Nearlyweds (8 page)

Casey spat a mouthful of wine back into her glass. “That is disgusting.”

“I know.” Erin nodded.

“No, I mean, that is really disgusting. Sick, depraved, wrong on so many levels…”

“I know,” Erin repeated. “Paging Dr. Freud.”

I couldn’t get the picture of threadbare, faded sheets out of my head. “Did she actually say all that?”

Erin smiled grimly. “Clearly, you’ve never met Renée. She said all that and more. She will not rest until I quit my job and procreate. I’ve told her a thousand times that I just finished my residency and I spend all day dealing with other people’s sick, cranky children, which tends to muffle my own biological clock, but she’s not having it. And I haven’t even told you about the time she tried to kill me.”

“Shut up!” I said. “She did not.”

“She absolutely did. I have a severe peanut allergy, as she is very well aware, and what do you think she tried to slip into every single side dish last Thanksgiving?”

“Really?” I breathed.

“David had to stab me in the thigh with my EpiPen on her dining room floor.”

“Maybe it was an accident,” I said.

Erin and Casey exchanged that superior, knowing look again. “So naïve.”

“I’m not naïve!”

“Honey, does your mother-in-law live here in town with you?”

“Mark’s mom died before I met him,” I admitted.

“You are
so
lucky.” Erin held out her wineglass to Casey for a refill.

“Yeah, you are,” Casey seconded. “You hit the jackpot. New house, luxury hotels, no mother-in-law…if it weren’t for the dog, your marriage would be perfect.”

I took a tiny sip of wine.

“If Nick and I had the kind of money you and Mark have, we wouldn’t have to worry about my business all the time. He could stop working in his dad’s office. All our problems would be solved. We’d never fight again.”

Erin doubled over in a sudden coughing fit.

“What?” Casey blushed. “It’s true.”

“Did I say anything?” Erin croaked. “No. But let’s face it: Every marriage has problems.”

“If it weren’t for Renée, you and David wouldn’t have issues,” Casey said. “You guys are made for each other.”

Erin developed an intense interest in the tablecloth’s lacework.

I glanced down at my flat, empty, nonpregnant belly. “My marriage isn’t perfect, believe me.”

Casey snorted. “Please. Your biggest problems are like, ‘Should we go to St. Thomas or St. Croix for Easter?’”

I opened my mouth to correct her but couldn’t force out the words. How could I admit that everything was going wrong with Mark? That saying “I do,” might have been the biggest mistake of my life?

“So what are you guys going to do?” I asked softly. “About the marriage certificate screwup? You’re both going to get remarried?”

“Of course,” Erin and Casey chorused.

“Yeah, me too,” I agreed quickly.

“I mean, it would be pretty sad if Nick and I couldn’t even last three months.” Casey’s laugh sounded forced.

“How pathetic would it be if I let a bunch of hand-me-down sheets break up my marriage?” Erin added.

“I’d definitely do it all over again,” Casey said.

“Me, too.” Erin nodded.

“Good.” I looked around the table. “We’re happy. We’re all happy.”

“Yep.”

“Absolutely.”

“Never been better.”

There was a long pause.

I cracked first. “Mark had a vasectomy and didn’t tell me until our wedding night.”

Casey covered her face with her hands. “I pressured Nick into getting engaged, and I’m pretty sure I’ll never be good enough for him.”

Erin tipped back her chair and sighed. “My husband’s morphing into a spineless mama’s boy, and I have no idea what happened to the alpha male I married.”

“This sucks,” I said.

“Amen, sister.”

“Why is marriage so hard?” I wondered.

“And why can’t we be honest about it?” Casey threw in. “It’s like you have to have the perfect relationship and if you ever go to bed mad or think about what might have happened if you’d stayed single, you’re a failure.”

“Do you wish you were still single?” Erin asked her.

Casey nibbled her lower lip. “Not exactly. But I wish Nick had proposed the right way. I wish I didn’t always have to take the initiative.”

“I sometimes wish I were still single,” Erin admitted.

My turn. “I wish…I wish Mark wanted to have children. Or that I didn’t. I wish I had someone to talk to about what’s really going on.”

“You can talk to us,” Casey offered.

“Right. You guys think I’m a superficial little tart.”

“What?” Erin feigned shock. “We do not!”

“Well, not anymore,” Casey amended. “Turns out, we’re just as screwed up as you are.”

“Thanks.” I topped off my wine.

Casey raised her glass. “Here’s to honesty.”

“And friendship,” Erin added.

I held my glass up next to theirs. “And surviving the first year of marriage without killing anyone.”

Clink.

W
hat’s up with kids all getting sick on major holidays? Is it a plot? A preschool conspiracy? As the newest physician in the practice, I had to be on call for Thanksgiving, and the phone hadn’t stopped ringing since five a.m. There’d been a six-month-old spiking a high fever, a kindergartener who’d managed to wedge half a wishbone up his nose, and a four-year-old who’d needed stitches after her big brother stabbed her with an icicle “by accident.” And, of course, no on-call shift would be complete without a panicked visit from Kelly Fendt—her son had come down with what she swore up and down was spinal meningitis and turned out to be a spectacularly uninteresting runny nose.

As I climbed into my car, I tried to focus on the many positives of my job. True, when I chose pediatrics as my specialty,
I’d imagined I’d stay in Boston, working on challenging hospital cases and contributing to cutting-edge medical journals. I hadn’t anticipated the hassles of billing paperwork, insurance pre-authorization, and everyone looking askance at my modest Toyota and wondering aloud why a doctor couldn’t afford a more luxurious ride (two words: student loans).

But I was still making a difference. I’d salvaged Thanksgivings for those local families, who could now go back to mashing potatoes and stirring gravy instead of having to haul their distressed children all the way to the ER in Pittsfield.

I didn’t need the latest technology or the chance to treat exotic diseases. I would be happy here, because I had David.

Right?

Just this week, in an effort to placate me after our argument, he had told Renée that she would have to delay her home remodel until spring so that he and I could have some more “honeymoon time,” and then she’d have to split her visit between us and her sister in Florida. To sweeten the deal, he’d insisted that we were having Thanksgiving dinner at our house this year. She’d whined and wheedled and guilt-tripped, but he’d stood his ground: She could come to our house or spend the holiday with her friends. At last, he was getting it. I needed him to be on my team.

What a guy.

Right on cue, my cell phone rang, and I answered with a smile. “Hey, love.”

“How goes the battle?” I could tell from his voice that he was smiling, too.

“Good. I’m done here—at least for now—and I’ll stop and pick up dinner on the way home.”

“Great. My mom called and demanded to bring something, so I told her she could bake one of her famous apple pies. She’ll be over in about an hour.”

“Okay, see you soon. Love you.”

“Love you.”

Fifteen minutes later, I pulled up next to the White Birch Restaurant and packed the boxed turkey and side dishes into the backseat of the Toyota. Someday, when I’d worked my way up the totem pole, I’d be able to stay home and cook Thanksgiving dinner like a normal person, but for now, the kitchen staff at Alden’s only gourmet restaurant would have to do.

“Just throw everything in the oven at three-fifty and warm it up,” Steffi, the restaurant manager, instructed. “Put the turkey in a roasting pan for about an hour. The side dishes should go in for about twenty or thirty minutes. If you have any questions, feel free to give us a call.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll be okay.” I laughed. “Even I can’t screw up precooked food.”

She shook her finger with mock severity. “Can’t that cute husband of yours help you out around the kitchen?”

“Elaborate meals aren’t his thing,” I explained. “He makes great cocktails, but when it comes to food, all bets are off. If he
had his way, we’d be sitting down to frozen burritos and SpaghettiOs.”

“Just like the Pilgrims and the Indians.” Steffi waved good-bye as I got into the driver’s seat. “Have a wonderful Thanksgiving, Dr. Maye!”

“I will!” I waved back. “We’re doing low-stress holidays this year!”

Renée’s huge white Cadillac was parked in the driveway, blocking my access to the garage. I double-checked the clock on my dashboard, grabbed the boxes full of turkey and fixings, and hurried up the front walk to lean on the doorbell.

“Oh good, you’re finally here.” Renée flung open the door and invited me into my foyer. She was wearing huge diamond earrings and a festive seasonal sweater emblazoned with a turkey sporting a Pilgrim’s hat. “What happened? Did you get held up at the clinic?”

“No.” I stared at her, bewildered, while David took the boxes out of my arms and gave me a quick kiss on the lips. “I thought you weren’t coming over until later.”

Renée squeezed my forearm. “Well, here I am, dear! You’re just in time. Go wash up and take your place at the table. We’re all ready to eat.”

A cursory glance at the table confirmed that this was, in fact, the case. A steaming brown turkey glistened on our new silver platter, which was surrounded by baskets of rolls,
dishes of peas and sweet potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, etc. Three place settings of the china and crystal Renée had insisted we register for completed the Rockwellian tableau.

I gestured helplessly to the white boxes I’d handed off to David. “But I brought dinner.”

She steered me toward the bathroom. “Yes, dear, and I know you had the best intentions, but it’s really not Thanksgiving unless everything is homemade.”

“You were supposed to bring pie,” I stammered. “Pie.”

“Well, you know me, I get a little carried away with my cookbooks!” She laughed merrily. “Delusions of Julia Child! I was going to stop with the pie, really I was, but then that pesky Henry Reynolds showed up at my door and invited me to have Thanksgiving dinner with him at a fancy restaurant in Lenox.”

“You should have gone,” I bit out.

“A restaurant? For Thanksgiving? Never! Besides, you know I can’t abide that old codger. He’s been making eyes at me for two years, but he’s just not my type. Too jowly. And always winking and making dreadful puns. I did feel sorry for him, though, spending the holiday all by himself, so I thought I’d whip up a few things for him.”

“Then why are they all on my dining room table instead of his?” I demanded.

“Oh, his daughter invited him to her house in New Hampshire and he decided to go at the last minute.” Renée opened
the door to the guest bathroom and shoved me toward the sink. “Now let’s go, Mrs. Schmidt. Scrub up!”

“It’s not Mrs. Schmidt. It is Dr. Maye.” I looked to my husband for support. “David?”

“She didn’t change her name, Mom,” he said, hunching up his shoulders. “We’ve been over this.”

“We have?” She shook her head. “Funny, I don’t remember. Well, no need to put on airs around me, darling—we’ll both be Mrs. Schmidt when we’re in this house. And soon, you’ll have a baby, and then you’ll have the most important title of all: Mommy.”

I turned on the faucet full blast and lathered my hands with vigor. “This is our first married Thanksgiving and I want to host it.”

“You are, dear.” This time, she actually patted me on the head. “We’re in your house, aren’t we?”

“Yes, but you cooked the meal, set the table, brewed the coffee…” I trailed off as I gazed past her, down the hall, to the open door of the guest room. “What is that?”

Renée feigned innocence, but I knew from the expression on David’s face that something had gone horribly awry with our united front.

“Is that luggage?” I threw down the hand towel and charged into the guest room, where stacks of suitcases and an ancient steamer trunk blocked the path to the bed.

“I got a little carried away,” Renée tittered. “I tried to
take only what I really need, but you know I always over-pack.”

There was enough luggage here to keep Elizabeth Taylor outfitted for a month. I whirled around to find David skulking in the doorway, head hung low. “You said you talked to her!”

“I did,” he mumbled. “But…”

“I already hired the contractors, and the renovations start tomorrow.” Renée clapped her hands together. “Isn’t it exciting!”

“You moved in,” I said flatly. “This morning.”

“Now don’t worry, Erin, I know you newlyweds need your privacy. I’ll stay out of your hair.” She tilted her head. “Considering the hours you work, that shouldn’t be too hard.”

“You moved in,” I repeated.

“Surprise!” She bustled back toward the kitchen, humming a happy tune.

“What the hell?” I hissed at David, who looked like he was suffering a massive internal hemorrhage. “I go to work for four hours and she moves in lock, stock and barrel?”

“I tried to say no, Erin.” His eyes beseeched mine. “I know what we agreed. But she has nowhere else to go and she’s my
mother.
”

“She has other places to go, David, you know she does. What about her sister in Florida?”

“Try to understand,” he said. “I’m her only child. And she did give us money for the house…She won’t be here forever.”

Only till she dies.
That was the horrible thought that popped into my head. She was going to live with us until she keeled over dead—or I did. Actually, I was probably the more likely candidate, given Renée’s culinary assassination attempts. The entire Thanksgiving dinner was probably marinated in peanut oil.

Renée’s lilting voice drifted into our white-hot battle of wills.

“Come on in and sit down, kids—dinner’s getting cold. David, why don’t you say the blessing? Oh, we have so much to be thankful for!”