“I do,” I say after a moment. “My mother used to make fish soup when we were sick or when the weather got cold.” My mom has always loved fish; caviar, pickled herring,ukha, the whole lot. There’s a warm nostalgia in my chest when I think about it.
“You know about the feast of the seven fishes?” Mary asks.
I nod. I’ve, of course, heard of the Christmas Eve tradition, though I’ve never actually attended one.
“My favorite meal of the year, I think,” she admits.
Her eyes look past me, distant, and I imagine that she’s remembering the last Christmas Eve, a month ago now, when I crouched with her in the alley and she demanded I marry her.
The silence isn’t awkward, though I do wonder if I should be trying to fill it. I’d like to ask her more about the meal, her favorite part of it, if she prepared any of it herself, what her favorite dish tastes like on her tongue, but I don’t want to overwhelm her.
She sits up taller in her chair, her face perplexed as she looks out the big restaurant windows.
“What is it?” I ask. Mary blinks, staring out the window for another moment then lifts her shoulder in a shrug.
“Nothing, I guess.”
I’m not so convinced, but the waiter is back with our drinks, setting them down as unobtrusively as he can on coasters in front of us.
Mary takes this as an opportunity to change the subject.
“Your sisters are coming into town. Which of them is your favorite?”
My eyebrows stitch together. “You’re not supposed to have a favorite.”
“Right, right. Very diplomatic of you.”
I think of them—Nadia, Vera, and Sofia—all so different from one another, but united in their ability to needle me relentlessly. Father always wanted another son, never mind the bastard son he had, but other than me, my mother only gave daughters. Served him right.
Made my life Hell though, theonly son.
“They have different strengths.” Nadia is closest in age to me, and the only sister that still lives in Massachusetts. She is headstrong and takes absolutely no shit. Mary would like her. In fact, I think she might like them all. Vera and Sofia are loud and creative, both incredibly talented at various arts, both living half of each year with our mother in Russia. I miss their noise when they’re gone.
“I like them all,” I decide.
“Mhm.” Mary sips her coffee, burning her tongue and wincing at the heat. She uses a spoon to scoop an ice cube into the steaming mug, then pours from a small tin of creamer and a spoon of sugar. Tendons dance under the skin of the back of her hands as she performs the ritual.
“Who’s your favorite then?” I ask. “I thought every Morelli was as close as the next.”
“Leo,” she answers without hesitation. “ItwasWilla, but yesterday she was annoying me, and Leo made cinnamon rolls.”
My lips fall open, and after another drink of her coffee, her face breaks into a slight smile, signaling another of her dry jokes. I’m dumbfounded and thrilled each time.
“I also love them all,” she amends. “Except for Nate, who I hate.”
“You’re funny.” It comes out surprised.
She smirks. “Occasionally.”
In the lull that follows, I watch Mary’s eyes scan across the restaurant pausing again on the large windows that light the space. Once again, her lips turn down into a frown.
There’s usually patio seating, but not until it’s warm enough outside. Now, it’s empty, only the street and another building beyond.
I turn back to Mary and see that her hand rests lightly around her coffee cup, my babushka’s ring reflecting in the light. I feel an undue possessiveness at the sight.
“Do you trust me even a little?” she asks without looking away from the window.
“What’s wrong?”
