Good Grief (32 page)
Crystal raises her eyebrows, her cheeks bulging with bread. “Sophie taught me.”
“Best rhubarb pie west of Minneapolis,” Jasper says, winking at Marion.
“Can we have
baked
potatoes next year?” Crystal asks me, digging a trench through her uneaten mashed potatoes.
“Baked potatoes?” I ask skeptically. But it’s not the potatoes I’m hesitating over. It’s the plausibility that there will
be
a next year. That Crystal may be a part of it.
“Hey, the wishbone!” Crystal jumps up, accidentally tugging a corner of the tablecloth and sending the wineglasses teetering. We grab our glasses as she bounds into the kitchen. She returns, squeezing the wishbone between her fingers.
“Wanna split it?” she asks me, sinking back into her chair. She leans across the table, centering her elbow as though bracing for an arm-wrestling match.
“Okay.” I pinch the other side of the bone. A sharp bit of turkey pokes my thumb.
Crystal frowns at the wishbone with the seriousness of a chess player. She sucks in her lower lip.
“Make a secret wish!” Drew whispers loudly.
“Okay,” I tell him.
“Duh,”
Crystal says, and I wonder what she’s wishing for. Maybe for a horse or for her dad to come back.
I lean closer to Crystal, inhaling the smell of my own Joy perfume, which she seems to have borrowed. I pretend to hang on tight to the wishbone. But really I grasp it loosely, considering its brittle frailness between my fingers. My secret wish is for Crystal to break off the bigger half.
“Do you think Ethan will make it in time for
dessert
?” Marion frets, peeling back the sleeve of her dress to check her watch.
A hush falls over the table, forks of food frozen in the air. Dad looks at me. Crystal rolls her eyes.
I lay my free hand across Marion’s bowed back, which is hard and hollow like a gourd.
“Ethan died,” I remind her.
“How?” she asks, incredulous.
While nothing about Marion reminds me of Ethan, he is our common denominator. “Cancer, remember? You and I are both widows.” I squeeze her arm, feeling the slender bone beneath a handful of papery loose skin.
“Oh.” There’s a stricken look on her face as she forgets and then remembers in the same split second. “That’s right.” She smacks her head lightly, as though she’s trying to tune in the reception. “I’m sorry. I do remember.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her. And in a way I’m glad she makes me say this almost every day now. “It’s okay.”
First, thanks to Frank Baldwin, the most generous reader a writer could hope for.
Thanks to my agent, Laurie Fox, my all-time stroke of good luck. For her enthusiasm and smarts, thanks to my editor Amy Einhorn.
I couldn’t have finished this book without the help of my San Francisco writer’s group: Rich Register, Susan Edmiston, Cheyenne Richards, Karen Roy, Laurence Howard, Gordon Jack, Julie Knight, Greta Wu, Joan Minninger. Wonderful writers, readers, friends.
Thanks to those who gave the manuscript thoughtful reads from start to finish: Aimee Prall, Nicolle Henneusse, Eileen Bordy. And especially Sona Vogel, copy editor extraordinaire.
Thanks to my earliest supporter and oldest friend, Quee Nelson.
For their unyielding encouragement from day one, thanks to my South Bay writer’s group: April Flowers, Judy Cowell, Deb Gale, Nancy Shearer, Marilyn Rosenberg, Nancy Sully, and Cristina Spencer. And thanks to my brainstorming buddies: Bobbi Fagone and Charles King.
Thanks to teachers Bud Roper, Tom Parker, and Ellen Sussman, for offering worldly wisdom along the way, and to Tom Anfuso, for his editing savvy.
For helping me keep the facts factual, thanks to Bob Aimone, Karen Eberle, and my beloved friend Ede Sabo.
Finally, thanks to my writing partners and fellow graduates of The Los Gatos Café School of Journalism: Vicky Mlyniec and Kim Ratcliff.
And of course thanks to my loyal office assistant, Popoki, for manning the fax machine and keeping all moths at bay.
