Good Grief: A Novel Page 31

  All eyes are on Jasper. He basks in the attention, tipping back his head and gazing at the ceiling. “Convenience,” he says. “Every good invention addresses convenience.”

  “Necessity is the mother of invention, and convenience is the father,” Dad says.

  “You said it,” Jill agrees.

  “I’d like to toast the chef,” Drew says raspily, raising his glass and winking at me. His hair is damp from the shower, and I can imagine his clean laundry smell. I think of how we made love as quietly as possible last night, how I bit into my lip until it stung as Drew tightened his hands around my shoulders. I look away, embarrassed. “To Sophie, the best cook I know. She’s what I’m most thankful for this year.”

  “To the cook,” Dad agrees.

  “We all cooked,” I say, raising my glass.

  “To my beautiful bride, Jill,” Dad says. He always calls her his bride, even though they’ve been married a few years. “My KP duty partner.”

  Jill giggles and squeezes Dad’s hand.

  Poor Ruth! If there’s any more happy-loving coupleness at this table, she might stab herself with the asparagus tongs.

  Jill raises her glass. “I’ve decided it’s important to love the life you get and somehow learn to let go of the life you dreamed of.”

  I’m about to agree wholeheartedly when Ruth says, “Really? Do you have to love all of it? Even bad drapes and cheating husbands?”

  Jill chokes a little on her stuffing. Dad pats her on the back, encourages her to sip water. I know it’s a bad day for Ruth, but she’s wrecking my fantasy Thanksgiving.

  “You can switch bad drapes,” Crystal says.

  “If you can afford to,” Ruth says dryly.

  “I’m thankful for Argentina,” Jasper says.

  “Me too,” Marion agrees. “Why?” she whispers to him.

  Simone shrieks and bangs her spoon on her Dora the Explorer plate.

  I want to say something to reroute the conversation, but mashed potatoes and disappointment clog my throat.

  “I’m sorry, Jill,” Ruth says. “I’m the Grinch who stole Thanksgiving.”

  “You’re too pretty to be the Grinch,” Crystal tells Ruth. I think this is the first compliment she’s ever paid Ruth, and I’m grateful for her timing. Crystal takes a big bite of mashed potatoes. “My dad?” she says through a mouthful. “He’s, like, totally handsome. If he ever moves back to town, you could marry him.” She flips her fork over and gives the tines a long lick. “Except he’s kind of a loser.”

  “Where does your dad live?” Jill asks.

  “On a fishing boat,” Crystal says tentatively. “I think. In, like, Alaska?”

  “That’s neat,” Jill says, trying to muster enthusiasm for this bit of information.

  I excuse myself to check on the pies.

  As I pull the apple pie out of the oven, the smells of cinnamon and cloves embrace me like a tonic. I leave in the pecan pie to get a little browner, which is how Ethan always liked it—almost burned.

  Suddenly Ruth’s beside me, clutching the gravy boat.

  Crystal follows her, carrying an empty bread basket. “Dude, Marion and Jasper are totally hooking up,” she says.

  “Really?” Ruth giggles, ladling more gravy into the boat.

  “They’re holding hands under the table,” Crystal tells her.

  “Oh, great,” I say.

  “Why do you care?” Ruth asks, irritated.

  “Because Marion’s enough to handle. Now I’ve got to deal with her tall-tale boyfriend, too?”

  “You’d rather have Marion be lonely?” Ruth says.

  Crystal hums nervously, refilling the bread basket.

  “Of course not,” I tell Ruth. She doesn’t seem to understand that I’ve got a lot going on in the next few months: making it through the holiday season at the bakery, making sure Crystal passes Algebra I, making sure Marion doesn’t find the car keys and drive through the park’s duck pond. Right now I just want to make it through pie and coffee.

  “Just because Jasper’s down on his luck,” Ruth continues. “You’re a snob—”

  “No, I’m not,” I tell her. “You need a time-out. I’m going to lock you in the living room with a Barney video.”

  Ruth’s regal posture stiffens. Then she slumps, laughing for the first time all day. “I’m sorry.” She covers her face with her delicate hands.

  “Actually, it’s kind of a relief to see you misbehave for once,” I admit. “Usually you’re so perfect.”

  Ruth snorts.

  “Yeah,” Crystal agrees. “It’s annoying.”

  “I know there’s nothing worse than the holidays when you’re single,” I say.

  “How come?” Crystal asks.

  Before I can answer, Jill bumps through the swinging door from the dining room, pinching the sleeve of her turtleneck, which is splashed with red wine.

  “Sophie, have you got any soda water?” she asks, panicked.

  Ruth lurches toward the refrigerator to check, obviously hoping to make it up to Jill. Dad swings through the door, wanting to help. Marion follows behind them, wondering if we should rewarm the yam puff.

  Next, Jasper and Drew stride into the kitchen. Drew holds Simone, balancing her on his hip, his wineglass in the other hand. “Party moved in here?” he asks.

  No one wants to sit at the dining room table anymore. The problem with Thanksgiving is that the pressure for the meal and the conversation to be perfect is daunting. Somehow it’s easier to hang back in the kitchen, picking turkey off the carcass, gossiping about the guests, and confessing your holiday dread.

  The fan over the stove rattles and clanks. Drew turns it off and everyone sighs, enjoying the silence.

  Ruth holds the gravy boat, Crystal holds the bread basket, Drew holds a new bottle of Cabernet, and Dad holds Jill’s hand.

  “Shall we?” I ask the group. We all turn and file back into the dining room.

  “Hey,” Ruth tells Crystal as she sits down, “I’m glad that you and my friend Sophie are such good cooks.”

  Crystal raises her eyebrows, her cheeks bulging with bread. “Sophie taught me.”

  “Best rhubarb pie west of Minneapolis,” Jasper says, winking at Marion.

  “Can we have baked potatoes next year?” Crystal asks me, digging a trench through her uneaten mashed potatoes.

  “Baked potatoes?” I ask skeptically. But it’s not the potatoes I’m hesitating over. It’s the plausibility that there will be a next year. That Crystal may be a part of it.

  “Hey, the wishbone!” Crystal jumps up, accidentally tugging a corner of the tablecloth and sending the wineglasses teetering. We grab our glasses as she bounds into the kitchen. She returns, squeezing the wishbone between her fingers.

  “Wanna split it?” she asks me, sinking back into her chair. She leans across the table, centering her elbow as though bracing for an arm-wrestling match.

  “Okay.” I pinch the other side of the bone. A sharp bit of turkey pokes my thumb.

  Crystal frowns at the wishbone with the seriousness of a chess player. She sucks in her lower lip.

  “Make a secret wish!” Drew whispers loudly.

  “Okay,” I tell him.

  “Duh,” Crystal says, and I wonder what she’s wishing for. Maybe for a horse or for her dad to come back.

  I lean closer to Crystal, inhaling the smell of my own Joy perfume, which she seems to have borrowed. I pretend to hang on tight to the wishbone. But really I grasp it loosely, considering its brittle frailness between my fingers. My secret wish is for Crystal to break off the bigger half.

  “Do you think Ethan will make it in time for dessert?” Marion frets, peeling back the sleeve of her dress to check her watch.

  A hush falls over the table, forks of food frozen in the air. Dad looks at me. Crystal rolls her eyes.

  I lay my free hand across Marion’s bowed back, which is hard and hollow like a gourd.

  “Ethan died,” I remind her.

 
“How?” she asks, incredulous.

  While nothing about Marion reminds me of Ethan, he is our common denominator. “Cancer, remember? You and I are both widows.” I squeeze her arm, feeling the slender bone beneath a handful of papery loose skin.

  “Oh.” There’s a stricken look on her face as she forgets and then remembers in the same split second. “That’s right.” She smacks her head lightly, as though she’s trying to tune in the reception. “I’m sorry. I do remember.”

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. And in a way I’m glad she makes me say this almost every day now. “It’s okay.”

  Acknowledgments

  First, thanks to Frank Baldwin, the most generous reader a writer could hope for.

  Thanks to my agent, Laurie Fox, my all-time stroke of good luck. For her enthusiasm and smarts, thanks to my editor Amy Einhorn.

  I couldn’t have finished this book without the help of my San Francisco writer’s group: Rich Register, Susan Edmiston, Cheyenne Richards, Karen Roy, Laurence Howard, Gordon Jack, Julie Knight, Greta Wu, Joan Minninger. Wonderful writers, readers, friends.

  Thanks to those who gave the manuscript thoughtful reads from start to finish: Aimee Prall, Nicolle Henneusse, Eileen Bordy. And especially Sona Vogel, copy editor extraordinaire.

  Thanks to my earliest supporter and oldest friend, Quee Nelson.

  For their unyielding encouragement from day one, thanks to my South Bay writer’s group: April Flowers, Judy Cowell, Deb Gale, Nancy Shearer, Marilyn Rosenberg, Nancy Sully, and Cristina Spencer. And thanks to my brainstorming buddies: Bobbi Fagone and Charles King.

  Thanks to teachers Bud Roper, Tom Parker, and Ellen Sussman, for offering worldly wisdom along the way, and to Tom Anfuso, for his editing savvy.

  For helping me keep the facts factual, thanks to Bob Aimone, Karen Eberle, and my beloved friend Ede Sabo.

  Finally, thanks to my writing partners and fellow graduates of The Los Gatos Café School of Journalism: Vicky Mlyniec and Kim Ratcliff.

  And of course thanks to my loyal office assistant, Popoki, for manning the fax machine and keeping all moths at bay.