My dad, a tech guy, took a sip of his whiskey and shook his head. “You know as well as me that when your mother sets her mind to something, she is relentless. I tried to talk to her about skipping the party this year and maybe going to visit Uncle Brian in California for a change, but she was committed to keeping the tradition alive.
“Mom should have gone to counseling after your transplant. I think she might have a case of mild PTSD, but you know she just keeps going. She’s up for salesperson of the month at the real estate company.”
Oh, that was no lie. “She’s like the Energizer Bunny.”
Dad chuckled. “And you know I can’t say no to the woman, so...”
My mom had a hard time carrying a baby. There were two miscarriages before me, and when they investigated adoption, Mom found out she was pregnant with me and was put on immediate bedrest.
I was born prematurely, so my heart issues weren’t really a surprise. I think the fact I lived became the real surprise to my parents.
If the woman hadn’t been such a fighter, I might not have been born. I had to give her a pass on a lot of meddling and overbearing bullshit because she was furiously protective of me.
Taking a sip of my whiskey, I coughed a little, not used to hard liquor but deciding that the happy face I would have to put on that night might require a little liquid assistance.
At five on the dot, the doorbell’s bong sounded throughout the house, and like every other year, I was put in charge of greeting the guests and taking their coats. Christmas music at just the right level floated through the house. The flameless candles were dancing in every room, and Betsy Langhorn,the hostess with the most-ess,appeared at the top of the fancy staircase, a big debutant smile plastered on her face.
The usual suspects—my parents’ snobby friends—appeared with expensive bottles of wine, boxes of exotic candy, and a few overdone holiday floral arrangements, which I placed on the console table in the living room under the picture window for my mom to inspect and make note of after the party. It was all going like clockwork until five-thirty, when there was a hard knock on the front door instead of pushing the doorbell.
I opened the door to see a thin guy with curly brown hair. He was wearing a beautiful green sweater that brought out the green of his eyes. Next to him was a petite woman in a gray coat carrying a platter covered in aluminum foil.
“Hi. Are you Mrs. Brownstein?” I asked as I reached for the platter. The young man handed her a set of crutches I hadn’t noticed. It was then I saw the black boot on her right leg.
“I am. You must be Avery. This is my son, Simon. Simon, shake Avery’s hand.” I glanced at Simon, and he rolled his eyes.
Once they entered the house, I took her coat and put the platter on the console. “Oh, no, young man. Those are for dessert. They’re sweet potato knishes. Simon, pick up the platter and take it to the kitchen.”
“I’ll take them, Mrs. Brownstein.” It was my turn to roll my eyes.
I picked up the platter and went to the kitchen, handing it to the head caterer. “Could you put these somewhere and write a note to my mother that Mrs. Brownstein brought the knishes, please. You can put it on the fridge with one of the magnets.”
“Sure, Mr. Langhorn. Should I leave them on the platter?” My mother had at least a dozen platters in the butler’s pantry, but I wouldn’t dare insult Mrs. Brownstein by inferring her dessert platter wasn’t nice enough to go on the dessert table.
“No, that one is just fine. Thank you.” I walked back into the large formal living room where people were chatting. Mom was hugging Mrs. Brownstein, and Simon was standing at the bar ordering two glasses of something clear. He carried one to his mother before shoving his right hand in the pocket of his slacks.
Simon glanced around, a bored expression firmly in place. I felt bad for the guy, so when the server breezed by, I grabbed a glass of champagne from her tray and walked over to Simon.
“Mom tells me you’re sitting for your CPA exam next month.”
Simon took a healthy swig of his drink and sighed. “I already took the test after Thanksgiving. I didn’t tell Mom in case I didn’t do well. Heaven knows, I wouldn’t want to hearthatlecture.”
That was a surprise. I’d lied to my mother about stuff too, but Simon freely admitted to lying to his. It was refreshing.
“I’m afraid my mother gave your mother the impression I’m looking for a husband because she doesn’t like the man and woman I’m in a relationship with. I believe she thinks if she trots me around in front of enough single gay men, I’ll see the light.Unfortunately, that won’t work. We’re deeply committed and planning our future together.”
“Wow, uh, that’s nice. Where do the three of you live?” What the hell else was I supposed to say? It was a relief, though, that he clearly wasn’t trying to hook up with me.
“We live in Alexandria off Fort Hunt Road. My partners bought it five years ago and refurbished it. We’re putting in a pool in the spring.”
I saw a lot of red flags in what he was saying, but it wasn’t my place to point out that they sounded as if the couple were just looking for some variety in their love life. It would be rude of me to ask more questions, but damn if I wasn’t intrigued.
“That sounds nice. I tried to talk my folks into putting in a pool when I was a kid. If you ever have kids, they’ll be grateful you did it.”
Simon grinned, which was really nice. He had a great smile. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his mother pointing in our direction as my mother turned toward us with a triumphant smile.
“Don’t look now, but they think they’ve made a match. Tell your mother I’m a male whore after you leave, and she’ll probably say you dodged a bullet.”
Simon chuckled. “What if she tells your mother what I said?”
