I haven’t.”

  “I wonder why my daughter would be so bent on marrying someone when she knew all along that marriage was never a part of that someone’s plans.” He scratched his beard in an almost caricature-like motion.

  “Have you ever asked her why?”

  He stopped scratching. “Have you?”

  She blushed. “Not in so many words.”

  “Well. Maybe you should. In so many words.”

  Before she could say anything else, a knock at the front door interrupted them. She had to giggle when Herb jumped and fumbled with the remote again.

  Moments later, Betty called from the kitchen. “Herb! Althea and Gordon are here.”

  “Damn,” he whispered. “And I haven’t even gotten to see Santa yet.”

  London stood and put her hand on his shoulder. “I’ll cover for you.”

  He smiled up at her. “My daughter is very lucky.”

  * * *

  London almost cried when she saw the table. Betty always set a beautiful table, but this year was special. London had a tablecloth made with photos from previous Thanksgivings, and they all had Tate in them. She’d asked Reggie and Betty to send her pictures from years before, and they had delivered. His smiling face was everywhere. She ran her hands over a clear layer of plastic.

  “So it won’t get dirty,” Betty said.

  London shifted her plate to the side so she could see the picture from last year in which Tate had one hand inside the uncooked turkey, and the other hand was giving a thumbs-up. At Reggie’s place setting beside her was a photo from…was it three? No, four years ago, in which Reggie and Tate had each taken a leg and were sitting on London’s lap, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

  As if that wasn’t enough, to the left was an empty chair and a full place setting. A single piece of fried chicken—Tate’s preference over turkey—on the plate.

  “It didn’t seem right not making his chicken,” Betty said. “I couldn’t help myself.”

  “Are you okay?” Reggie put her hand on the back of London’s neck.

  She wiped a few tears away. “My emotions are tricky these days.”

  “Understandable,” said Aunt Althea. She sat on the other side of Tate’s chair. “What a sweet boy he was.”

  “Let’s have a toast.” Betty raised her glass. “To Tate. We loved you then; we love you now. We’ll always miss you and keep you alive in the ways we can.”

  London brushed more tears from her eyes and fought the sobs that threatened to escape. She wanted to honor Tate without it leading to a breakdown every time.

  They clinked their glasses, and everyone took a drink.

  Uncle Gordon led them in prayer, Herb carved the turkey, and dishes were passed around the table.

  “London, what are your plans for the rest of the day?” Betty cut a piece of turkey and swirled it in the lake of gravy on her plate. “I know you and Tate always used to cut a Christmas tree after we ate. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like, you know.”

  “Cut down a tree this early in the year?” Uncle Gordon asked. “Seems like it would be dead before Christmas.”

  “Oh, it was,” London said. “We’d cut down another one around December fifteenth or so.”

  “I didn’t even know any places were open on Thanksgiving to cut down a tree,” said Aunt Althea.

  “We…” London scrambled for a moment. “We know a family who has a farm.” She glanced at Reggie, who hid a smile by shoving sweet potatoes into her mouth.

  Knowing a family who owned a farm was technically true. They’d hopped into London’s old Jeep and driven the few hours to her family’s estate where there were clusters of lovely blue spruces on the edge of the property. It was so far out on the acreage that London knew they’d never miss the trees, and she got an awful sort of pleasure from doing it.

  It was a bittersweet memory. This was one of the best, most deliciously wicked traditions she and Tate cooked up, and she was glad for all the years they’d stolen a tree from her parents. The realization that there was one more thing she and Tate would never get to do together again made a fresh wound on her spirit.

  Every year on the drive there, Tate would have a very short, very intense panic attack.

  “How do I let you talk me into these things?” he’d ask.

  “Because it’s fun.”

  “But if we get caught—”

  “We’re not going to get caught,” she’d say.

  “But if we do, would your parents call the cops?” Tate’s knuckles would go white as he gripped the steering wheel.

  “We’re not gonna get caught. Nobody ever goes out there. You know how high the grass is. It’s so distant from the house that even the guy they hire to mow doesn’t go that far.”

  “Okay, but on the off chance we did get caught?”

  “I’d tell them I was finally taking my part of the trust fund.”

  But they’d never gotten caught in the four years since London had gotten the brilliant idea to start cutting down one tree every Thanksgiving. Once the first died, Tate, Reggie and London would go to a legitimate Christmas tree farm and cut down their second tree.

  “So you’ll be spending the day with us?” Herb asked.

  “Well, as wonderful as that sounds,” she said, “I’ll be volunteering tonight. Compass.”

  “Really?” Reggie asked.

  “Yeah. I’m sorry, I should have mentioned it to you.”

  “No, it’s okay. I just didn’t know you’d be going back there.”

  She shrugged. “They were short-staffed for Thanksgiving and needed help cooking and serving.”

  “You think they’d mind an extra set of hands?”

  London flushed with giddy surprise. “You want to come?”

  “If that’s okay with you.”

  “It’s more than okay!” She couldn’t suppress the thought that had been running through her mind since she arrived at the Williams’s house today: her Reggie was back. She tried to fight the giddiness because the last thing she needed was to build herself up for more heartbreak and disappointment, but she couldn’t help it. All signs were pointing to reconciliation, and she was thrilled.

  “It’s a date,” Reggie said.

  They stare
d at each other, smiling like idiots. When Uncle Gordon cleared his throat, they turned back to their plates and shoveled food into their happy faces.

  * * *

  There were five more kids that night than had been there previously. There would be no room for volunteers to sit.

  “Praise David Hasselhoff, you’re here!” Michael pulled London into a viselike hug. “I was afraid I’d be the only person in that kitchen tonight.”

  “What? Where’s Doris?”

  “She’s with her kids and grandkids. When she asked me if I thought it would be okay for her to go, I said, sure, no sweat; I’ll be able to wrangle the volunteers by myself. Except nobody has shown up. None of the regulars. None of the irregulars, except you, and your friend…”

  “Reggie.” She reached out to shake Michael’s only to receive a bear hug instead. When she recovered, she said, “What do you need us to do?”

  “Fortunately, Doris was here to help me prep most of the dishes last night, and the turkey has been cooking all day.” He walked them toward the kitchen. “I need one of you to get the dishes and silverware organized and serve up plates when it’s time and the other one to help me make sure nothing burns.” Michael stopped and frowned, then turned his attention to Reggie. “How are you at not burning things?”

  “Really good,” Reggie said.

  “Great. You’ll be the woman helping me take things out of the oven and off burners at the right times.”

  “Looks like I’m on dish duty,” London said. “Which is fine with me.”

  They set to work, Michael and Reggie basting the turkey, stirring and taste-testing the side dishes, and putting hot bowls and saucers onto oven pads; London set the tables, got the sides into their serving dishes, and filled glasses with water and juice. Finally, they carried out the turkey together, to the applause of the kids. London was touched by the smiling faces. When she spent her first Thanksgiving without her parents and sister, she hadn’t been nearly this brave or gracious. These kids were amazing. Joan stood near one of the tables, clapping along and smiling. For a change, London didn’t mind the fact that she’d come out of nowhere and smiled back.