Dad walks through the front door at six fifteen. Meredith leaps down his throat, lecturing him about punctuality and consideration and good manners. He takes it in stride until she mentions the strict meal/medicine/rest/therapy regimen Bill is on. That’s when he demands that she “Lay the hell off!”
They’re not speaking when, at six thirty, we step into a sad drizzle and cross the street.
All’s forgotten when Marcy opens the front door. She hugs Meredith, then Dad, and everyone’s smiling and schmoozing like my parents weren’t just bickering like stray cats over a discarded can of tuna.
It’s mind-blowing, how well they hide the truth.
Marcy leads us past the living room, where the Douglas fir we picked up the other day sits in a corner, trimmed and twinkling with white lights, to the kitchen, where most of the Holdens have gathered. Zoe sits at one end of the big kitchen table, surrounded by an array of coloring books and crayons. Brett and raven-haired, innocent-eyed Oliver, a two-year-old facsimile of his uncle Max, sit across from her. Bill’s at the table, too, his wheelchair parked below its surface, wearing a mask of contentment and a collared shirt that fits too loose on his once robust frame. He’s studying his grandson in this introspective way that’s contrary to the rousing ambiance he used to lend to gatherings. I watch as Zoe leans over to pat her dad’s arm.
Ivy, who I’ve spoken to exactly zero times since she interrupted Max and me in my dad’s study, stands at the stove. She’s stirring a copper-bottomed pot of hot cocoa in a striped dress and knee-high boots, her long hair blown out straight and sleek. I recall what Max said about her being jealous and mentally roll my eyes. Confidence wafts off Ivy Holden like heat from an open flame.
I turn away before she notices me—I don’t have the energy for spitefulness—and begin laying out the treats I brought. Marcy’s confections are already displayed on the counter, buffet-style. She’s made a caramel apple torte cake, a pecan pie, and an apple pie with a gorgeous honeycomb crust. The kitchen smells amazing, and the selection is worthy of the finest pâtisserie, and I’m in heaven—until I spot Ivy closing in.
“Jillian,” she says briskly.
“Ivy,” I reply, glancing over my shoulder to be sure there are witnesses. I have a feeling she’s going to confront me about what Max told Becky—the kiss, the betrayal, my involvement—and it’s probably going to get ugly. But Marcy, Dad, and Meredith have crowded around the table, and no one’s paying any attention to the two of us.
Great.
Ivy smooths her bangs and says, quietly, “Have you heard from my brother today?”
There’s a good chance this is an attempt at entrapment—some scheme she and Becky cooked up to nail Max for a crime he’s yet to commit. I unwrap my platter of cranberry tartlets and reply impassively, “He’s not here?”
“We don’t know where he is. Mom told him to be home before you and your parents came over, but he hasn’t even called.”
I place my sweet potato pie atop a stand, my heart faltering.… Max is missing? “Have you talked to the guys?”
Ivy nods. “He’s not with Jesse or Kyle or Leo. My mom’s going crazy worrying about him. I can’t get ahold of Becky, so… Maybe they’re together?”
“Probably,” I say, feeling some relief. The thought of Max and Becky hanging out in an unreachable den of sin makes my mouth taste bitter, but I’d rather know he’s with her than know nothing at all. “He probably just lost track of time. I bet he’ll be home in a few minutes.” Even as I say this, though, I’m not sure it’ll prove true. Chances are, Max is fine, but that doesn’t mean he’ll be moseying through the door for pie anytime soon.
I leave Ivy to help Marcy and Meredith serve hot cocoa. After passing a steaming drink to everyone at the table, I squish into an empty space, far from Oliver and his sticky toddler hands. Brett slides a tray of add-ins—mini marshmallows, crushed candy cane, cinnamon sticks, and orange twists among other tasty things—our way. I add a dollop of whipped cream and a few chocolate chips to my mug, then watch as Ivy sneaks a handful of mini marshmallows to her nephew, who appears to be on his way to a sugar overdose.
Across from me, Marcy’s helping Bill sip cocoa from a straw. She must be stressing about Max’s whereabouts, seeing as how her son’s propensity for responsible decision making has gone down the toilet.
God, I hope he shows up soon.
No one mentions his absence as the clock journeys toward seven and then beyond, but it becomes obvious that we’re waiting on him. The implicit question builds and hovers over the untouched desserts, thickening like tapioca.
When Oliver at last rubs his eyes and rests his chocolaty chin on the tabletop, Marcy stands, clasps her hands together, and says, “Goodness, Oli, I’m ready for a treat. Should I serve the desserts now?”
Oliver perks right up. “Tweat! Tweat, pwease!”
Zoe runs a hand over Oliver’s head. “I don’t know, kiddo. It’s getting late.”
“God, Zoe, lighten up,” Ivy says. “Let him have some pie.”
Zoe flings a glare at her sister. “Why don’t you stay out—”
Brett drops a hand onto Zoe’s shoulder and nods in Bill’s direction. She glances quickly, guiltily, at her father, then snaps her mouth shut.
“What?” Ivy needles. “Stay out of your perfect parenting?”
Zoe pulls in a breath, but Brett jumps up before she has a chance to retort. “I’ll help you with the plates, Marcy,” he says. He looks pointedly at his wife. “Zoe, why don’t you and Oli keep your dad company?”
As if Bill’s a charity case. This time last year, he would have told Ivy and Zoe to quit bickering while at the same time reviewing the standings of whatever football teams happened to be playing on TV, and passing my dad a beer. Now he stares with dismay at his daughters. Zoe, chagrined, picks up a turquoise crayon and begins filling in one of the shapes on Oliver’s coloring page. Ivy takes her phone out of her pocket and taps away at its screen.
Meredith nudges my dad. “Jake, tell Bill about the case you’re working on. The one with that broker out of Tacoma? The dilapidated hotel?”
