All That's Left to Tell(43)

“God, this is so beautiful,” she says. “So desolate.”

Because of the wind, or the lateness of the season, no one is out on the ice. At its edge, the branches of the willow tree are waving wildly; most everything else seems brittle. Occasional gusts of snow move over the lake. A small bird careens between branches and finally takes shelter in a low, leafless bush.

“It is,” he says. “And cold. Maybe all of us should be bundled up like this little one.”

“Little Lulu?” she asks.

He laughs and says, “That’s right. Little Lulu.”

She looks out the front window again.

“The light’s brighter now,” he says. “Even on days like this, you can usually see the sun through the clouds. It’ll melt the snow off the branches, and you can watch it fall away in chunks.”

She smiles back at him. “Why did you decide to move here?”

The question surprises him. Not when, which he would have expected, but why. When he doesn’t respond right away, she turns back toward him, and he looks down at the baby. She is awake, and her dark eyes are slowly taking in his face.

“I’m not sure, really. It was the end of a difficult time. And I spent a number of years on a lake when I was a kid. It’s peaceful here. If you came back six weeks from now and looked out this front window, you’d hardly recognize the place.”

“Well, maybe I’ll do that,” she says, grinning, it seems, almost flirtatiously, and she walks toward him and holds her hands out for the baby. He stands close to her and transfers the child to her arm. She exhales as she takes her, and he thinks her breath has the same scent as the baby.

“Where did you learn to hold these little runts? You’re such a natural.”

“My sisters’ boys.”

“I see,” she says. “The doting uncle.”

Kathleen calls them in to lunch.

*

“These meatballs are amazing, Kathleen,” Tom is saying. “They taste almost like falafel.”

“That’s high praise, Ma,” Joline says. “Tom considers himself the Sultan of Seasoning when it comes to Mediterranean food.” The baby is asleep again in a portable bassinet near her feet. Marc has put on some Miles Davis that plays quietly under their conversation.

“You need those spices when it’s just turkey,” she says. “Marc loves this dish, so we have it pretty often. He lived in the Middle East for a while.”

Tom says mid-chew, “Really? Which country?”

“Pakistan.”

“Whoa. No kidding? What was in Pakistan?”

Marc says, “I’d say lived there is something of an overstatement. I was there a little over a month around fifteen years ago. On business, mostly.”

“What business?”

Kathleen says, “Marc worked for Pepsi back then. They have corporate offices in Karachi.”

“In Pakistan? I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

“A lot of American companies there,” Marc says. “Even more today.”

“Still not a top vacation spot, though,” Tom says.

“Not for Americans, no.”

“Only a month?” Joline asks.

“Well, it was supposed to be for half a year.”

“Really? Why’d you come home so early?” Joline is looking at him with the same tilt of her head and slight smile.

“Homesickness,” he says. And Kathleen reaches under the table and squeezes his knee, since he’d told her the reason he’d returned was because he couldn’t bear the weight of his separation from Lynne in such a strange land. She tries to shift the focus of the conversation.

“I wish Jonathan and Diane could’ve come.” Kathleen’s son and his wife. “He hasn’t even met little Laura yet. I guess it’s a lot to ask to drive that far through the snow for just a night or two.”

Tom and Joline exchange a glance. Joline pokes a fork at a few grains of the rice dish left on her plate.

“Ma, there’s trouble in paradise for Jon and Diane right now.”

“What do you mean ‘trouble in paradise’?”

“Jon’s a bit restless. I don’t know. Maybe it’s a seven-year-itch kind of thing.”

“He’s having an affair?”

Miles Davis chooses then to stop playing, and Marc stands up to put something else on.

“Where are you going?” Kathleen asks. Tom slices another meatball in half, and outside another gust of wind fills in the suspended moment.

“Just going to put on more music.”

“Why? We don’t need a soundtrack for this conversation.” He’s rarely heard her tone sound so arch.

“Ma, let him. Put on something with words, Marc.”

He walks over to the console and chooses some old Dylan as Joline says, “I don’t know that he’s having an affair, but let’s just say he’s distracted by someone.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, Ma. Someone he kept seeing at a coffee shop.”

Dylan croons, Mama, you’ve been on my mind, as Marc sits back down. Joline directs her eyes at him for a half second, and mostly under her breath says, “Jesus. Great choice.”

“Why hasn’t he called me?” she asks.