11. Sophie
SOPHIE
When Trent and I step through the door of the Beach House, Eleanor’s humming is already drifting out from the kitchen.
I feel that familiar little squeeze in my chest. Ever since we learned of her diagnosis, there’s been something quite bittersweet about the days she remembers.
How they’re slowly becoming less frequent and all the more precious.
Today, at least from the sound of it, seems like a good day.
Richard, of course, intercepts us before we make it to the kitchen. Has likely been hovering for us to arrive so he can warn us that Mom isn’t, in fact, having a good day and that we need to be careful about what we say around her and should probably leave early.
I stopped taking his word for it months ago.
“Sophie,” he says, all fake warmth. “Trent. Glad you made it.”
I angle my body just slightly in front of Trent. We’ve danced this dance a few times now, but it doesn’t mean it gets any easier. “Happy Thanksgiving, Richard. Thank you for having us.”
“I do just need to say, your mother hasn’t been?—”
“Everything smells amazing!” I gesture for Trent to skirt around us. “Go see if Mom needs a hand, will you?”
Trent’s eyes flick to me like, Really? We’re doing polite? But I nudge him toward the kitchen anyway.
“Sophie,” Richard’s politeness cracks at the seams as soon as we’re alone. “Ignoring your mother’s deterioration is not going to help anything.”
“I’m not ignoring it,” I snap back, hating how childishly defensive I sound. “She’s in there humming along to One Direction. I know when my mom is having a good day.”
“But it’s not days anymore, Sophie. I need you to take some responsibility for once.”
I blink at him. Actively swallowing down my rebuttal (pick your battles, pick your battles, pick your battles), and offer him a tight smile. “Of course.”
Eleanor, thankfully, chooses that moment to call my name from the kitchen.
“Coming!” I shout back, already moving past him.
No way am I wasting Thanksgiving on Richard’s petty rage-baiting. Not when I’m still not sure if June is going to show up.
But before I can even reach the kitchen, the front door bursts open again.
And there, with a relieved sort of smile and perfectly straight hair, is Meredith.
It’s such a welcome sight, I momentarily freeze. Caught between joy and the irony that just six months ago, seeing her in this very house (also straight back from Boston), had put me on edge. Now, staring at my oldest sister, there’s nothing but immense relief.
“Hey, Soph,” she says, voice light but tired, and I momentarily wonder what time she even got back.
In two steps, I have my arms flung around her neck and a squeal in the back of my throat. The embrace is so perfectly grounding, I can only squeeze her harder for it.
“It’s… so good to see you,” I manage, stepping back and taking her in. It’s been three months, and sure, I’ve spoken to her on the phone, but nothing prepares you for seeing someone’s expression in real life after all the… whatever that summer became.
She looks much the same, if not slightly more polished.
Clearly, she used the trip to Boston as an excuse to bring over more of her wardrobe.
The pantsuit she’s wearing is not one I’ve seen before and screams ‘lawyer’ in a way her mismatched summer clothes and Shack slacks never accomplished.
It’s funny how quickly I’d forgotten her previous occupation after I’d seen her waist-high in fry oil.
She glances toward the kitchen. “Is Trent here?”
“Yeah, he’s… entertaining Mom, I think,” I take her hand, pointedly leading her around Richard and ignoring him completely.
If Meredith notices his death glares, she doesn’t say anything. He still suspects her of being the whistleblower of his attempted bribery, and I’m not in the mood for any more of his accusations.
We drift into the kitchen, and I catch Meredith glancing around, cataloging what’s changed.
The non-slip mats on the floor, the plastic protective casing around the stove knobs, the absence of the knife block, the tap turners.
She doesn’t quite meet my eye. I told her over the phone we’d started taking precautions, but seeing it in real life was a pretty tangible reminder of Eleanor’s declining health.
Not that you’d guess anything about it from the way Mom swoops in to drag us both into a bone-crushing hug.
“My babies are home!”
We both laugh at her antics as Richard silently slips in to join us. Trent, already crowding around the stove and stirring something sickly sweet, spares a moment away from his ministrations to watch the reunion with a beaming smile.
It’s a tender moment, one I wish I could linger in for a moment longer.
But then someone clears their throat.
We turn in unison to see June hovering in the doorway. Pale, quiet, so much smaller than the last time she was here, both in terms of her weight and her presence. My chest tightens at the sight.
She’s my sister and I’ll always love her, but the anger and frustration are still tangled up inside me from our last conversation.
“Hey,” she says softly, eyes darting between me and Mom and Meredith like she’s not sure where she should look.
Meredith moves quickly, using her body like a shield as she pulls June into a hug of her own. “Long time, no see.”
“You not sick of the sight of me yet?” June’s self-deprecating response makes the rest of us cringe a little.
Mom doesn’t seem to know what to make of it.
“You’re going to have to try a little harder than that,” Meredith pulls away before looping her arm through hers, staring out at the rest of us as if to challenge us to say anything. “Shall we go set the table?”
An hour later, we are all crowded around the dining table and loading up our plates with steaming food. It had taken a moment to find the extra chairs pushed into the back of the cupboard. I doubt Mom had needed to use them since Dad and his old fishing buddies used to join us for holidays.
Eleanor’s short but well-meaning ‘thanks’ served as a perfect opportunity to bypass the tradition and launch straight into the eating part. Seemingly, none of us felt all that keen to open up with the family.
A heavy sort of tension lay over our feast, exacerbated by the scraping of spoons and forks against plates and bowls. The mumbled requests to be passed something from across the table and the grunted thanks in response.
Trent, bless him, hums a little tune as he loads up his plate. Doing his best to present a picture of ease, despite the bobbing of his knee next to me. Eleanor simply smiles at him and hums along.
But it’s Meredith who clears her throat, glancing at me from across the table, from where she’s sat herself between June and Richard. “How have you been holding up, Soph?”
“Busy,” I say with a shrug, letting it hang. Watching as it dawns on Meredith that she may have picked the wrong topic to get into over the dinner table.
“The Shack’s been super busy,” Trent pipes up at my side. “I don’t think she slept for like three days over Halloween.”
Meredith’s gaze turns to our half-brother, but I keep watching June—who silently slices up the food on her plate into smaller and smaller bites.
“I heard you’ve been mastering the grill.”
Trent grins back. “I’ll be better than Davon soon. You’ll give me a raise, right?”
My eyes remain on June even as I reply. “Yeah, as soon as you stop splitting the second your shift is up. We could use some help on cleanup.”
“You pay me by the hour, just ‘cos you’re a workaholic doesn’t mean the rest of us need to be,” he retorts.
June’s eye twitches a little, but she doesn’t look up from her plate.
I’d thought it would be more satisfying to watch her realize what I’ve been up to in her absence. Moving house, managing the Shack, our mother’s health, and raising a teenager are no small feats, and I, selfishly, would love some appreciation for not dropping the ball.
But as I watch her chase her food around her plate, it feels more like trying to kick a horse when it’s already down.
“And how was Boston, Meredith?”
The question comes from the man beside her, and one look on his smarmy face tells me he’s not forgotten his vendetta against our oldest sibling.
Meredith, to her credit, doesn’t flinch. She’s cool, deliberate, like a cat playing with a mouse. “I’ve had plenty on my plate, as you can imagine. I wasn’t exactly sightseeing.”
“Indeed,” he replies, leaning back slightly. His eyes flick to me, then to June, and back to Meredith. “It’s always nice to see family come together, isn’t it? Especially when one has been keeping tabs on… recent developments.”
I tighten my grip on my napkin. He’s fishing. Likely reading the tension between the three of us and deciding to strike when our defenses are so divided.
June’s quiet, pale hands folded neatly in her lap. I catch her glance at Meredith, a silent question. Meredith shakes her head before turning back to address the man. “I didn’t know you cared, Richard.”
The sarcasm turns his smile to a frown. “Believe what you may, but I take my responsibilities to this family incredibly seriously. You’d do well to remember that, Meredith. I don’t take false accusations lightly.”
The double entendre is not lost on any of us.
At the other end of the table, Eleanor begins to titter nervously, and Trent turns his attentions to her instead. Asking after this recipe, then that.
“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” Meredith says into her glass as if attempting to end the conversation there.
But Richard’s eyes are glinting. “And your husband? Mark, is it? Still keeping you busy, I hear?” He nods toward Eleanor, revealing his source of information.
I bite the inside of my cheek, glancing at June once more. Her eyes are still distant, but I can feel the tension radiating off her.
“Mark’s a very capable lawyer,” Meredith says, flatly. “Without him, we wouldn’t have the pleasure of sharing this meal with you today.”