“Of course it does.” She adjusts her glasses. “Now. About Wren’s birthday.”
And just like that, the sweet moment evaporates like morning dew on a hot dashboard.
“The catering,” Eleanor says, consulting the folio as though the birthday party of a one-year-old requires the same logistical framework as a corporate merger. “I want to revisit the menu.”
“The menu is set, Eleanor.”
“Is it? Because the invitation mentioned hot dogs, hamburgers, and fried cheese.”
“You know the invitation said mozzarella sticks.”
“I’m choosing to call them what they are, which is fried cheese. And I have concerns.” She pulls a printed page from the folio—printed, with bullet points, because Eleanor brings supporting documents to party-planning disputes—and sets it on my desk. “I’ve taken the liberty of drafting an alternative. Thetruffle brie bites would be far more suitable for a gathering of this caliber.”
“This caliber? It’s a one-year-old’s birthday party. Wren is going to eat cake with her hands and then try to befriend a balloon. The caliber is ‘sticky.’”
“All the more reason to elevate the adult experience. The parents will be there. The neighbors. Your business associates.”
“I’m not inviting business associates to my daughter’s first birthday party.”
“You should. It’s called networking, Celeste. Birthdays are an untapped professional resource.”
“They are not.They are birthdays.And the mozzarella sticks are staying.” I lean back in my chair and rest both hands on my belly, a gesture that has become my default punctuation mark in arguments. The bump makes an excellent period at the end of a firm sentence. “Besides, the mozzarella sticks are more for Saylor than Wren, and if I remove them from the menu, I’ll have a mutiny on my hands.”
Eleanor purses her lips in the specific way that means she’s lost this round but intends to revisit the issue from a different angle at a later date. I’ve learned to read her tactical retreats the way meteorologists read pressure systems—the calm before the next front moves in.
“Fine,” she states, in a tone that does not mean fine. “While we’re on the subject, I know the Westchester house is finished with renovations, but there’s a last-minute opening at the country club for that Saturday, and I thought?—”
“No.”
“The grounds are impeccable this time of year?—”
“No, Eleanor.”
“There’s a children’s garden with a fountain?—”
“The party is at our house. In our backyard. Under the oak tree that Saylor strung lights through last weekend.” I fold myarms above my belly. “This is casual. Come in jeans, for God’s sake.”
Eleanor looks at me as though I’ve suggested she arrive in a swimsuit. “I don’t own jeans.”
“Buy some.”
“I’m sixty-three years old. I haven’t worn denim since the Carter administration.”
“Then you’re overdue. As a matter of fact, buy the stretchy kind. They’re a revelation.” I hook my thumb under the waistband of my own maternity jeans and pull, demonstrating the elastic with the enthusiasm of an infomercial host. “See this? Pregnancy pants. No zipper, no button, just faith and elastic. These jeans have changed my relationship with food, with sitting, and with the entire concept of waistlines. I may never go back.”
Eleanor stares at the elastic waistband with an expression that suggests I’ve shown her something medically concerning. “That’s not fashion, Celeste. That’s surrender.”
“It’s comfort. And comfort is the ultimate luxury. I should embroider that on a throw pillow.”
“Well, don’t put that pillow in my house.”
“You sure? The furniture in your ice castle is so stiff. A pillow could help.”
“Ha. Ha.” There’s not even the ghost of a smile on her face.
She closes the folio, which is her version of a white flag, and folds her hands in her lap. The combative energy softens. She looks at my belly, and the look that crosses her face is the one I’ve come to recognize as theotherEleanor. The human one who lives underneath the blazers and the bullet points and the relentless opinions about party menus. The one who is, against all odds and against her own expectations, becoming a grandmother for the second time.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, and her voice has dropped the boardroom register. It’s quieter. Almost careful.
