by Karen Booth
Paper rustled on the line. “Yeah, that is going to be tough. Amanda’s on set until midnight tonight and she has an early call tomorrow.”
Great. My editor is going to flip. “I can’t write about nothing and I have virtually nothing right now.”
“Tell you what. Email me any questions you have and I’ll make sure Amanda answers them. She can do it on her phone from the set between takes.”
I sighed. “Okay. Fine. I’ll send it right over.”
“Thank you so much, Claire. You’re a real doll for helping me out with this. I owe you one. If there’s ever anything at all that I can do for you, please let me know.”
I hung up and seconds later, my phone rang again.
My sister. “Hey, Jules. What’s up?”
“You’re getting married and nobody calls me? Thanks a lot.”
Oh shit. “I was going to call you today.”
“I’m floored. I can’t believe Dad wouldn’t think to call. We both know how adept he is at spilling the beans.”
“Jules, I’m really sorry.”
“I mean, this is kind of a big deal, Claire, and I have to find out from my babysitter because she read it in a tabloid?”
I dug my hand into my hair, slumping back in my squeaky office chair. “I said I was sorry.”
“You were one of the first people I called when Matt asked me to marry him. Am I going to be your matron of honor?”
I was actually thinking Sam would be maid of honor. “I, uh—”
“If I am, this is a really shitty way to ask me.”
Chapter Eleven
“If this works, you’re a genius.” Claire finished setting the tiny kitchen dining table. It would be a miracle if we were able to squeeze everyone into the cramped quarters.
“That hardly seems fair. I shouldn’t lose my status as genius, even if your father wants to punch me at the end of the night.” I seasoned the last of six steaks with salt and pepper.
“What are you going to tell him when Rosie shows up?” she whispered.
There were footfalls on the stairs, a measured pace that could only be her father. “Not sure yet.” I washed my hands at the sink.
Claire came up behind me, popping up on to her toes and whispering in my ear. “Good luck, genius. I’m staying out of the line of fire.”
“Something smells good.” Richard snatched a baby carrot from a platter of veggies and hummus. “Six steaks? I thought there were five of us.”
Claire planted her hand on her hip, slyly smiling. Her dress was a deep marine blue, making her eyes even more intense and beautiful, but since she almost always wore jeans, her dad should’ve been able to figure out we were up to something.
“Yes. I stupidly bought one too many at the market, so I invited Rosie over,” I said. “Wouldn’t want the extra food to go to waste.” Like that ever happened with me around.
“Chris, we’ve been over this. I’m perfectly happy being a bachelor.”
The doorbell rang. Showtime. “Its just dinner.” I breezed past Richard and opened the door before he had a chance to make a stink. “Rosie. Don’t you look lovely?”
She smiled through shockingly pink lipstick, wearing a white blouse and a flowery skirt. “Christopher. You’ll have to keep the flirting in check when you two exchange the I do’s.”
“He’s terrible, isn’t he?” Claire hooked one arm in mine, hugging Rosie with the other. “So glad it worked out for you to come tonight. Sam and her boyfriend Bryce will be joining us.”
I closed the door and trailed behind them into the kitchen.
“Hello, Rosie,” Richard said gruffly, extending his hand as if he was attending a stockholder’s meeting.
“Hello, Richard.” She glanced at me, then back at Claire’s dad. “Or is it Rich? I never know which one to use.”
“It’s Richard,” he answered. Awkward silence followed.
“How are your bird feeders holding up?” I asked. Spending time with Richard was a regular lesson in small talk, and I’d mastered the art.
“Good as new since Richard fixed them a few weeks ago.” She smiled at him but he didn’t take notice. “Did you enjoy the oatmeal raisin cookies I brought by? Claire told me they were your favorite.”
“Oh, I did.” He removed his glasses and closed his eyes, scrunching up his nose as if he was in pain. “I guess I should have come by and thanked you. Must’ve slipped my mind.”
“Dad, I reminded you at least once to thank her for the cookies.” Claire’s voice was edged with disappointment.
Slipped his mind? I shook my head. Richard rarely passed up a formality. A thank you note was a given.
Samantha and Bryce came downstairs from her room.
Richard made an audible, “Tsk”. He regularly gave Claire a hard time about allowing Samantha to have a boy in her room, but the house was so small, there weren’t many places for them to go.
“Dad, stop. We talked about that.” Claire felt that trust was paramount in her mother-daughter relationship, even when she’d been burned a few times. “Sam, why don’t you get Bryce and yourself something to drink? Rosie? Dad? Wine? Beer?”
“Do you have any of that hard lemonade?” Rosie asked.
Rosie. A wild woman. I like it.
“Sorry.” Claire smiled sheepishly.
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ll have white wine,” said Rosie. “With a few ice cubes, please.”
“I’ll stick to water,” Richard said.
Water. Great. I’d been counting on a beer to loosen him up, get him to talk. “Rich, why don’t you and I get these steaks on the grill? We’ll let the ladies talk.”
Richard and I went out to the backyard and the postage stamp of concrete that Claire referred to as the patio. It was scorching and sticky as hell, even though it was already late September. I lifted the grill lid and got a rush of dry, hot air to the face.
“What in blue blazes are you doing?” Richard asked. “You got that thing set to five hundred degrees?”
The grill was my new domain, even though the learning curve had been more than I’d anticipated. I’d been watching the Food Network to gain a foothold. Claire was ecstatic if someone helped with the cooking, so I’d heard zero complaints from her. Richard was another story.
“The grill’s got to be ripping hot for steak.” With a long set of tongs, I wiped the grill grates with paper towels soaked in vegetable oil, which sizzled and steamed.
“It’s too hot. You need to cook beef low and slow.”
“We want a good sear. We can only get that with high heat.” Despite his protestations, I slapped the steaks on the grill. “Then we’ll back down the heat, finish them off, and have a perfect pink center.”
“I want mine well done.”
Of course you do. “It’s not a problem. Actually, can you go and ask Rosie how she likes her steak?”
Sam and Bryce came outside with the bocce ball set. “Grandpa, you wanna play?”
“I’m helping Chris. Can you ask Rosie how she likes her steak?”
Sam rolled her eyes. I followed suit. “Sure.”
Bryce heaved the balls out of the carrying case. It struck me that Bryce was far more buttoned-up than Sam’s old boyfriend, Andrew. Bryce wore polo shirts and khakis much of the time, unlike Andrew who’d been a skinny jeans and ratty t-shirt sort. Sam didn’t seem to care. Perhaps she liked being the fashion maven of the relationship.
“Rosie wants medium-rare.” Sam skipped over to Bryce, pecking him on the cheek before picking up the dark green bocce balls and knocking them together.
“Okay, then. Five medium-rare and one well-done.”
Richard watched as I turned the steaks. “Sara and the girls always liked their steak pink in the middle. Guess I’m the oddball.”
“Did you cook out a lot when the girls were growing up?”
“We did. Nothing more beautiful than a Minnesota summer and my Sara loved to spend time outside, loved to get her hands dirty in the garden. Th
ose were good days.” He watched Sam and Bryce with a wistfulness I’d never seen. “Very good days.”
“It sounds brilliant. Can’t imagine anything better.” Claire and Julie, Sara and Richard—the quintessential Nuclear Family, out in the back yard enjoying their slice of the American dream. I’d seen pictures, which were funny and embarrassing at times for Claire, depending on her hairstyle or clothing choices. Richard had carved out quite a life, much like my parents had.
Of course, Richard hadn’t counted on losing his Sara. My mum, Harriet, never dreamed she’d lose my dad, Alistair. Nothing more painful.
Sam tossed her final bocce ball and it landed smack dab next to the pallino. “Yes!” She jumped up in the air and tore off for the other end of the makeshift bocce court, Bryce in hot pursuit. “Ha. Two for me.”
Bryce wrapped his arm around Sam’s waist and kissed her.
“Hey, you two,” Richard yelled. “That’s enough of that.”
Sam giggled and smacked Bryce on the arm.
“Oh, come on, Rich. They’re having fun.” I moved the first five steaks to a platter and closed the grill lid to finish off Richard’s. “I thought you liked Bryce.” You two certainly share the same fashion sense.
“He’s a fine boy. He just doesn’t need to kiss my granddaughter in front of me. For that matter, he doesn’t need to kiss her at all. She’s still only seventeen.”
And going off to college in ten months. “Samantha, we’re about ready to eat. Five minutes.” I removed Richard’s steak from the grill and plunked it down on the platter. I followed him into the house, wondering if I should’ve lectured him about good behavior around Rosie.
“Smells amazing.” Claire toted a large salad bowl to the table, which was already perilously crammed with glasses, dishes, and platters. “Dad, Rosie, why don’t you two go ahead and take a seat? Down at the end by the window would be good.”
Rosie poured a splash of wine into her glass and took her seat, but Richard was clearly biding his time, milling about the kitchen, doing nothing at all but being in the way.
“Can you do me a favor and serve the steaks, Rich? The well-done is on top.”
Sam and Bryce filed into the kitchen. “I kicked Bryce’s butt at bocce. Anybody want to play with us after dinner?”
“I’m in.” I stood behind my chair waiting for Claire. I grasped Sam’s arm as she wiggled past me. “Leave the spot next to Rosie for your grandfather,” I whispered.
Claire’s hand was on my back. “Sit.”
Richard served the last steak, placing the platter on the kitchen counter. Claire dished me far more salad than I would ever want, a sweet smile painted on her face. Richard turned and grumbled, yanking the ladder-back chair next to Rosie.
With one look, Claire and I held a conversation about her father and his disposition. She broke the silence. “Rosie, you look lovely. Are you doing something new with your hair?”
Rosie patted it then took the salad bowl from Sam. “Oh, goodness, no. It’s the same old thing.”
“It looks really nice, doesn’t it, Grandpa?” Sam asked.
I nearly choked on my steak. Claire knocked her knee into mine under the table.
“Samantha, I don’t find this to be acceptable subject matter for the dinner table. Why don’t you tell us about the bocce ball game?” Head down, he cut his steak, several bites at one time, each identical in size.
“I kicked Bryce’s butt. End of story.”
“Samantha. Language.”
“What? Butt?”
“That’s quite enough, young lady.”
Bryce cleared his throat and hunkered down on his steak. Claire and I did nothing but watch. This was far too entertaining to stop to eat.
“Grandpa, I’m having fun. You should try it some time. You might like it.” She shrugged, as if talking to her grandfather in that tone would never raise an eyebrow. “Plus, I’m pretty sure that Mom does not consider butt to be a bad word.”
“Don’t pull me into this,” Claire said.
“I have fun all the time.” Richard pursed his lips.
“You aren’t having fun right now and you should be. Mom is starting a new job and they’re getting married. Chris’s band is going to play in New York. We should be celebrating.”
Claire beamed. I was equally proud of Sam’s willingness to point it out when someone was behaving like an ass. Without this aspect of her personality, Claire and I might never have reconciled after our break-up.
Richard gathered himself, but his temper had clearly been at the boiling point. “You’re right, Samantha. We should be celebrating.” He took his water glass in hand. “Cheers to my ladybug, Claire, and her fellow, Christopher.”
We raised our glasses to toast and the tension in the room ebbed. With a clatter of silverware against plates, we all returned to the meal—everyone but Sam.
“Sorry, Grandpa. Sorry, Rosie. I hope I didn’t ruin your first date.”
Chapter Twelve
Chris rounded a corner in the truck, heading down one of the steepest hills in town, nestled deep in a residential area. His hand landed on my knee and squeezed. “I really hope this is a good one. This business of looking at houses is starting to drain on me.” He stopped at the intersection and waited for a lawn service truck then continued onto Lakeside Rd.
“It’s only been two weeks. These things take time.” I glanced out the window at the lovely older homes of Lakeside, one of my favorite neighborhoods in Chapel Hill, generous parcels of land on a heavily wooded tract surrounding a small lake. There was a time when I’d drive past these houses and wonder about the people who could afford such an idyllic way of living. Now it might be Chris and me moving into this neighborhood.
He slowed down. “It must be that one. I see Bob’s car.” He pulled in behind our real estate agent’s white Prius.
I’d been careful not to express to Chris how much I hoped this house was the one. We’d already gotten into quite an argument about the last house we’d seen, in a gated community outside the city limits. He loved it. There was a huge pool, seven bedrooms, kitchen the size of a bowling alley, wine cellar, and a media room with stadium seating for twelve. Totally over-the-top.
“Morning.” Bob bumped his car door closed with his hip as he juggled his sunglasses and a handful of paperwork. “How’s the best-looking couple in town today?”
“I don’t know, Bob,” Chris said. “Why don’t you tell me how you and Walter are getting on?”
“Flattery will get you everywhere, Christopher.” Bob shook Chris’s hand. “It’s a good thing Claire has a firm hold on you.”
“That she does,” Chris said as we ambled down the driveway, hand in hand. I nudged him with my shoulder and he smiled down at me.
The thicket of trees opened up once we reached the end of the narrow driveway. The secluded setting was a deal maker. The house, at least from the outside, was a deal-breaker.
The design was right—mid-century modern, Chris’s preference. Unlike his home in Los Angeles, modern construction with a mid-century feel, this was an original and considerably less glamorous incarnation. The cedar-clad exterior had grayed, the nearly flat gabled roof looked as though it needed to be replaced. There were wonderful large windows on the front of the house, but as we approached, those showed their age, too. It was the Brady Bunch house, minus the Technicolor splendor.
“No garage?” Chris pointed to the covered carport. “We can’t have a house without a garage.
Bob worked on the lock box hanging from the brick-orange front door. “Afraid not, but the property is plenty big to build one.”
Strike one. “The yard is amazing, don’t you think? Very private.”
“There’s a huge vegetable garden out back.” Bob opened the door and handed me a sales sheet. “The house was built in 1954. You can’t put a price tag on original architecture.”
The entry to the house was much like Chris’s house in LA—an open landing with two steps down into an
expansive, central living area.
“The house has had one owner,” Bob continued. “Lovely couple according to the neighbors. He passed away and she was moved to a retirement community. Her kids live out of state and are handling the sale.”
“It’s spacious.” I cringed at the sea of avocado green carpet. No wonder they didn’t have many pictures on the website. “I love the light fixture.” The vaulted, wood-beamed ceiling had a satellite chandelier with shiny gold-tone arms in all directions.
Chris turned a full circle in the center of the room, rubbing his chin.
“The fireplace is amazing.” I pointed at the floor-to-ceiling slate surround. “We could put a big sectional in front of it, curl up on winter nights. It’s the perfect place for a big flat-screen.”
“Any chance there are hardwoods?” Chris asked. “This carpet has to go.”
“We can ask the owners if we can pull up a corner and take a look,” Bob said.
“Chris, look at the lake. Isn’t it beautiful?” The windows were filthy. Still, they were tall and there were a lot of them. The room would be stunning once they were clean and you could really see down to the water.
“No pool, right?” Chris peered out at the backyard.
“No pool, but there’s a sizable patio off the kitchen and it’s a large, flat lot. I’m sure you could find the room, but you’d likely have to tear down some trees.” Bob consulted his folder. “You’ll have to get approval from the homeowners association for any exterior changes, including building a garage.”
Strike Two.
I took Chris’s hand. “I think there’s plenty of room for a pool. And I love the lake. It’s so peaceful.”
He put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder, but didn’t say a thing.
“Let’s see the rest of it,” I chirped, trying to keep things upbeat.
“The kitchen is this way,” Bob said.
My stomach lurched again. More avocado green—range and wall oven, although the fridge was a more updated white, which still would never cut it with Chris. He would want all stainless, all new, no questions.
