Rom-Com Collection

“No! You and Mom … he’s not dying. He just … he wants to make amends with Mom, that’s all.”

“Fuck,” Hester said. “Listen, why don’t I leave the girls here, and I’ll go and lie down on the highway and hope to get run over instead?”

“Well, as fun as that sounds, get your ass inside and stop complaining,” I said. “I made a gorgeous dinner. Come eat.”

My sister obeyed. I took a cleansing breath of the cool, damp air, said a little prayer for peace and followed her inside.

Family gatherings were … um, let’s see, what’s the word I’m looking for? … Hell. They were hell. Being the middle child, I served as referee and confidante, hostess and martyr. Did I feel we should get together once in a while? Sure. Did I want my family all together? Theoretically, yes. In reality, dear God, no.

But Dad had asked, and even though his odds were probably that of a baby chick surviving a stroll across the Daytona 500 Raceway, I had to help him out. If I didn’t, no one would.

For years, Dad had exemplified the sheepish charmer … Iknow, I was so bad, but don’t I have the twinkliest eyes? Does anyone need a new car? Mom, on the other hand, was the ice queen, never letting Dad forget just how little she’d forgiven and forgotten. Freddie got along with everyone for the most part. Hester, like Mom, had never forgiven Dad, but she tolerated him and admitted that he was a good grandfather to the girls.

As for Noah, he was a crusty old Vermonter. He and Gran met when they were seventeen, married at eighteen, and stayed in love for thirty-nine years. Noah viewed the rest of us as somewhat retarded when it came to human relations. He may have had a point.

“Can we eat?” Noah barked from his corner, where he was busy scowling at the rest of us. “I’m so hungry, I’m gaunt. And this beer’s flatter than a plate of piss.”

“That’s beautiful, Grampy,” Bronte said.

“So now you got an attitude, huh? I just started liking you,” Noah said.

“I’ll get you another beer, Dad,” my own father offered.

“Good, son. ‘Bout time you did somethin’ useful with your life,” Noah returned. “Speakin’ of useless, Freddie, when the hell are you goin’ to graduate from that fancy-ass college of yours and stop bleedin’ your parents of their life savings?”

“About five more years, Noah,” Freddie said cheerfully. “I just switched my major to parapsychology. I’m going to be a ghost hunter. What do you think?” Noah, not realizing that Fred was jerking his chain, sputtered on his fresh beer. Mom, though she usually defended Fred, didn’t comment, as she was willing my father to turn into a pillar of salt or something.

“I love family dinners,” Hester grumbled.

“Oh, me, too,” I said.

“Hey, will you chaperone some Brownie troop field trip next week?” she asked. “I have a seminar in Boston.”

“Sure,” I agreed. “When is it?”

“After school on Thursday,” Hester answered. “Josephine really didn’t want to miss it.”

“Of course,” I said. “Where are we going? Cabot’s?” I hoped so. The creamery had a free cheese bar.

“Uh … Josephine, where are the Brownies going next week, honey?” Hester asked. Josephine, who was rubbing Bowie’s tummy and sending clots of fur onto the just-vacuumed floor, jumped up.

“It’s a farm, I think,” she said, leaping up to clutch my waist and beg. “Can you come, Auntie? Can you? Please?” Today she was dressed in a black-sequined unitard and a purple skirt with pink Crocs.

“I sure can,” I said. I had oodles of vacation time socked away, and Mark, who had no nieces or nephews, had always been great about letting me do things with Bronte and Josephine. At the thought of Mark, my heart twisted. He’d kissed Muriel when he was leaving the office today. On the cheek. “See you later, babe,” he’d said. Not that I was eavesdropping. And Muriel’s face had flushed even brighter than her usual consumptive look.

Babe. Mark had never called me babe. Honey, yes. But he called Karen honey, too, and she was basically a barracuda with legs. Once, he called me sweetpea, something so old-fashioned I’d melted (you’re not surprised, are you?). Dad used to call Mom Bluebird, because, he said, she made him so happy. At this moment, she was fingering her knife and looking at him with great speculation in her eyes.

I herded my family around the dining room table, got drinks, fetched a clean fork for Josephine, who’d dropped hers, moved the centerpiece of zinnias and cosmos, which I’d picked that very evening, wiped up a spill and finally sat down. “This is nice,” I said. No one answered, as they were all halfway done already. Seven minutes later, it was official. Dinner, which consisted of my famous garlic-roasted chicken, mashed potatoes with dill, homemade gravy, braised carrots and green beans almondine, all of which took me two hours of prep time, was consumed in just under thirteen minutes. Setting the table had taken more time.

“That was wonderful, Poodle,” my father said, twinkling at me.

“I’ve got to get back to the shop,” Noah grumbled, pushing his chair back and hopping out of the dining room.

“Where’s your leg?” I asked. He didn’t answer.

“It’s under the table,” Josephine said, peeking.

“So gross,” Bronte grunted, pushing her potatoes around her plate.

“Maybe we can play Monopoly,” Dad suggested hopefully, beaming at my mother, who was staring at the tablecloth, lost in pleasant fantasies about dismembering her ex-husband. “Eleanor? I seem to remember you loved being the iron. Would you like to be the iron again?”

“Is that your come-on line, Dad? It needs work,” Freddie offered, glancing up from the message he was texting.

“Let’s play Wii!” Josephine chirruped. “Callie, can we play Wii?”

“Who named that thing?” Mom asked, examining her manicure. Frequent exposure to formaldehyde made her fingernails quite strong and lovely. “Whenever I hear it, I imagine children playing with a urine-filled balloon.”

Dad gave a booming laugh. “That’s funny, Ellie! How about that Monopoly? Bronte, sweetheart? Want to play with your old Poppy and Grammy?”

“No,” Bronte mumbled, folding her arms across her nonexistent chest.

“Fred, get off your ass and help Callie clean up,” Hester said, kicking our little brother.

“You help her,” he returned amiably. “Your own ass is bigger, so you’ll probably be more help.”

“I worked all day,” Hester said. “So bite me, you lazy little bastard.”

“You get women pregnant all day long. Who’s to say I don’t do the same?” Freddie returned, raising his eyebrows innocently while Bronte snickered.

Ah, family. Meanwhile, no one was helping me clean up, either. Chugging a little more chardonnay, I then took a cleansing breath and smiled. “It’s all good, it’s all good,” I whispered to myself.

“There’s Callie, slowly going insane while we all watch,” Freddie said. I smiled, grateful that someone was paying attention. “Hey, Cal, you find someone to sleep with yet?” he added.

“There are children in the room, Fred, in addition to yourself and your mental age of six,” Hester said, kicking him again.

“If you insist on marriage,” Mom said thoughtfully, “why don’t you give Louis a try? He’s so talented.”

My brother snorted. “Yes, Callie, the man has a way with a corpse, so—”

“Fred, quiet. Mom, no talk of Louis at the table,” I said. “Besides, Dad asked if you wanted to play Monopoly with him,” I reminded her.

Mom slid her chilly gaze over to Dad. “What do you want, Tobias?” she hissed.

“Is there any dessert?” Bronte asked.

“Yes, yes, get out while you can, both of you,” I answered. “Run. There’s pie and chocolate chip cookies in the pantry. You and Josephine can cut it up, okay? Ice cream’s in the basement freezer.”

Dad frowned, doubtless hoping to use the girls’ presence as a shield. Slightly daunted, he nevertheless forged ahead. “Well, since you asked, I was hoping we might … put the past behind us, Eleanor. Rekindle our relationship.” Mom said nothing. “You’re the only woman I ever loved,” Dad added. His sincerity was somewhat undercut as he glanced at me and winked. Hester gagged on her wine, but he ignored her, as she was cynical and not likely to support his quixotic mission.