“Where’s Melanie? She’s not still sleeping, is she?” her mother asked. “She’s so like you at that age.”
“No, I heard her take a shower a little while ago,” Gigi said.
“I’ll go check on her,” her mother said.
Good, Gigi thought as she turned on water to boil the potatoes.
They were planning to eat dinner early, at one p.m., so Joe could go volunteer at a soup kitchen in the afternoon. That was Zach’s idea; he’d said something about it being a nice photo-op, which cheapened the effort, in Gigi’s opinion.
Gigi reached for the coffeepot and refilled her mug. Maybe she was just grumpy because she’d gotten up at dawn to put in the turkey. At least Joe had awoken with her to set the table and start the vegetable prep. They’d had to work quietly because Gigi’s mother was asleep on the pull-out sofa in the living room, snoring. Zach was still ensconced in the basement.
“He’s going home for Thanksgiving, right?” Gigi had asked hopefully the previous week.
Joe had shaken his head. “I offered to buy him a ticket but he said he’d just stay here and work through the holiday.”
Of course they couldn’t let Zach sit downstairs while they all ate and he inhaled the delicious smells. So she’d told Joe to invite him. But there was no way she’d let him stay for Christmas. Joe could get him a ticket home as a gift so he wouldn’t be able to refuse it.
Gigi had been cubing bread for stuffing but she suddenly stopped moving and glanced at the ceiling. Was that laughter? Melanie’s laughter?
“Hi, Gigi.” Zach strolled into the kitchen wearing jeans and an electric-blue fleece pullover that matched his eyes. “Can I help with anything?”
“No, but thanks,” Gigi said.
“Are you sure? I can wash these bowls,” he said, gesturing to the mess in the sink.
“It’s fine,” Gigi said. “You’re our guest. Why don’t you just relax?”
She wished he’d go back downstairs, but instead he turned in the direction of the living room, where Felix was napping in front of a roaring fire. After a moment, Felix came padding into the kitchen.
You don’t trust him, either, do you? Gigi thought, and slipped her dog a treat.
“Do you have stuff to make a pie?” Melanie asked as she came into the kitchen a moment later. Gigi turned to look at her in surprise. Melanie was wearing jeans and a black top, and her hair was brushed and out of her face. Her skin looked a little more clear, too.
“I do,” Gigi said. She and Melanie used to cook together all the time, Melanie standing on a chair, a miniature apron tied around her waist while she mixed icing for cupcakes or kneaded dough for bread. Julia would help, too, although when she was really young they’d give her fake tasks, like whisking a few teaspoons of flour around in a bowl. Then the three of them would cuddle on the couch, reading books together. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory had been one of their favorites. Gigi had even set aside their dog-eared copy years ago with the thought that she’d give it to her first grandchild.
She and Julia had baked bread the previous month, but when Gigi had invited Melanie to join them, Melanie had just rolled her eyes.
“I’ve got apples and cinnamon and some pastry we can use for the crust,” she told Melanie now, feeling a wash of sentimental emotion.
“Homemade crust is better,” Gigi’s mother said. “Have you ever tried it, Melanie? Melts in your mouth. You’ll never eat the store-bought stuff again. Now, get me some butter and a little ice water.”
Gigi turned down the heat on the potatoes and moved aside as Melanie opened the refrigerator and brought out the butter.
“What you want to do is mix up some flour with a little salt, then cut in the butter,” Gigi’s mother said. “You start cutting up the butter, Melanie. It’s not organic? Fine, we’ll make do. You want it to look like coarse crumbs. Go ahead, put some in with the flour.”
“Like this, Grandma?” Melanie was asking.
“A little more butter,” Gigi’s mother said. “Then we’ll start on the apples.”
It was silly to feel left out when your mother and daughter were bonding, Gigi thought. If Gigi had asked to help, they probably would have let her. She could’ve cored apples, or measured the dry ingredients.
It was just that her children, along with Joe, were the loves of her life. Gigi had sung to them, nursed them, delighted in their first smiles, soothed their scrapes with magic kisses . . . Why hadn’t anyone ever told her that one day the little girl who’d called out for her mommy whenever she had a bad dream would feel repulsed by her? Maybe this was what a divorce felt like. But you could always move on with a new man. You couldn’t replace a daughter, nor would Gigi want to.
“Is this enough butter?” Melanie was asking as her grandmother peered in the bowl and nodded.
Oh, come on, Gigi thought, giving herself a mental shake. She wasn’t in the second grade being left out of a game of hopscotch. She should be happy Melanie was baking with her grandmother.
“Mom?” Julia stuck her head into the kitchen. “Dad’s setting up games in the living room. He asked if you wanted Scattergories or Catch Phrase.”
It was one of their traditions. Every Thanksgiving they played board games. When the kids were smaller they’d done it in teams.
“You choose, sweetie,” she told Julia. Julia nodded, then wandered over and grabbed a slice of apple and sprinkled a little cinnamon on it.
“Mmm,” she said, taking a bite. “They’re good this way.”
“I’ve never tried that,” Gigi said. “How’d you learn that?”
Julia shrugged. “I just figured it would taste good.”
She offered Gigi a bite of the apple. She was right; it was delicious.
Julia gave her a quick hug, then wandered out of the room, singing a Katy Perry song.
Gigi moved her bread and the cutting board further down the counter, to give her mother and Melanie more room to work.
She’s so like you at that age, her mother had said. True, Gigi had had triple-pierced ears and had been surly to her mother. But her mother was selfish and distant! She’d had good reason to be irritated with her!
And now, decades later, her mother still drove her nuts.
History didn’t have to repeat itself, Gigi told herself as she cut the bread a little more forcefully. She’d find a way to break through to her daughter, to change this disturbing family dynamic before it gelled and set.
• • •
This year, Kellie and Jason were hosting the Thanksgiving feast. Twelve people were gathered in their house: Jason’s parents; his sister Kim and her husband and son; Kellie’s parents; her sister, Irene, who’d flown in from California; and of course their own family of four.
Everyone had contributed a dish. Jason’s sister had brought a huge platter of roasted root vegetables, which her son would happily gobble up (not that Kellie was comparing), and her in-laws had brought wine and two pans of stuffing. Kellie’s mom had made marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie, and Irene had unpacked a chocolate turkey to use as a centerpiece, which she’d pointed out could double as dessert. Despite the cloudy day, Irene had been wearing oversized dark sunglasses when they’d picked her up at the airport; she seemed to want to telegraph the message that she was from L.A. and in “the biz,” as she called it.
“Happy Turkey Day!” Jason’s father clinked his glass against Kellie’s as they stood in the living room together. She smiled and took a sip of sparkling wine.
“You, too,” she said.
“We’ve got so much to be thankful for,” he said. He blinked rapidly a few times. Every holiday, Jason’s father got a little teary. “This family is my greatest blessing.”
Kellie’s kids ran by, knocking against her hip as they argued about who’d get a drumstick (neither of them would eat the drumstick, they j
ust wanted to win the battle), and then Jason came in, carrying an armload of firewood.
“It’s getting nippy out there,” he said. “It’s cold enough for the first fire of the year.”
They always had the first fire of the year on Thanksgiving, and like his dad, Jason was sentimental about tradition. Every time she saw Jason’s father, she realized how much alike they looked. Jason had started to lose hair right in the exact spot on the crown where his father had a missing patch.
Kellie started at the knock on her door. She went to open it and there stood Susan, a foil-wrapped plate in her hands.
“Miss Manners says cookies are a suitable apology for an overreaction,” Susan said. “But only if they contain chocolate chips.”
Kellie smiled. “You made that up,” she said, opening the door wider.
Susan stepped in and Kellie reached out and wrapped her arms around her best friend and held on tight.
“I know you’d never cheat on Jason,” Susan whispered. “You were tipsy and being a little flirtatious, that was all.”
“Yeah,” Kellie said. “I’d had a couple of drinks and they really went to my head . . .”
“Just be careful around that guy Miller, okay?” Susan said. “He looked like he wanted to eat you up.”
Kellie felt a little thrill. She wanted to ask, He did? but knew she couldn’t.
“Look, why don’t you come on in? We’re about to sit down to dinner. I’d love it if you joined us,” she said instead.
Susan shook her head. “Oh, I’ve got plans. I’m running late, actually. So we’re good?”
“Always,” Kellie said. “And thank you.”
She gave Susan a final squeeze and watched her head down the walk before closing the door.
“Who was that?” Irene asked.
“Just a friend,” Kellie said. “My best friend, actually. Susan. Hey, will you take these into the kitchen?”
She handed Irene the plate. The moment she walked back into the heart of the house she’d be enveloped by family. She needed a minute.
She’d been partially truthful with Susan. The drinks had gone to her head.
But it was more than that.
She had an enormous crush on Miller. And, thrillingly, he seemed to have a crush on her, too. He’d texted her when she’d been on her way out to Sidecar with the girls, and she’d responded, telling him of her plans. She hadn’t invited him to join them, but she’d mentioned the name of the bar, leaving the next step up to him. He’d shown up an hour later, wearing jeans and a black V-neck sweater. She hadn’t even been surprised when he’d walked through the door. Somehow it had felt predestined.
They hadn’t kissed, though. They wouldn’t kiss. She didn’t want to kiss him, because this was better. The delicious anticipation of waiting for him to enter the office every morning. Passing him in the hallway and giving him a smile. Putting on a skirt and feeling his eyes skim over her legs.
Well, maybe she wanted to kiss him a little bit.
“Kellie? Is it time to take the turkey out?”
Not even her mother-in-law’s voice could tear apart her fantasy. The images of Miller surrounded her like a warm glow. They smoothed out the rough edges of her life, making her feel warm and buoyant. She touched her cell phone, making sure it was in her pants pocket and set to vibrate.
They had dinner at four, like always. While Jason’s father carved the turkey, Irene complained about her life as an actress (“I get callbacks all the time but they all say something different. I’m too young! I’m too old! I’m too all-American! I’m not blond enough!”) and turned down the side dishes Kellie had made because she was carb-free. Mia knocked over her milk before she’d even had a sip, and Jason released a belch after gulping down a huge helping of potatoes. But none of it bothered Kellie.
Kellie sipped her wine and picked at a little turkey and some of the vegetables, but she didn’t have much of an appetite. She hadn’t for weeks. She’d lost another six pounds recently, without even trying. She was taking more pride in her appearance, after years of schlubbing around in stretched-out yoga pants and T-shirts. The crush might actually be good for her. And it wasn’t like Jason never talked to women at his job!
She wondered what Miller was doing at this exact moment.
He was with his family, of course. She could see Miller sitting at the head of the table, next to his wife, his cherubic children beaming alongside them. His wife would be beautiful, of course—sleek and charming, probably. And young. What if she were much younger than Kellie? What if she were a pediatric surgeon who selflessly worked to save the lives of children? That would be the worst thing imaginable. No, no, it would be worse if she was a Pilates instructor.
“Excuse me,” Kellie said, getting up from the table and hurrying into the kitchen.
She couldn’t believe she’d never Googled Miller’s wife before. She didn’t know her name, but a quick investigation of Miller’s Facebook page revealed it to be Jane.
Plain Jane. No, most of the Janes Kellie knew were pretty, as if in defiance of that old taunt.
She tried to access Jane’s Facebook page, but the settings were private. Do you know Jane? Facebook asked her.
She couldn’t friend her. That would be creepy.
But she could browse Miller’s photos to see if he’d posted one of his wife. She began swiping through them. A house, another house . . . most of his pictures were of properties he was selling. There! A photo of a cute young woman with Miller and his two sons. Kellie squinted. That woman looked to be about eighteen. Oh, thank God. Miller had written a caption: “Fun with the boys’ cousin Emily!”
“Kellie?” Irene was calling. “Could you bring in another bottle of wine?”
“Sure thing,” Kellie said. A picture of a dog—Miller had mentioned his Lab before and she knew its name was Coop—and another of his kids on skis, perched atop a mountain. Miller was with them and so was a woman. But she was wearing bulky ski clothes, a hat, and goggles. She looked slender, and the hair spilling out from beneath her helmet was dark, but her features were indistinct. Kellie zoomed in, but the photo revealed nothing.
She’d die if Miller’s wife was gorgeous, if he had a dozen photos of them together, his strong arms wrapped around her. She didn’t want to see the pictures.
She had to see them.
“Kellie?”
“Hold on, Irene!” Kellie snapped. Maybe if she went back to last summer, there would be a beach shot. Damn it, why were so many of his pictures of houses . . .
“What are you doing?” Irene asked as she walked into the kitchen and snatched Kellie’s phone out of her hand.
“Give it back!” Kellie shrieked. Irene danced backward and looked down at the screen. “Why are you staring at photos of houses for sale? No working at a family holiday dinner.”
“I’m not,” Kellie protested.
Irene ran into the dining room, still holding up the phone.
“I caught Kellie texting all her boyfriends,” she crowed.
There was a moment of stunned silence.
“Irene!” Kellie snapped. “Give me that. I wasn’t texting anyone.”
Irene had always been immature and, truthfully, more than a little spoiled. Being the baby of the family could do that to you.
“Man,” Irene said as Kellie wrenched the phone out of her hand. “Can’t anyone take a joke? And where’s my wine?”
Irene was tipsy, Kellie realized. She seized the chance to change the subject.
“Are you sure you need another glass?” she asked. She made sure her tone was light but she didn’t conceal her annoyance. It worked; everyone stopped thinking about Irene’s stupid comment and resumed eating. Kellie saw her mother give her father a resigned look: The girls are bickering again!
“I’m not driving anywhere,” Irene said.
“Fine,” Kellie said. “I’ll get it for you.”
“Don’t take an hour like last time,” Irene sang out.
Kellie turned off her phone and put it in her pocket, then brought out the bottle of Chardonnay. Jason was chatting with her mother and the kids were tearing into the chocolate turkey, having ignored everyone’s suggestion that they wait a while.
“Here you go, wino,” she said as she poured Irene another glass. She had to sound irritated at Irene, to keep anyone from asking why she’d spent so long on the phone in the kitchen. And it had been a while—everyone had cleared their plates.
Jason reached for her hand and she smiled.
“Good mashed potatoes, honey,” he said, patting his stomach.
“I’m glad you liked them,” she said.
She wasn’t doing anything wrong, technically. But what if Irene had glanced down and seen Miller’s Facebook page?
Tonight, she’d go into the settings on her phone and install a password, just in case.
• • •
What was one more lie, in the grand scheme of things?
Susan had told Kellie she had plans for today, and she sort of did. Earlier she’d gone to Sunrise Assisted Living to have a noontime meal with Mr. Brannon. Her evening plans involved HBO, a sandwich, and possibly a Xanax, which she normally took only when she flew on an airplane.
Cole was spending Thanksgiving with Randall and fertile Daphne. He was sleeping in the little bedroom Randall had prepared for him. It had a baseball lamp, and Fathead stickers of famous athletes on the walls, and a cozy rug where Randall’s puppy curled up to sleep. Randall’s parents were flying in from Florida, and possibly Daphne’s family was in town, too. Daphne had two older brothers, and they both had kids. Maybe everyone would play football in the yard, and Cole would catch the winning touchdown, and Randall would toss him into the air while everyone beamed.
The Perfect Neighbors Page 17
