“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 wordsI 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 acanoe, 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 theannouncements at the church. I’m having them put it in every Sunday bulletin, and I’m thinking about asking theBeaufort Gazetteto 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 issooodelicious. 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, probablywondering 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, whichI 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.”
