The Perfect Neighbors (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Newport Cove Listserv Digest

*Happy Thanksgiving

Happy Turkey Day, everyone! Gobble, gobble! —Shannon Dockser, Newport Cove Manager

*Re: Canned goods donations

If anyone has canned goods to donate, I'll be happy to take them to the shelter. I'm making trips there every Friday throughout the winter, so just send me an email and I'll come by and pick up your boxed or canned food. I can also take extra coats, blankets and boots. —Jenny McMahon, Daisy Way

*Jump Start?

Would someone mind popping by and giving me a jump start? Sigh. —Reece Harmon, Daisy Way

*Re: Jump Start?

No problem! —Jenny McMahon, Daisy Way

•  •  •

Gigi pulled a tray of stuffed acorn squash out of the oven and set the hot pan on top of a trivet.

“Are those done?” her mother asked, coming over and poking a finger into one of Gigi's squashes.

Her mother had arrived the previous afternoon, wearing a long tie-dyed dress with a purple knit cardigan over it. She'd brought along only a small cloth pouch, which made Gigi wonder if her mother was going to wear the same ensemble the whole three days she was visiting. Miraculously, she seemed to have stuffed several wardrobe changes into her little bag. But then again, her mother didn't need space for hair products or makeup or electronic devices.

“The insides don't feel very hot,” her mother said. “Are you sure they don't need to go back into the oven?”

“Completely sure,” Gigi said, even though she wasn't.

“It's too late for this year, but next year you should roast your turkey breast down,” her mother said. “It'll be much juicier.”

“I'll remember that,” Gigi said. She eyed the unopened bottle of wine on the counter and wondered if it was too soon to pop the cork. Why had her mother been so disconnected for much of Gigi's life, only to now jump in and try to micromanage things? In the short time she'd been here, her mother had questioned the wisdom of everything from Joe's decision to run for Congress to Gigi's choice of a rug in the living room (the rug was from a store that produced goods in China, which resulted in a lecture from her mother on child labor and unfair trade practices).

“Where's Melanie? She's not still sleeping, is she?” her mother asked. “She's so like you at that age.”

“No, I heard her take a shower a little while ago,” Gigi said.

“I'll go check on her,” her mother said.

Good
, Gigi thought as she turned on water to boil the potatoes.

They were planning to eat dinner early, at one p.m., so Joe could go volunteer at a soup kitchen in the afternoon. That was Zach's idea; he'd said something about it being a nice ­photo-op, which cheapened the effort, in Gigi's opinion.

Gigi reached for the coffeepot and refilled her mug. Maybe she was just grumpy because she'd gotten up at dawn to put in the turkey. At least Joe had awoken with her to set the table and start the vegetable prep. They'd had to work quietly because Gigi's mother was asleep on the pull-out sofa in the living room, snoring. Zach was still ensconced in the basement.

“He's going home for Thanksgiving, right?” Gigi had asked hopefully the previous week.

Joe had shaken his head. “I offered to buy him a ticket but he said he'd just stay here and work through the holiday.”

Of course they couldn't let Zach sit downstairs while they all ate and he inhaled the delicious smells. So she'd told Joe to invite him. But there was no way she'd let him stay for Christmas. Joe could get him a ticket home as a gift so he wouldn't be able to refuse it.

Gigi had been cubing bread for stuffing but she suddenly stopped moving and glanced at the ceiling. Was that laughter?
Melanie's
laughter?

“Hi, Gigi.” Zach strolled into the kitchen wearing jeans and an electric-blue fleece pullover that matched his eyes. “Can I help with anything?”

“No, but thanks,” Gigi said.

“Are you sure? I can wash these bowls,” he said, gesturing to the mess in the sink.

“It's fine,” Gigi said. “You're our guest. Why don't you just relax?”

She wished he'd go back downstairs, but instead he turned in the direction of the living room, where Felix was napping in front of a roaring fire. After a moment, Felix came padding into the kitchen.

You don't trust him, either, do you?
Gigi thought, and slipped her dog a treat.

“Do you have stuff to make a pie?” Melanie asked as she came into the kitchen a moment later. Gigi turned to look at her in surprise. Melanie was wearing jeans and a black top,
and her hair was brushed and out of her face. Her skin looked a little more clear, too.

“I do,” Gigi said. She and Melanie used to cook together all the time, Melanie standing on a chair, a miniature apron tied around her waist while she mixed icing for cupcakes or kneaded dough for bread. Julia would help, too, although when she was really young they'd give her fake tasks, like whisking a few teaspoons of flour around in a bowl. Then the three of them would cuddle on the couch, reading books together.
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
had been one of their favorites. Gigi had even set aside their dog-eared copy years ago with the thought that she'd give it to her first grandchild.

She and Julia had baked bread the previous month, but when Gigi had invited Melanie to join them, Melanie had just rolled her eyes.

“I've got apples and cinnamon and some pastry we can use for the crust,” she told Melanie now, feeling a wash of sentimental emotion.

“Homemade crust is better,” Gigi's mother said. “Have you ever tried it, Melanie? Melts in your mouth. You'll never eat the store-bought stuff again. Now, get me some butter and a little ice water.”

Gigi turned down the heat on the potatoes and moved aside as Melanie opened the refrigerator and brought out the butter.

“What you want to do is mix up some flour with a little salt, then cut in the butter,” Gigi's mother said. “You start cutting up the butter, Melanie. It's not organic? Fine, we'll make do. You want it to look like coarse crumbs. Go ahead, put some in with the flour.”

“Like this, Grandma?” Melanie was asking.

“A little more butter,” Gigi's mother said. “Then we'll start on the apples.”

It was silly to feel left out when your mother and daughter were bonding, Gigi thought. If Gigi had asked to help, they
probably would have let her. She could've cored apples, or measured the dry ingredients.

It was just that her children, along with Joe, were the loves of her life. Gigi had sung to them, nursed them, delighted in their first smiles, soothed their scrapes with magic kisses . . . Why hadn't anyone ever told her that one day the little girl who'd called out for her mommy whenever she had a bad dream would feel repulsed by her? Maybe this was what a divorce felt like. But you could always move on with a new man. You couldn't replace a daughter, nor would Gigi want to.

“Is this enough butter?” Melanie was asking as her grandmother peered in the bowl and nodded.

Oh, come on
, Gigi thought, giving herself a mental shake. She wasn't in the second grade being left out of a game of hopscotch. She should be happy Melanie was baking with her grandmother.

“Mom?” Julia stuck her head into the kitchen. “Dad's setting up games in the living room. He asked if you wanted Scattergories or Catch Phrase.”

It was one of their traditions. Every Thanksgiving they played board games. When the kids were smaller they'd done it in teams.

“You choose, sweetie,” she told Julia. Julia nodded, then wandered over and grabbed a slice of apple and sprinkled a little cinnamon on it.

“Mmm,” she said, taking a bite. “They're good this way.”

“I've never tried that,” Gigi said. “How'd you learn that?”

Julia shrugged. “I just figured it would taste good.”

She offered Gigi a bite of the apple. She was right; it was delicious.

Julia gave her a quick hug, then wandered out of the room, singing a Katy Perry song.

Gigi moved her bread and the cutting board further down the counter, to give her mother and Melanie more room to work.

She's so like you at that age
, her mother had said. True, Gigi had had triple-pierced ears and had been surly to her mother. But her mother was selfish and distant! She'd had good reason to be irritated with her!

And now, decades later, her mother still drove her nuts.

History didn't have to repeat itself, Gigi told herself as she cut the bread a little more forcefully. She'd find a way to break through to her daughter, to change this disturbing family dynamic before it gelled and set.

•  •  •

This year, Kellie and Jason were hosting the Thanksgiving feast. Twelve people were gathered in their house: Jason's parents; his sister Kim and her husband and son; Kellie's parents; her sister, Irene, who'd flown in from California; and of course their own family of four.

Everyone had contributed a dish. Jason's sister had brought a huge platter of roasted root vegetables, which her son would happily gobble up (not that Kellie was comparing), and her in-laws had brought wine and two pans of stuffing. Kellie's mom had made marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie, and Irene had unpacked a chocolate turkey to use as a centerpiece, which she'd pointed out could double as dessert. Despite the cloudy day, Irene had been wearing oversized dark sunglasses when they'd picked her up at the airport; she seemed to want to telegraph the message that she was from L.A. and in “the biz,” as she called it.

“Happy Turkey Day!” Jason's father clinked his glass against Kellie's as they stood in the living room together. She smiled and took a sip of sparkling wine.

“You, too,” she said.

“We've got so much to be thankful for,” he said. He blinked rapidly a few times. Every holiday, Jason's father got a little teary. “This family is my greatest blessing.”

Kellie's kids ran by, knocking against her hip as they argued
about who'd get a drumstick (neither of them would eat the drumstick, they just wanted to win the battle), and then Jason came in, carrying an armload of firewood.

“It's getting nippy out there,” he said. “It's cold enough for the first fire of the year.”

They always had the first fire of the year on Thanksgiving, and like his dad, Jason was sentimental about tradition. Every time she saw Jason's father, she realized how much alike they looked. Jason had started to lose hair right in the exact spot on the crown where his father had a missing patch.

Kellie started at the knock on her door. She went to open it and there stood Susan, a foil-wrapped plate in her hands.

“Miss Manners says cookies are a suitable apology for an overreaction,” Susan said. “But only if they contain chocolate chips.”

Kellie smiled. “You made that up,” she said, opening the door wider.

Susan stepped in and Kellie reached out and wrapped her arms around her best friend and held on tight.

“I know you'd never cheat on Jason,” Susan whispered. “You were tipsy and being a little flirtatious, that was all.”

“Yeah,” Kellie said. “I'd had a couple of drinks and they ­really went to my head . . .”

“Just be careful around that guy Miller, okay?” Susan said. “He looked like he wanted to eat you up.”

Kellie felt a little thrill. She wanted to ask,
He did?
but knew she couldn't.

“Look, why don't you come on in? We're about to sit down to dinner. I'd love it if you joined us,” she said instead.

Susan shook her head. “Oh, I've got plans. I'm running late, actually. So we're good?”

“Always,” Kellie said. “And thank you.”

She gave Susan a final squeeze and watched her head down the walk before closing the door.

“Who was that?” Irene asked.

“Just a friend,” Kellie said. “My best friend, actually. Susan. Hey, will you take these into the kitchen?”

She handed Irene the plate. The moment she walked back into the heart of the house she'd be enveloped by family. She needed a minute.

She'd been partially truthful with Susan. The drinks
had
gone to her head.

But it was more than that.

She had an enormous crush on Miller. And, thrillingly, he seemed to have a crush on her, too. He'd texted her when she'd been on her way out to Sidecar with the girls, and she'd responded, telling him of her plans. She hadn't invited him to join them, but she'd mentioned the name of the bar, leaving the next step up to him. He'd shown up an hour later, wearing jeans and a black V-neck sweater. She hadn't even been surprised when he'd walked through the door. Somehow it had felt predestined.

They hadn't kissed, though. They
wouldn't
kiss. She didn't want to kiss him, because this was better. The delicious anticipation of waiting for him to enter the office every morning. Passing him in the hallway and giving him a smile. Putting on a skirt and feeling his eyes skim over her legs.

Well, maybe she wanted to kiss him a little bit.

“Kellie? Is it time to take the turkey out?”

Not even her mother-in-law's voice could tear apart her fantasy. The images of Miller surrounded her like a warm glow. They smoothed out the rough edges of her life, making her feel warm and buoyant. She touched her cell phone, making sure it was in her pants pocket and set to vibrate.

They had dinner at four, like always. While Jason's father carved the turkey, Irene complained about her life as an actress (“I get callbacks all the time but they all say something different. I'm too young! I'm too old! I'm too all-American! I'm not blond enough!”) and turned down the side dishes Kellie had made because she was carb-free. Mia knocked over her
milk before she'd even had a sip, and Jason released a belch after gulping down a huge helping of potatoes. But none of it bothered Kellie.