Chapter Fifteen #3
“Whatever you want to do about Seth is your choice,” I say, “but if you ever need backup, I’m your girl. Say the word and I’ll scare him so bad, he’ll never step out of line again.”
He picks up my hand. Kisses my knuckles. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
–
All good things must come to an end.
It’s the solemn decree ringing in my head as we sit down to Deborah and Harold’s table.
A feast spans before us, which should encourage some measure of happiness, but it doesn’t because we’re all about to have our legs trapped under a wooden slab together for the duration of an extra-long meal, and that means extra-long conversation.
I know what the topic’s going to be. It’s Deborah’s favorite one. Nicholas and I have been doing a fine job of avoiding it when we’re alone, as evidenced by our chickening out in the wedding décor aisle.
“Have you sent out the invitations yet?” Deborah launches right in, piecing bits of dark turkey onto her husband’s plate.
He’s not permitted to make his own plate because he’s “bad at portion control.” The diet she’s got him on now forbids stuffing, white meat, and potatoes, and he looks like he might cry.
“It’s nearly December.” Her eyes flick to Nicholas, then me.
There’s accusation in them, clear as day.
She thinks it’s my fault the invitations haven’t gone out.
Nicholas does exactly what I would do. He pretends he doesn’t hear her. Then, when she repeats the question, he pretends he doesn’t know what she’s talking about.
“Invitations?” Like it’s a foreign word he doesn’t understand.
I shovel gobs of mashed potatoes in my mouth. I’m a lady. I have manners. No one can expect me to talk with my mouth full.
Deborah appraises Nicholas over her wineglass, eyes shrewd. “Your wedding invitations, darling. We still haven’t gotten ours.”
“Do you need an official one?” he asks faintly. “You already know the date and venue.”
“I need three invitations: one for my memory book, one for your baby book, and one for the family records. Besides, everybody else needs theirs as well. All your aunts and uncles. Every day, it seems, I’m getting a call.
Where’s my invitation? Am I not invited?
The men at your father’s club, and all their wives, are in an uproar!
They feel personally slighted. You can’t leave anyone out, Nicky. It’s rude.”
I don’t know any of those people she’s referring to. Nicholas doesn’t know most of them, and the ones he knows, he doesn’t like. I don’t think there’s actually an uproar; more like Deborah’s trying to gauge what’s going on here, so she’s making shit up.
“Frankly, you’re putting me in a bad position,” she goes on.
“People know I’m orchestrating this whole operation, and when you neglect your duties it reflects poorly on me.
” She touches her necklace. It’s a heart with four birthstones to represent everyone in her family.
“So if you’re not going to behave responsibly for your sakes, do so for mine. ”
Nicholas withers. It’s not a visible withering—for all outward appearances, he’s fine.
His face is calm, his tone bland. But I feel it like a sixth sense: he’s hating this.
We’ve just sat down and he wishes he could run out the door, but he can’t.
He’s stuck being Nicholas Rose, Perfect Son, and after all these years the role is wearing him down.
“Harold,” Deborah barks when he tries to steal a roll. “You know you can’t eat that.”
“You gave me too many green beans,” he whines. “There isn’t even any seasoning on them.”
“Seasoning makes your bowels disagree with you.” She turns curtly from him and says to Nicholas, “You’ll come over sometime this week with the invitations.
I’ll help you address the envelopes myself, if no one else will.
” Nice little dig at me. “You’ve got to get those out if you expect your RSVPs in time.
Some guests have to make room in their work schedules to be able to travel here for the wedding, and you waiting until the last minute to supply this information is extremely inconsiderate.
I wouldn’t be surprised if my friend Diana from college can’t make it, now that there’s barely any time left to prepare. ”
“You haven’t just told your friend when and where?” he asks. “You’ve known it’s going to be at St. Mary’s on January twenty-sixth for months now. One p.m. You could’ve just told her yourself.”
“That’s not how things are done! You have to send proper invites. This isn’t some trashy Las Vegas wedding, Nicholas. You’ll conduct yourself accordingly.”
She says this like Nicholas has failed her and ruined this wedding by not moving heaven and earth for some lady named Diana. Ten to one, he has never met Diana. Deborah just wants to show off whatever mother-of-the-groom outfit she’s picked out for herself. A dazzling dress to outshine mine.
“I’m taking care of the invitations, Mom,” Nicholas says amiably. “Don’t worry.”
“Don’t tell me not to worry, Nicky. It’s my job.
And don’t be ridiculous—I’m helping you get this matter settled once and for all.
Come by Wednesday after work. We’ll make an evening of it!
I’ll have the woman make those tiny pizza bagels you love, and we’ll work until midnight if we have to.
” Note how she doesn’t invite me to come, only him.
I’m all ready to tuck into my food and forget where I am when I’m suddenly transported back to Let’s Get Crafty, and how awful I felt when I saw Melissa behind the counter.
I had to process the loss of the job at the same time that loathsome Melissa was rubbing it in, and it might’ve killed my whole day were it not for Nicholas rescuing me.
Instead of leaving the shop in a foul mood, I left laughing.
“Actually, Nicholas and I are booked solid next Wednesday,” I answer for him.
Deborah eyes me curiously. “Doing what? Addressing the invitations?”
I can’t commit to that. My relationship with Nicholas is a split hair.
Sending out invitations makes the wedding all too real, and I still can’t visualize walking down the aisle at St. Mary’s.
I can’t visualize a priest’s echoing, monotone instructions for how to treat each other during marriage, and I can’t visualize myself in that A-line dress I don’t love.
I can’t see myself staring up at Nicholas and hearing him say the words I do.
I don’t think Nicholas can picture any of this, either, which is why we’ve been dancing around it for so long.
“Fishing,” I improvise. “In our canoe.”
Deborah coughs on her food. Harold’s hand shoots out, considers patting her back, but grabs a roll instead and stuffs it down his pants for safekeeping. I don’t blame him. The green beans suck.
“You don’t have a canoe, Nicholas,” she says, like I’ve just told her we’re shedding all material possessions and running off to join a cult.
Nicholas looks fatigued, so I answer for him again. “We do! It’s a lot of fun. Nicholas took it out on the pond the other day.”
She’s aghast. “Whatever for?”
She’s not addressing me, thirsting for a reaction from her son.
I’m right about my hunch: this man’s in need of a rescue.
It requires a different strategy than him rescuing me in Let’s Get Crafty.
Mrs. Rose isn’t Melissa. I don’t give a single solitary shit what this woman thinks of me anymore, but Nicholas does, so I have to approach it with finesse. It’s going to cost pride points.
“For canoeing in, of course,” I tell her without a hint, even a whisper, of insincerity.
Tonight, I am Shakespeare. “There’s all sorts of studies that say canoeing is good for you mentally and physically.
They call it a ‘meditative sport.’” I don’t know if I’ve made up that terminology myself or if I’ve heard it somewhere and kept it around subconsciously, but either way I’m proud of myself for producing it on the spot.
Meditative sport. Sounds legitimate as hell.
I reach for the yams, but Deborah slides the dish away.
“Don’t eat those, dear. Your future children will come out orange.
” She leans over her plate until the ends of her bob come perilously close to getting in her gravy.
“Nicky. Have you registered for wedding presents yet? I need to include it in the announcements at the church. I’m having them put it in every Sunday bulletin, and I’m thinking about asking the Beaufort Gazette to write a little something about you, too. ”
Nicholas sucks in a breath, but I squeeze his knee lightly under the table.
I’m his knight in shining armor. That’s my role here.
I’m slowly understanding that it was always supposed to be my role, but I didn’t realize it and missed my cue the first time my charge was under attack by fire-breathing mothers.
I’ve got some lost time to make up for. “Deborah, this turkey is sooo delicious. What’s your secret? ”
Her secret is that she didn’t cook it, someone else did, but she’s so taken aback that she has to respond. “Oh. I . . . uhh . . . butter. And spices. And plenty of love!” She smiles dotingly. It’s full of shit. “Love’s the most important ingredient of all.”
“I agree. Love is so important.” I’m not going to leave her alone for a second.
I’m going to occupy every square inch of space in this conversation and for once in his life, Nicholas will be able to finish his food while it’s still warm.
He won’t be squirting honey into his tea tonight to soothe his throat after two solid hours of talking, talking, talking.
“It’s a shame Heather couldn’t be here. I’d love to finally meet her.
” Heather split town on her eighteenth birthday and only comes home when she can’t maneuver out of it.
From what I’ve heard, she and Deborah have had an extremely tumultuous relationship ever since Heather was a teenager and Deborah was the horror of all parent-teacher conferences.
“Heather!” Deborah nearly fans herself. I’ve hit the jackpot. “Shame is right. It’s beyond shameful she wouldn’t come home for Thanksgiving. I’ve begged. Her father’s begged.”
Harold frowns as he shovels food into his mouth, probably wondering if he did in fact do any begging. He gives up thinking about it and sneaks a piece of turkey.
“It’s like we’re nothing to her!” Deborah continues. “I always tell her on the phone that it’s lucky we have Nicky, or else we’d be all alone. Our Nicky understands the value of family.”
She pauses and looks at him, preparing to speak to him directly, so I say, “Yes, he does. Nicholas is a good man and I couldn’t be prouder of him.
You did a fine job raising him. Wow, this cranberry sauce is something else!
I haven’t had cranberry sauce this tasty in forever.
The way my mom always made it was bleh.” I make an exaggerated expression of disgust.
This gets her full attention. Deborah pounces on any opportunity to put herself above my mother.
She hates that Nicholas is going to have a mother-in-law more than she hates Harold’s ex-wife.
And she literally had a priest come bless Harold’s house after they got together, to rid it of Magnolia’s essence.
“Thank you. It’s true, not many people know how to fix it properly.”
“Including you,” Harold grunts too quietly for her to overhear.
I take a bite, then make a savoring noise. “Mmm. Divine. I’m not sure I’ve ever told you, but this dining room set reminds me of a French castle. I feel like Marie Antoinette when I sit here, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Her eyes light up. “That’s the inspiration!”
“You don’t say! Solid job.” I raise my glass and do a mock toast, which she reciprocates to my mingled wonder and horror. I don’t dare look at Nicholas because I know if I do, whatever I see on his face is going to make me laugh.
She starts to tell me more about her table and chairs, which I respond to with enthusiasm and a great many questions. I weave compliments about herself, Nicholas, and her knack for interior design wherever I can fit them.
Sucking up to Deborah was easy as breathing when Nicholas and I first started dating.
I’d been out to impress, and I didn’t know her very well.
Everything’s easy when your eyes are innocent and you don’t spot the hidden dangers.
My eyes aren’t innocent anymore. I know exactly who this woman is.
We have a history now. The sugary compliments still flow like they used to, but I’m summoning them through a different channel because my goal is different.
My priorities are different. Nicholas deserves one holiday in which he isn’t nagged to death.
When Deborah excuses herself to the kitchen to fetch the dessert, I gasp for air and gulp down all my cranberry juice, plus a glass of water. I brave a glance to my right and my heart skips.
Nicholas’s eyes are resting on me. They’re warm with gratitude, and that gratitude makes my exhaustion worth it. I’ll go ten more rounds with Mrs. Rose if it means I get another look like that at the end.
When Deborah glides back in bearing a cake the size of a small island, I’m already laying the groundwork to pump her ego. “Mmm, that looks incredible!” I don’t even have to lie. I didn’t eat much of my dinner because I was so busy gabbing, and the cake smells like heaven.
“Doesn’t it?” She’s glowing from my praise. Deborah cuts two pieces of cake and slides them onto two small dishes. One she keeps for herself, and the other she gives to Nicholas. “Salted caramel apple cake. It’s a Rose family recipe, passed down from generation to generation.”
“I can’t wait to try out the recipe myself.”
Her smile is tight. “Someday, when you’re a mother, I’ll let you in on the secret.”
Lovely. Using a recipe as leverage to get grandchildren. Still, I rub my hands together and say, “Until then, I guess I’ll have to be content with simply eating the cake and not baking it!” I scan the table for another plate.
“I want some, too,” Harold insists.
“Hush,” Deborah scolds him. “You know you can’t have this much sugar. Think of your bowels!”
I wish she would stop forcing us all to think of Harold’s bowels.
I scrape cold food around on my dinner plate to make room for a slice of cake. But as I reach for the cutting knife, her hand closes over mine. Her skin is warm. Human.
But her eyes are cold. “I don’t think you should, dear.”