Miranda #2
For everyone else, though, the news made the day even more festive, and Miranda gave herself over to it.
Tom fit right in, like he’d always been one of the party, talking and laughing with the Sullivans about the more colorful town residents like Clementine Wylie, a Southern belle who’d married a trucking magnate from Fresno who had homes in San Francisco, Tahoe, and Sonoma, and who swanned into the general store in Pucci cigarette pants and kitten heels to pick up the Gauloises she asked the Wilsons to special order for her.
When everyone had gathered at the table that sparkled with candlelight reflecting off the decorative gold and silver glass balls that nestled between heaping dishes of roasted potatoes and string beans, Joan brought the beef Wellington to the table on a large Spode platter.
“Joan, you’ve outdone yourself! That looks like something out of a magazine!” Mrs. Sullivan exclaimed.
Hearty murmurs of agreement went up around the table, and Joan smiled broadly.
“I hope it tastes as good as it looks,” she said, and though she said it modestly enough, Miranda could tell her mother already knew it was a triumph.
She’d decorated the brioche crust with cutouts of pine trees, and around the loaf she’d laid fragrant rosemary sprigs and bright red lingonberry cuttings, both from her indoor winter garden.
She set the platter beside Emilio, who stood with the carving knife and fork in his hands.
Joan kissed him—in front of everyone! This was truly a day of firsts—and he smiled warmly.
Miranda squeezed Tom’s hand under the table, and stole a worried glance at Winnie, who sat silently with a full glass of wine in her hand, staring vacantly into the candle flames.
There was probably a full ten minutes of exclaiming compliments on the meal, particularly the perfectly pink tenderloin covered in a mushroom paté that had been hidden inside the brioche.
Served with a glistening gravy, it was impressive and delicious, and Joan deserved every morsel of appreciation.
Even Winnie cleaned her plate, soaking up the last smears of gravy with an extra potato, which Miranda decided to take as a good sign.
After seconds—and, for Raul and Mr. Sullivan, thirds—were enjoyed, dishes were cleared and washed before the dessert buffet opened in the living room near the crackling fire: coffee and a variety of frosted and sugared cookies, alongside a rich chocolate cake that Clare had brought.
It felt like a perfect evening.
When the guests left, Miranda and Tom shooed Joan and Emilio and Winnie out of the kitchen to finish the cleanup.
They danced to “Silent Night” and kissed while drying coffee cups, then they slipped into her room and made love on the queen bed she’d upgraded to from her childhood twin when she realized her mother didn’t care if Tom stayed over as long as she didn’t have to see him in the morning.
As they lay in bed after, running their fingers lazily up and down each other’s arms, he said, “Would it be too selfish to open that bottle of Lafite and enjoy it by ourselves?”
“Absolutely not. Great idea.”
Miranda put on her warmest terry cloth robe, then tiptoed into the kitchen and got out a tray on which she put a carafe of water, two tumblers, two wineglasses, a dish of mixed nuts, and a box of See’s Candies.
She went to the pantry for the pièce de résistance, and gasped when she saw that the Lafite was gone.
Carefully, she scanned the shelves.
The bottle was definitely gone. She was pretty sure she knew where it was, too, and this lit a match inside her.
How dare Winnie steal this valuable bottle for herself?
Or had Lincoln snuck in, and they were enjoying it together?
Had she called him and begged for him to come, after seeing Raul and Clare together?
He was such a piece of shit, just the kind of guy to wait for his girlfriend to beg for his return.
She stomped down the hall and didn’t hesitate to push Winnie’s door open.
Though she’d girded herself to see her sister with Lincoln, she was not at all prepared for what she actually saw.
Her sister was asleep on her bed in a position that suggested she’d passed out.
Propped up on pillows, she was still wearing her clothes from dinner, and a tumbler of wine tipped precariously almost out of her right hand.
Accompanying the sound of her snoring, the needle on her record player was skipping—pht, pht, pht, pht—waiting to be lifted at the end of the record.
It was also freezing, because her window was open nearly six inches—no doubt because of the contents of the bong leaning against her bent left leg.
All the anger drained out of Miranda, replaced by propulsive purpose.
As quietly as she could, she closed the window, lifted the record player needle, and set the bong and the cup on the bedside table.
Then she covered her sister with the extra quilt stored in the top shelf of the closet.
The bottle of Lafite was half drunk, standing sentry on the floor between the bed and the window.
At least it’s been breathing.
She picked it up by the neck of the bottle and turned out the lamp, then let herself out, turning the knob slowly so that it latched quietly.
When she got to her own room, Tom smiled, and when she set the tray of wine and snacks on the bed, he said, “You got started on the bottle?”
Sighing, she said, “Winnie did.”
He knit his eyebrows.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Are you sure?”
Could she tell him? About her father, and what she’d come to realize was a melancholy he medicated with grappa and pills only to finally succumb to its darkness?
About the way Winnie reminded her of him, and the terror and anger and helplessness that similarity made her feel, when she allowed herself to feel it?
Did she want to complicate their unfettered love that way?
“I’m sure,” she said with an affirming nod.
“Well, nice of her to save some for us,” he said affably enough. No, there was no way, no language she had, to explain any of her family’s secrets to this lovely man who believed in the promise of sunshine and grapes and terroir, and had no clue what dark truths lurked in the soil.