Nineteen—Mia
I
t had been a hairy week. I broke a camera lens, Bo’s African emeralds got lost in the mail, and Camille was not returning anyone’s calls, which made us all tense. Ivy was also tense because she had not found a job, which she was desperately hoping to have in place before her mom got here tomorrow. She’d also had a particularly rough time in her group therapy this week, but she wasn’t really talking about it. Needless to say, it was not shaping up to be a great weekend for entertaining.
But, of course, Sunday didn’t care—it showed up anyway.
Ivy and I had planned to pick her mom and grandmother up from the airport at 3:15, but at the last minute, it turned out that Super-dad was on it. And since he was coming here anyway, I invited him to stay for dinner. He accepted so fast that I figured he’d had advance intel, probably from the butterfly that was Ivy’s mom. But it was cool, and Ivy was fine with it. This was apparently how she’d been raised—her parents together on random occasions, playing the happy couple and by extension the happy family. And that’s what we’d be today, evidently, just one big happy family made up of Talbot women, a sleazy little Ken-doll lawyer, and a bunch of Suttons. I’d even invited Camille, but she hadn’t responded to my texts or calls. Mom hadn’t heard from her either, and she was a mixture of anxious, scared, and frustrated. I didn’t know who to be madder at, Camille or her armpit of a husband.
The good news was Bo seemed to be on his game despite his missing gemstones. But time would tell, it always did. Just to be on the safe side, he and I had decided on a simple menu that I could complete if he was overtaken by a sudden impulse to wash his hair. We were having grilled chicken breasts stuffed with seafood and breadcrumbs. Those were in the fridge and ready to throw on the barbeque. There was also a fresh fruit salad, boiled baby reds drizzled with olive oil and herbs, crunchy artisan bread, and for dessert, raspberry tarts he’d made last night. A too simple meal by Bo’s standards, but a foolproof one by mine.
My parents arrived at 4:30 looking fresh and falsely buoyant over their barely concealed angst for my sister. Of course, Mom tried to jump in to assist with the last minute everything, and with coaxing, Bo allowed her to set the table. We were eating on the patio under the pergola, where the temperature was 75 and a bit balmy—but Bo still insisted on Lullaby’s good china. He was starting to climb beyond his usual intensity, so I suggested he show Dad the snake choker he’d soon be famous for. He agreed but launched into a frustration-laden commentary about the US Postal Service. Dad almost followed him downstairs without permission but thought better of it. He winked at me, and I nodded my understanding.
From the kitchen window, I saw Ivy come out of the pool house and immediately get to work helping my mom. She was wearing a flowy wrap dress and platform sandals that gave her some height, and her hair was messily piled on her head. She looked very California.
“This is a nice thing you and Bo are doing today, Meez,” Dad said, seeing what I was seeing.
“It’s just dinner.”
“Hmm-hmm,” he noised as he kissed my head.
As I folded citrus dressing into my fruit salad, I heard the chimes. “Showtime.”
“I’ll go,” Dad said.
I finished with the salad as polite commotion rang out in the front foyer. Then I ran my hands over my long skirt and scooped my hair (and abundant extensions) over one shoulder, making sure my bra strap hadn’t escaped my tank, and walked out to meet our guests. In the entry, everyone was talking at once, so I just took them in. Ivy’s grandmother, the legendary Geneva Talbot, was lovely—tall, thin, ancient, with mile-long white hair. She looked slightly formidable in a long turquoise caftan and red silk shawl. She was holding both my father’s hands and thanking him. Ivy’s mom was shorter, with an amazingly young face for someone with a child Ivy’s age, and a gorgeous shock of incongruous platinum-colored hair that hung in loose curls to her shoulders. She had on a completely fabulous white sleeveless dress, short and snug in all the right places. She also wore a massive necklace of contrasting metals that made me drool.
These were stunning women who filled the space with energy. Ivy’s dad, again, struck me as trying too hard, with his seemingly store-bought tan, bleach-white teeth, and dyed beard. He was wearing khakis, a pink shirt with a navy-blue sweater he wore over his shoulders like a cape. When he saw me, he smiled. I flashed him the peace sign and walked over and introduced myself to the ladies.
Geneva instantly took my hands. “Oh, goodness, aren’t you just the loveliest girl! My dear, dear Mia…I’m so happy to finally meet you, again.”
“Have we met?” I asked, knowing we hadn’t.
“As soon as my Ivy told me about you, I had no doubt in my mind that we’d known each other in a prior life.” She studied my face and gave me a genuine smile that made me sort of believe her.
“Really?” I said. “I wish I remembered, because that sounds extremely cool.”
Her smiled broadened. “And this is your brother? Benjamin?”
I glanced behind me to see that Bo had made his way up from the basement. I tugged on him because he seemed a bit planted, and of course his eye was twitching. “Yes. This is Bo.”
“Hello,” he managed .
The white-haired woman clasped her hands at her chest. “Hello to you. It is truly lovely to make your acquaintance. I have heard nothing but niceness about you from my Ivy.”
“Thank you,” he managed. Then a big, fat, awkward nothing .
“I’m Ivy’s mom,” said a smiling—knowing—Bree Talbot, rescuing him. “Thank you so much for having us. This home is incredible.”
Bo nodded, mutely.
“It belongs to our aunt Lullaby,” I said. “We’re just house-sitting for the summer.
Bree looked around appreciatively. “I love her taste. Is that her?” She pointed to the bizarre self-portrait of Lully hanging over the fireplace.
“Yep. That’s our aunt.”
“I love it! I wish I could meet—”
“Mom!” Ivy shouted bounding into the foyer. “Geneva! You’re here!” And just that fast, Bo and I were forgotten and Dad faded away as Ivy was swept into a four-armed embrace that went on and on and left them all a little weepy. I was a mama’s girl myself, so I could imagine the weight of this reunion. I’d never let go either.
Bo retreated before I did, but soon enough everyone was heading out to the patio, where Dad picked up the introductions and filled the glasses. Daniel Proctor rather purposely hung back with me in the kitchen, offering moral support as I sliced the loaf of French bread and arranged it in a basket. “My daughter looks very good, Mia. How is she doing?”
“I think she’s doing okay,” I said absently. “She has her moments and doesn’t really like to talk about Tim. And when she comes home from her therapy group, she’s a little quiet. But she’ll get there.”
He seemed annoyed. “I think it might be time for a chat with Pembroke. This is just dragging on too long.”
I glanced at him, appalled.
“What?” he said .
“You can’t do that— chat with her counselor.” I met his raised brow with one of my own.
He chuckled. “I think I can. I’m the one paying him.”
That Super-dad had access to what Ivy undoubtedly thought was private struck me as unethical, and it must have shown on my face.
“What?” he said again.
“That’s just wrong ,” I said, handing him the basket of bread. “Ivy would be hurt. She trusts that guy to keep her confidences. She might even trust you.” When Super-dad had no snappy comeback, I cleared my throat. “She’s better than when she got here. She’s applied for some jobs, you know.”
Daniel Proctor’s jaw lost a bit of its tone, and hard disappointment flashed in his eyes. In an effort to hide it, I suppose, he looked out at everyone gathered on the patio. I followed his gaze. Ivy was at the barbeque with Bo, their heads bent together. He sighed. “Well, we’ll see about that…”
A few heartbeats later, he looked back at me, his jaw reconstituted, his eyes the picture of goodwill. “She does seem better, though. Thank you for whatever you’re doing, Mia.”
“I’m not really doing anything. I like Ivy. A lot. It’s nice having her here.” I grabbed my camera—because I’d promised to take pictures—and stepped through the French doors to the patio.
“Has she lost weight?” Super-dad said, following me out.
“I don’t know. But doesn’t she look great?”