Chapter Twenty-One #3
As they ate, he watched Annie, who really did seem all right.
Occasionally, a cloud would pass over her face, and he wished for the millionth time that he could read her mind, that he knew how to break down the tough walls she’d inherited from her often enigmatic mother.
Was she worse off than him, one more holiday into a life without Helen?
Was she better? She seemed to be watching Merritt and thinking, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not decipher what the look on her face might mean.
He would talk to her, he decided, at bedtime. For now, there was turkey and cranberry sauce and a sweet potato casserole he
would have happily paid $18 for at the bistro on Cork Street.
After the meal, Whit said he’d do the dishes and Merritt offered to help. In seconds, Adrienne and Kathleen decided they’d
go on a walk, while Willa joined édouard as he explained the rules of a complicated card game to Annie, Albie, and a very
competitive Evie. Whit had the distinct sense that people were deliberately leaving Merritt and him alone, but who cared.
That was what he wanted.
“Evie is a really good cook,” Merritt said, as she moved around the dining room table making stacks of empty plates.
Whit was pouring unfinished glasses of wine and water into a used pitcher. “Yup,” he said. “Self-taught. Our mom was awful.”
“Mine, too. Or really, she just doesn’t like it. She’ll bake occasionally, but that’s mostly because she loves desserts. My
dad was the big cook in the family.”
“Mine too,” Whit said. “Before my folks split up, he’d lock us out of the kitchen and make these huge spreads. That was probably
the worst part of the divorce. We very quickly became a Hamburger Helper family half the time.”
Whit said it as a joke, and Merritt smiled softly. “That was probably kind of a sad reminder, though. Sitting down to dinner
each night.”
Whit considered her words and shrugged. “Sort of, yeah,” he said. Then, realizing something: “Oh God.”
“What?”
“No, it’s fine.”
Merritt set her stack of plates on the table corner so she could really look at him. She did not seem convinced.
“Really,” he said. “It’s fine, I just didn’t think I’d find myself in the same position. Poor Annie, stuck with my bad cooking.”
Merritt’s smile returned, sad this time.
“I’m sorry, Whit.”
He let out a puff of a laugh. “It’s fine. Helen wasn’t actually a very good cook, either.”
Merritt waited, thinking, then spoke. “I’m pretty good.”
“Are you?”
“I am, actually. I’ve been lazy lately, letting my mom order takeout or whatever, because I guess that’s what you do when
you stay at your parent’s house.”
“I grab a drink from the fridge every time I leave my mom’s.”
“Exactly.”
She started stacking plates again.
“But maybe I could teach you a few dishes—just some standbys I think Annie would like.”
Her head was down as she talked.
“I don’t want to intrude or overstep—”
“I would love that,” Whit said, looking at her from across the table.
She looked up at him. She smiled. She had a very nice smile. And a very nice not-smile, for that matter. He just liked looking
at her, whatever state her face was in.
They continued cleaning to the sounds of clinking glass and metal, until Merritt spoke up again.
“Whit, listen,” she said, in a tone that made Whit feel a bit like he’d expected solid ground where a hole turned out to be.
What came next felt very important.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, pausing again, and Whit’s hand found the table below him for support. Should he interrupt her? Should he insist that he already knew, that he felt it, too, that he agreed?
Merritt looked to the ceiling, steeling herself, then shrugged as she said, “I think Ursula needs to die.”
What?
Oh. Oh, she was talking shop. He was thinking about her, and she was thinking about the book.
“What?” he said, buying time.
“I know,” Merritt said, moving toward the kitchen with the plates. He followed.
“It sounds crazy, and I don’t really like the idea of killing off one of the two female leads, but we still have Christabel,
and I just think it sort of makes sense with her character arc. I think she should die saving Christabel and Rupert, in a
final act of her own agency.”
Whit was struggling to catch up, but that didn’t inhibit his ability to tell that Merritt was making sense. She really got
these books.
“You’re really good at this,” he said, and here he was, thinking about her again.
She twisted the hot water handle at the sink and turned back toward him, surprised.
“Thank you?”
He stopped walking. They were perhaps three feet apart. He shrugged.
“You just are. And I think you’re probably right. That makes sense—it feels real. It feels true to the story.”
“It will be really sad,” Merritt said, her voice suddenly soft. Her eyes were searching his.
Whit nodded slowly and purposefully. “Sometimes sad is good.”
There was an apple pie in the oven and the smell was powerful. Steam from the sink was filling the air, and from beyond the kitchen, Whit could hear the sounds of a football game on TV and laughter from the card game.
Merritt shrugged. “True. I thought I might have to persuade you to do it.”
Whit cocked his head, and she kept talking.
“It’s just a big choice, you know, killing off one of the three core characters. There could be backlash, I don’t know. I
thought you might need some convincing.”
“Merritt,” he said, his voice slightly hushed, “I don’t think you know how good you are. If it’s your idea, I like it.”
“Unless it’s a fairy tale allusion.”
Whit rolled his eyes, and she smirked. He took a single step forward. He could see her swallow.
“I mean it,” he said. “I trust you.”
“That’s nice, but I can be wrong—”
“Of course you can. But you’re usually not. You’re right about most things. You’re just good.”
He was trying to talk about the book. He really was. But Merritt kept cropping up in each sentence, each implication.
He took a breath. She took a breath. He could almost feel the heat of her body in the air between them.
Whit forced himself to speak.
“Can I—”
She leaned forward and kissed him, and he felt it from his lips to the back of his head, as if the kiss had gone through him.
He leaned into it, so she’d know he was kissing her back. His hands cupped her face on either side, with hers moving to his
ribs, and they stood that way, their bodies linked together in something warm and safe, until they both seemed to sense something
at the same time, and they pulled apart.
She grinned. He grinned.
“We should—”
“There are people—”
They laughed. Merritt patted at her dress, as if to unruffle it, and Whit, needing to do something, reached for the ladle on the stove’s spoon rest before delivering it to the sink.
He turned off the water and looked out the window, then glanced at the breakfast table, listening, before turning back to Merritt.
She was waiting to see what he’d do—and what he did was grab her hand and kiss her once more on the lips as he squeezed that hand, hoping to intimate what he couldn’t say right now. I like you. I like this.
When they pulled away, they were both laughing.
“Well,” she said.
“Well.”
She took a deep breath. “We should finish cleaning up.”
He did a mock bow by way of assent.
“If it’s your idea, I like it.”
Merritt pointed at him. “Don’t get cheesy on me, Longacre.”
Whit smiled. “I’ll try my best.”