15. Sophie
SOPHIE
The oven timer shrieks just as I’m yelling across the hall.
“Trent! Shoes on! Jacket too, it’s freezing, I don’t care if you’re ‘only walking to the car.’”
I tug the turkey out of the oven with both hands, the pan heavier than I expect, and set it down on the counter with a satisfying clatter. My phone buzzes against the cutting board, displaying Meredith’s caller ID.
I wedge it between my ear and shoulder while wrestling with the foil. “Hi, how are you. Hope Boston was great. Please tell me you’re already at the Beach House. I need someone to run interference with Richard because if anything else goes wrong today, I might stab him with a fork.”
It’s only been about three weeks since June’s birthday, but I’ve seen her almost every day in my attempts to help reintegrate her into society.
The look in her eyes on her birthday had haunted me ever since.
Reconciling with her that night had lifted something off my chest, like I’d been breathing shallow for months and finally filled my lungs. But still, I worry. Every day, I worry.
My oldest sister, however, has been somewhat harder to pin down. At first, I thought it was because she was trying to give us space to reconnect, but then I heard through Roland (who heard through Eddie) that she’d been over to the mainland.
“Soph… you should probably sit down.”
My stomach drops. “What now?”
“Richard called me. Christmas is off. He says Mom’s too sick for visitors.”
For a moment, I just stare at the turkey, steam curling up like smoke from a fire I can’t put out. Then the outrage rises hot and fast. “He canceled Christmas? He doesn’t get to do that. She’s our mom. If she’s not at her best, fine, but she would still want us there. She deserves to see us.”
“I know.” Meredith’s voice takes on a weary tone, which makes me wonder when, exactly, she got back. “But you also know how he is. If we push, he’ll dig in harder. And Mom hates conflict more than anything.”
I press my palm against my forehead as if it might prevent the quickly approaching cluster headache.
“This was supposed to be our first Christmas together in fifteen years.” My throat tightens, and I glance toward the bedroom doors, listening for Trent’s heavy-footed stomp. “It’s his first Christmas with family. Real family. I wanted it to feel like something.”
This will crush him, I know it will. We’ve barely seen Eleanor since Thanksgiving.
“I might have… secured us another invitation,” Meredith says finally, careful, like she’s testing the water.
I blink, allowing hope to cautiously take the place of despair.
“An invitation where?”
“So,” I try not to sound too leading, but that’s exactly what I’m doing as I sidle up to Meredith. “Did you call him before you called me?”
Meredith dutifully hands me a glass of sparkling wine before taking a generous and unhurried sip of her own. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure,” I say with narrowed eyes, not buying her nonchalance for a single second. But I quickly decide to drop it. She did, after all, save Christmas, and so teasing her about it can wait.
The booth tables have been pushed together in the middle of the bar, patched wood gleaming under mismatched plates and Eddie’s idea of “festive” centerpieces—hurricane glasses stuffed with cranberries and floating candles.
Roland is bustling behind the bar anyway, apron on, insisting he can whip up a virgin mulled wine for Trent, despite the teenager voicing his strong dislike for the taste.
Through the wide front windows, I can see the Shack, huddled across the street in its winter quiet, its sign dark for the holiday.
It makes me strangely proud, seeing the two places across from each other like that, the Shack and Birdie’s.
Both still standing, still ours after such a whirlwind summer.
Trent catches my eye as he tries to pull a beer from behind the bar when Roland has his back turned. He tries flashing a wicked grin, but I shake my head. Seventeen in only a couple of months, and already testing how far he can push me. It’s irritating and endearing in equal measure.
June is closer to him, sneaks over, and slips the bottle right out of his hand, before returning to her perch next to Eddie. Not even breaking the conversation.
I lean against the wall, letting it wash over me as I nurse my glass. It’s not quite the Beach House, but there’s so much joy here, you can practically feel our absent loved ones cradling the scene.
My mind drifts back, uninvited, to all the Christmases in LA.
Just Trent and me, in our tiny apartment, stringing dollar-store lights around a half-dead fern we pretended was a tree.
I always told myself it was enough, but standing here now, surrounded by people who are laughing so hard the windows fog, I know better.
This is what enough is supposed to feel like.
As if she’s reading my mind, Meredith steps closer, her shoulder brushing mine. “I hated it, you know.”
I glance at her. “What?”
“Christmas. These last fifteen years.” She stares into her glass, voice low enough that only I can hear.
“Without you. Without June… Mom. Mark and his family were, well. A bunch of snobby lawyers. Weirdly concerned with their matching cashmere jumpers. I can’t even remember the last time I enjoyed myself. ”
I just slide my hand across the space between us, giving hers a quick squeeze. “This is nice.”
Meredith gives me a small, knowing smile, and we both drift toward the others.
Meredith and I slide into the line of pushed-together tables, our glasses clinking softly as we settle.
It takes a few beats for me to catch up to June and Eddie’s conversation.
Harder still when we’re joined by Roland and Trent, who come sporting the final dishes from the kitchen to complement the perfectly cooked turkey, if I say so myself.
But it’s the noise that thaws any lingering Scrooge-ness from my heart. Everyone talking at once, laughter bouncing off the wood-paneled walls, the clatter of forks and serving spoons as Roland insists people stop waiting on him and just dig in.
“I’m telling you,” Roland booms from his seat at the head of the table, cane leaning nearby, “this is the best bird I’ve had in twenty years, and I say that having cooked half of them myself.”
“We’ll have you on turkey-duty every year, I think,” Meredith elbows me gently. “This is so much better than your attempts at pie.”
“I resent that.”
“At least she actually cooked something. I don’t think ‘bringing the champagne’ really requires that much skill,” my savior comes in the form of Eddie Jones, sitting just a little too close to my sister’s side.
Meredith smacks his shoulder in retaliation. “You own a bar. You should know the value of a sommelier.”
“I know the value of Veuve Clicquot, because it’s on offer in Nantucket Town.”
“So you’re really back for good, then?” Roland continues loudly, interrupting their domestic before it can escalate any further. He eyes Meredith as he scoops more stuffing onto his plate.
Meredith lifts her glass in a mock toast. “Picked up the last of my things in Boston. Mark can keep the Le Creuset. I’m not dragging cast iron on a ferry.”
“Have you looked anywhere yet?” I say quickly, throttled by my own excitement. “I can give you the number of the estate agent I used.”
Eddie clears his throat. Meredith pointedly ignores him, staring very hard at the bread basket. The moment doesn’t slip by unnoticed.
“Oh, please,” I say, eyes narrowing, “tell me you’re not staying where I think you're staying.”
Meredith’s eyes dart across the table. “Well, I can’t exactly go back to the Beach House, can I? Richard might murder me in my sleep.”
“You could stay at mine, you know.”
We all turn to look at June. There’s a flush to her cheeks despite the frown creasing her forehead, likely a side effect of the wine in her hand. She looks remarkably hurt, actually.
Sensing this, too, Meredith relays her next words with careful cheer. “I figured you’d be sick of me, considering I forced you to be my roommate for so long.”
“Didn’t force me.”
It’s Trent who surprisingly cuts through the tension. “Don’t take it too harshly, June. Meredith just wants to make out with Eddie.”
“Trent!”
“TRENT!”
“Oi!” Eddie is the last to cry out, fork threateningly pointed at our brother. “Get your nose out of other people’s business, alright? Or I’ll be telling Sophie about?—”
“OKAY, I’M SORRY.”
With a calmness I don’t feel, I politely place my glass on the table. “Tell me about what?”
Trent’s head frantically snaps to me, his cheeks coloring deeply. “Nothing. I mean. Something. Actually! Yes, Roland, would it be okay if my friend stops by? Just for a sec. He wants to drop something off. That’s all I wanted to say and ask. That’s all that needs to be told.”
Roland waves his fork like a scepter, grinning. “The more the merrier, kid. Tell him to come on.”
I let it slide. Trent’s been glowing all night, riding high on the attention of the family.
If he’s gone out of his way to confide in Eddie about something, perhaps one of the only positive male role models he’s ever had in his life, I can’t be seen discouraging it.
A glance at Eddie’s fond smile is all I need to trust them both.
“Anyway!” Meredith blurts, clearly desperate for an escape. “Trent, what’d you get for Christmas?”
Trent lights up like the tree in the corner. “The headphones you sent are amazing, and the jacket from Eleanor actually does something about the wind here. Oh! And I got a proper sketchbook from June, which is, like, really good quality. I’ve never had so many gifts.”
My heart squeezes.
“You said thank you yet?” I remind him gently.
He ducks his head, sheepish, before glancing around the table. “Thanks. Seriously. This is… this is the best.”
The whole room softens. Even Meredith, red-faced and flustered a moment ago, looks misty-eyed.
I lean back, smirking. “Better than our LA Christmases, huh?”