Chapter 34 Four Days till Christmas
34.
Four days till Christmas
When Birdie cracked an eye open late on Saturday morning, the first thing she registered was light. Buckets of it drenching a bedroom that wasn’t hers. It was the third night in a row she’d slept over at Jecka’s. The third morning in a row she’d awoken to golden sunlight and Jecka Jacob. Birdie smiled dopily at her, awash in adoration. “Howdy.”
Jecka smiled back, snuggling closer. “Hello.”
Birdie rolled on top of her, trailing kisses up Jecka’s jaw, landing on her mouth, once, twice, three times. “Do I have morning breath?”
Jecka kissed her back, holding her close. “You’re good.” She kissed Birdie again and again and again until they were both groaning. Jecka wriggled farther south, under the covers.
“Hang on.” Birdie put a hand on her shoulder. “I can do you.”
“You’ve done me the last two mornings.” Jecka’s grin was lazy. “Lie back and relax.”
And if Birdie died right now, that might actually be okay. She really liked this person, and not just because Birdie was having the best orgasms of her life. Because for some outlandish reason, it felt like they might make a really good team. Long-term. Which wasn’t something Birdie had thought about anyone ever before.
—
It was early afternoon when they dragged themselves out of bed. Jecka didn’t have to be at Woodstock Art as much now that her show was up and running—she could be more flexible with how she spent her days and when she worked on new pieces. Birdie started some Sunday-on-a-Saturday Eggs, while Jecka made a meticulously measured French press. “Oh, by the way.” Birdie left her post at the stove to grab a printout from her tote. “I RSVP’d to that free art expo in Chelsea for us. The one you were telling me about.”
“No way. The one in February?” Jecka scanned the confirmation. “I tried to get tickets but they were all gone.”
Only now did Birdie realize that February was two months away. It hadn’t struck her as unusual to forward plan. Weird.
The doorbell rang.
“That’s Liz Fizz. She said she might be running errands so I gave her your address in case she wanted to pop by. Watch the eggs?” Birdie called, hurrying down to the first floor and flinging the front door open with a lusty shout. “Good morn— Oh.”
A Black man and a white woman stood on Jecka’s doorstep. Older and elegantly dressed. The resemblance to Jecka made it instantly clear who Birdie was meeting, dressed only in Jecka’s Harvard T-shirt and boy-short underwear. “Shit, sorry.” Birdie scuttled backward, grabbing two umbrellas from the stand by the door in an attempt to cover up.
“Dad.” Jecka was on the stairs behind Birdie, looking stunned. “Mom. Wh-What are you doing here?”
“Visiting you,” Jecka’s mom replied. She looked to be in her sixties. Beautiful in a regal sort of way, like a stork.
“Hello, pet.” Jecka’s father was similarly stately, with fierce, unflinching eyes. Yet his step forward into the house was uncertain.
“Come in.” Jecka double-took at Birdie’s umbrellas, her tone hesitant. “We were just making eggs.”
Jecka hugged her parents. Both embraces were quick and dry, the opposite of the affectionate bear hug Birdie always gave her own mother.
The trio looked at Birdie. Still holding the two umbrellas, she managed an awkward bow. “Greetings. I am Birdie. Friend of Jecka’s.”
Jecka looked very, very awake. “Birdie, these are my parents. Angela and Carl Jacob.”
Angela and Carl Jacob traded a glance so loaded Birdie was surprised it didn’t crash through the floorboards.
Upstairs, Birdie yanked on her jeans as Jecka’s parents explained they’d booked a room at Woodstock Way Hotel so they could see Jecka’s show before all driving back to Boston for Christmas, saving Jecka the cost of airfare.
“I’m so happy you’re here,” Jecka said to her parents, her expression still a little dazed. “Make yourselves at home,” she added, subtly straightening the couch cushions.
“How do you two know each other?” Papa Jacob packed only one expression, and that was stern.
Jecka looked at Birdie. Birdie looked at Jecka. Birdie imagined clamping a hand on each parent’s shoulder and telling god’s honest truth, cribbed from every nineteenth-century-set lesbian movie: She is my sun, my moon, my every star in the sky. I am hers: mind, body, and soul. We are one.
“I’m doing some freelance work as Birdie’s mother’s art curator,” Jecka explained. “Helping her buy some local pieces.”
“Ma’s quite the art lover,” Birdie jumped in. “As am I. You guys ever see those Magic Eye things?” She mimed her mind being blown. “Now that’s art.”
Carl and Angela stared at her, confused.
“She’s kidding,” Jecka said, giving Birdie a look while fighting a smile.
“Hm.” Jecka’s mom removed a pair of slim leather gloves. The precision of her chestnut bob would impress a mathematician. “Well, if you’re not too busy, Jecka, you can have dinner with us tonight,” Angela said. “If we can get a booking,” she added, with a touch of irritation. “I didn’t realize how small the town is. I’ve tried three places already.”
“What about that Japanese one?” Carl asked his wife.
“They practically laughed at me,” Angela responded.
“It is the weekend before Christmas,” Jecka tentatively pointed out.
“It is.” Jecka’s dad frowned as if this timing was a result of Jecka’s own poor planning.
Birdie was overcome with a desire for the visit to go well. How awesome that her crush’s parents had come to see her show, for the first time ever, which showed real acceptance of their daughter’s new life path. She knew how much that meant to Jecka. Birdie wanted to help.
“What about we all have dinner? At my mom’s?” Birdie glanced at Jecka. Her expression was surprised but didn’t indicate this was an immediate no. “She lives outside town in this big ol’ inn. It’s a bit over the top.” Birdie was typically tight-lipped over the family name, but she wanted to impress Angela and Carl. “My mom is Babs Belvedere.”
“No way!” This, shockingly, was from Carl. “Babs Belvedere is your mother ?”
Birdie nodded, sensing a fan. “Since the day I was born. Ma loves entertaining. She’d love to meet you both!”
Carl glanced at his wife, then back at Birdie. His demeanor had transformed from serious elder statesman to tongue-tied young man. “I have to admit, I’m a fan. Wow: Babs Belvedere. Can you believe that, honey?” he prompted his wife.
“She’s a little ribald for my taste,” Mrs. Jacob said.
“She’s not as ribald in person,” Jecka said. “Most of the time.”
The three Jacobs ping-ponged looks among them. “I would love to meet her…” Dr. Carl said slowly.
“As long as we wouldn’t be imposing…” Angela hedged.
“Not at all! It’s sorted!” Birdie clapped Carl’s shoulder, trying to drum up some excitement. “You can meet Ma, and my siblings, and our other guests.” A perfect night started to form: Buckets of wine. The table groaning with Siouxsie’s famous cauliflower gratin and Beef Bourguignon—the yummiest things they’d had this season. Babs telling stories about filming The Upstairs Girl while everyone was generous and good-natured. Birdie addressed Jecka’s parents. “Why don’t you check out Jecka’s show then swing by at seven?”
—
In Jecka’s bedroom, Birdie sent Liz a quick text telling her not to bother stopping by, then hurriedly packed her tote, readying to leave.
“Are you sure about all this?” Jecka whispered.
“It’s going to be great,” Birdie assured her. “I promise times a million billion.” She went to kiss Jecka goodbye.
Jecka swayed back, darting a glance through the open doorway to her parents, who were examining one of Jecka’s artworks in the main space. “Sorry. It’s just…I am out to them. But they’ve never met a woman I’m dating or anything.”
A woman I’m dating. Birdie was surprised by how much that phrasing did not terrify her. Before she could figure this out, Angela called, “Is something burning?”
Jecka and Birdie realized it at the same time. “The eggs!”
Now a smoking mess on the stove. Jecka switched off the burner just as a piercing smoke alarm started to wail.
That wasn’t ominous. That wasn’t ominous at all.
—
Birdie zoomed home, planning festive cocktails and dinner party playlists. They’d keep the booze flowing and the conversation risqué but not absolutely filthy. A focus on Birdie’s achievements would be ideal.
Birdie burst into the Inn midafternoon, shucking off layers, yelling for her mother. But the only person to appear was Liz, hurrying downstairs in a dressing gown, shushing her. “Mom’s out. Jin-soo drove her to Manhattan for something.”
“Manhattan?” The special guest star was hours away? “Damn it!” Okay. No worries. They’d still have a rollicking good time. Dinner was about the food first and foremost, right? Next step: commandeering Siouxsie.
Except Liz had given Siouxsie the night off.
“What?” Birdie gaped at her sister. “Why?”
“I didn’t think Mom would be back in time for dinner. And you haven’t been around. It seemed like a waste.”
Birdie explained her plan to Liz, whipping out her phone. “We need to call her right now.”
Liz looked apologetic. “I think she already got booked on a last-minute gig a few towns over.”
Birdie let out a strangled cry. “What about Rafi and Ash?”
“I don’t know where they are. Maybe Christmas shopping?”
“No!” Another chip in her perfect plan.
“Why don’t you postpone?” Liz suggested.
That was an option. But Birdie wanted to prove to Jecka she could follow through on an idea. “I made such a fuss about it. Jecka’s dad’s a big fan.”
“I can help with dinner,” Liz offered. “Violet too.”
Liz Belvedere and Violet Grace: yes, that was good. “Awesome! Where is Grace Face?”
“Taking a nap.” Liz bit her lip. “In my room.”
First Rafi crushing on Ash, now Liz and Grace Face? “Jesus, it’s like a French boarding school around here.”
“It’s not like that,” Liz protested. “I mean, it is, a bit.”
“Okay, well, I have to cook dinner for the-best-sex-of-my-life’s parents tonight, so we’ll have to debrief later.” Birdie grabbed a sweater and her coat, yanking open the front door. “I’ll run into town, pick up what we need for Beef Bourguignon and cauliflower gratin!”
“You won’t have time.” Liz hurried after her. “Beef Bourguignon takes three hours.”
“Does it? Then I’ll figure out an express version! I’ll be quick!”
But shopping wasn’t quick.
It was four days until Christmas. It took forever to find a parking spot, then there was a line to get in.
Inside, the supermarket was packed with harried shoppers. Birdie threaded her way up and down the aisles, searching for the endless items the internet said she needed: pearl onions and beef and tomato paste and cheese.
By the time she made it back to Ray, it was 6:30 p.m . Which meant, of course, that Birdie pulled into the driveway of her mother’s estate, still in her jeans and a ratty Christmas sweater embroidered with It’s the Most Wonderful Time for a Beer, just as the three immaculately dressed Jacobs were ringing the doorbell.
“Hey guys!” Birdie called, hauling the bags of groceries from Ray’s back seat. “Sorry—had some minor delays.”
Liz opened the front door, looking—thank god—completely presentable. Her smile was a little too fixed. “Don’t mind the dogs.” Liz escorted the Jacobs around an excitable Huey, Dewey, and Louie, shooting Birdie a murderous are-you-kidding-me look.
“This is my sister, Liz.” Birdie bustled past the trio of Jacobs, attempting to keep things upbeat. “The responsible Belvedere. Just kidding, I’m also responsible.”
Angela took in Birdie’s sweatshirt, then double-took at Babs’s seminude portrait. “Oh my lord.” No matter where you stood in the marbled foyer, their mother’s nipple seemed to follow you. “That’s…bold.”
“That’s Babs,” Birdie said, desperate to dump the heavy bags and start on dinner.
“Sure is.” Carl chuckled, looking left then right. “Will she be joining us?”
Birdie looked to Liz, praying she’d announce their mother was in the kitchen making everyone martinis.
“She’s running an errand,” Liz said.
Birdie didn’t miss the look of confusion—and disappointment—on Carl’s face.
Liz directed the three Jacobs to the formal lounge, where Violet was waiting to greet them with a snack board, bless her forever. Birdie got everyone situated, promising to return with wine. Liz was on her tail as the pair hustled into the kitchen, speaking in furious low whispers.
“Where have you been?” Liz asked. “What are you planning on doing with all this?” The groceries.
“Make dinner!” Birdie shot back, unpacking a bulb of garlic, a pint of ice cream, a tin of…tuna? The shop had gotten a bit hectic.
“But they’re already here! Let’s just order some pizzas.”
“But they’ve already seen me with the groceries, they’re expecting a home-cooked meal.” Birdie sliced an onion, unwilling to concede defeat. “You and Violet talk to them and I’ll throw something together. Please, Liz Fizz. Please. ”
Her sister reluctantly agreed, leaving Birdie alone.
Right. Dinner for six in fifteen minutes or less. Being perpetually single and broke, Birdie had learned to cook for herself, at least a little. It was go-time. “You’re Birdie Belvedere,” she hyped herself. “Let’s go. Let’s go!”
—
Twenty minutes later, dinner was served in the formal dining room. The food, surprisingly, appeared edible. Birdie announced the meal as everyone took their seats. “Pan-fried beef with a garlicky gravy.” She’d used all three frying pans to get them done on time. “Cauliflower and cheese.” Not baked, just steamed and sprinkled with grated cheddar. “And a side of tuna, if anyone wants.”
Jecka sliced the meat, chewing experimentally. “Actually, this is pretty tasty.”
“Pass the tuna.” Carl gestured for it. “Omega-three is good for your heart.”
The six settled into the meal. Birdie exchanged a look of relief with Liz, then poured herself a huge glass of wine.
“So, Birdie,” Angela addressed her. “What do you do?”
In some circumstances, Birdie’s vocation was received as impressive. Unlikely this would be one of those times. “I’m a comedian. A stand-up.”
Angela looked alarmed, as if Birdie had said working was against her religion and she’d never tried it personally. But Carl appeared more amenable, sawing into his beef. “Like your mother.”
“Well, Ma never did much stand-up,” Birdie explained. “She did cabaret, and theater, then film and TV.”
“And you don’t,” Carl clarified.
It’d been awhile since this difference had been underlined. Birdie remembered she didn’t like it. “Nope. Just the stand-up. Telling jokes.”
“Birdie had a special.” Jecka offered this eagerly. “ Birdie in the Hand …” She trailed off.
Birdie could see her calculating whether the show name might be a little too ribald.
Fortunately, Violet stepped in, speaking confidently. “… Birdie in the Bush. I loved it.”
“Oh.” Angela pursed her lips.
“It was on Netflix,” Birdie provided.
“Ooh.” This seemed to resonate with Angela. “We have Netflix.”
“Can’t figure out how to turn off the subtitles,” Carl said. His gaze sidled to the room’s entrance, as if searching for Babs.
“What was Birdie in the Hand, Birdie in the Bush about?” Angela asked, daring a nibble of the cauliflower.
“Oh, just my usual schtick.” Birdie slurped some wine, tossing off the line she’d given a thousand times. “Sex, drugs, my train wreck of a love life.”
Across the table, Liz’s fork stilled in midair, her brown eyes widening.
Too late, Birdie realized how inappropriate that sounded. “I mean, a lot of it was exaggerated, obviously,” she backtracked. “I sort of play a character onstage. A heightened version of who I am.”
“And who is that?” Carl asked.
Mildly panicked, Birdie gulped more wine, aware the entire table was watching. What was she supposed to say? Hot mess? Lovable fuckup?
“A bon vivant,” Liz jumped in. “A flaneur.”
“A what?” Carl looked baffled.
“I’m actually working on a new show about my dad,” Birdie raced on. Not even Liz knew this. “Jecka’s been helping me.”
“So now you’re a comedian?” Angela addressed her daughter in a too-crisp tone. “As well as a painter?”
“No.” Jecka’s reply was controlled. “I’m just a sounding board.” Jecka glanced at Carl. “Her father was Stanley Green, remember?”
“Oh, yes, you mentioned that.” Carl tore his gaze from the room’s entrance to Birdie, then, pointedly, to the wine in her hand. “I was sorry to hear about his passing.”
“He was mostly a dick, but there are things to unpack.” The words were a bit thick on her tongue. Birdie was suddenly aware she was drinking a lot quicker than everyone else. But it was a dinner party, a slightly stressful one at that. “Maybe the character I play onstage will be different, this time.” This was directed at Jecka. Because if things kept going this well, maybe the show would have a different lens than her usual sexcapades schtick.
But Jecka’s expression was cool and unyielding. “Maybe.”
There was a pause, during which Birdie regretted most of her past choices and a good deal of her future ones.
“So, Liz.” Angela swiveled to her. “Tell us more about Sweets .”
“It’s just Sweet, ” Liz replied, nonplussed. “And actually, Violet and I might’ve just cracked season two.”
The conversation moved on. As Liz began engaging the Jacobs, Birdie snuck another peek at Jecka, hoping to exchange an understanding smile. But Jecka wouldn’t meet her gaze.
—
An hour or so later, everyone was scraping clean bowls of peppermint stick ice cream. Birdie was enlivened by the evening. She felt generous and confident and naughty and fun. Her best self! Her very best!
Birdie was very drunk.
The dregs of their umpteenth bottle dribbled into her glass. “So!” Birdie clapped her hands. “Who’s up for more wine?”
Jecka frowned. “It’s getting late.”
Angela shook her head. “I have to drive.”
“Carl?” Birdie pushed.
Carl glanced at his wife. “I probably shouldn’t…”
“C’mon.” Birdie reached over to sock his arm. “I’m sure Ma’ll be back any minute.” Birdie pounded the table, rattling the silverware. “It’s Christmas! Let’s have a nightcap in the family room. The tree’s tremendous this year!” Her words mashed together— tresh tremendoush.
“Birds, wait!” Liz called, but Birdie was already off, tumbling happily into the wine cellar to grab another bottle and a corkscrew.
When she bounded back up, everyone was milling in the kitchen. Not sitting in the adjacent family room.
Jecka had her coat on. “We might call it a night.”
Birdie pulled out the cork. “Oops, it’s already open. Papa Carl? You wanna wait up for Babs, don’tcha?”
Carl looked torn. “I suppose.” Somewhat uncertainly, he held out a glass.
Elated, Birdie aimed for it. Misjudged the location. Poured wine directly onto the kitchen tiles, a mini-waterfall of Bordeaux.
There was a chorus of yelps as everyone edged back, away from the sudden stream of wine.
The spike of embarrassment Birdie felt was dulled by the effects of the booze sloshing in her stomach. “Shit, sorry!” She hastily put the bottle on the edge of the kitchen island, only landing it half on. As if in slow motion, the bottle toppled to the floor, hitting the tiles and smashing to pieces. The party shouted, collectively jerking back from the shooting shards of glass and explosion of red wine. “Whoops!” Birdie laughed, her drunken brain finding all this hilarious.
The room seemed to tilt, like a ship going under. Liz and Violet handed wet paper towels to the Jacobs to help them dab out their stains, cautioning them away from the glass. Her big sister’s voice was steely. “Let’s call it, Squeak.”
“Was an accident.” Birdie was slurring. “I’ll get another.”
“Don’t.” Jecka zipped up her coat, aiming her words at Birdie with cool finality. “The night is over.”