She pursed her lips. “What I’d like is a little bourbon.”
Perry glanced at the bar cart across the room. “I thought your medications weren’t to be mixed with alcohol.”
Elsie pointed in the direction of the cart. “Double finger, dear.”
“But Nana.”
Elsie placed her hand on his own and squeezed. “Perry, my love. You must learn to have some fun. Or at least allow the rest of us.”
Perry sighed. “Be right back.”
Phoebe found him at the bar cart. “We need to talk.”
“In just a minute. Nana insists I get her a bourbon.” He shook his head. “I guess one won’t hurt.”
Phoebe laughed. “One? That’s at least her second. She made Dad fetch her one earlier.”
Perry set the bottle down. “That minx.”
“Relax.” Phoebe took the glass from him and resumed the pour. “How many ninety-seventh birthdays does one get?”
Perry watched her march off in the direction of the birthday girl with the drink in question. “There won’t be a ninety-eighth if she keeps it up,” he called after her.
Amelia and Emma had still not arrived. When he finally made it to the punch bowl, it was empty. He lugged it into the kitchen.
“There you are!” His mother, Jane, stood at the counter scraping something dry and blackened off of a tray and into the farmhouse sink.
“Hello, Mother. What have you there?”
“Itwasa tray of Brie and apricot tarts.” She shrugged. “But Nana can’t chew very well these days, so it’s not like she could’ve eaten them anyway.”
Perry helped himself to a cup of punch and observed the momentary slump in his mother’s posture. She turned to him, straightening her apron. “So, how areyou?”
“Fine.” He held up the punch bowl.
“You think of everything.” She nodded toward the pantry. “Two bottles of seltzer and one of cranberry juice. You didn’t happen to notice if Jake arrived yet, did you? He’s bringing his Olivia.”
Olivia. So the new girl did have a name. Perry glanced out the kitchen window at the circular drive. What could be taking his wife so long?
“She’s a doll, this one. Have you met her?”
He had not. But that was clearly about to change. “Do I have a choice?” It was tiring. Every special occasion, a new girl.
Like the rest of the Goodwin offspring, Jake was sharp and handsome. But unlike his more reserved siblings, he possessed a flirtatious streak that coursed back to their high school years, the likes of which had managed to attract the attention of the cutest girls in Perry’s junior class the first week of Jake’s freshman year. Although Perry aced his AP courses and swept the CIAC track and field championship that year, he’d regrettably remained unable to engage in any meaningful interaction with a member of the opposite sex, and so it was young Jake who’d lobbied (and then landed) his big brother a date two days before prom. “There’s room in our limo,” Jake had added.
Perry had been flummoxed. “You’re going to prom? Wait—you have a limo?”
Little had changed in the years since.
The last Perry had heard, Jake was seeing the multipierced blond rock climber from Colorado he’d met at Burning Man. The one who’d lasted almost the whole of the previous year, leaving the family to wonder in not-so-quiet whispers if this one would stick. But then there was the redheaded accountant, at Christmas. If Perry wasn’t mistaken, she was the one who’d giggled so nervously at the dinner table she snorted spiced eggnog out of her nose. Or maybe that was the blonde.
His mother ignored his question and continued scraping at the burnt tray in the sink. “There’s something about this one. You’ll see.”
Perry found the seltzer bottles in the pantry and emptied them carefully into the bowl, considering his mother’s choice of words. “There’s always something.”
“Oh, and I suppose you heard, I’ve asked your sister and Rob to move in with the kids while their new cottage is being renovated. I fear she’s taken on too much, and they really can’t keep living like that.”
“Is that wise?” Phoebe could be so selfish. It was too much to ask. Let alone of aging parents who already had their hands full with their Nana. He lifted the punch bowl gingerly, measuring the distance between himself and the dining room table where a clutch of women of a certain age hovered in orthopedic shoes, a group his mother referred to as “the biddies.” Mrs. Lorenzo from next door was laughing loudly and gesturing a bit too exuberantly. He and the punch bowl would have to take a different route.
