French Braid(38)

“Oh, good,” Lily said. She was glad it wasn’t a ham.

“And I asked Mom to bring one of her desserts.”

“Good thinking.”

“Plus, we’ve got a couple bottles of champagne chilling, just in case. I mean, if David makes an announcement or something.”

“Did he say anything when you called him?” Lily asked. “I mean, anything about Greta?”

“Not a word. I told him we’d be doing this at my house and he said, ‘Fine.’ I said, ‘We’re looking forward to meeting Greta!’ but he just said, ‘What’s the name of your street, again?’?”

“Typical,” Lily said.

“He’s such a…brick wall!”

“Oh, well: guys,” Lily said.

But she promised herself that her Robby would never turn out that way. Not if she could help it.

Alice was taking a small china bowl from the fridge. “I made my own mint jelly from scratch,” she said.

“Gosh! Wasn’t that a lot of work?”

“Well, I wanted this to be special.”

“I guess it’s just as well Mom opted out of the cooking,” Lily said. “It certainly would not have been special.”

“Heavens, no,” Alice said. She gazed down into the bowl with a pleased expression.

“Remember?” Lily asked. “Whenever we complained about a meal she’d tell us, ‘Well, your father has never complained.’ And then she’d go into this long description of how much he loved—”

“Her salmon patties!” Alice finished for her.

“Loaf,” Lily said.

“What?”

“Her salmon loaf.”

“Oh. Right,” Alice said. “Ha! Salmon loaf, for the very first meal of their marriage. Their actual wedding supper, in that little apartment on Hickory Avenue, and what does she serve him? Salmon loaf, made from canned salmon.” She shook her head. “And with bottled mayonnaise, no doubt,” she added.

“Well. No doubt,” Lily said, uneasily. (Was bottled mayonnaise not a good thing?)

The doorbell rang. They looked at each other. Then they made a beeline for the front of the house.

But it was only their parents. Kevin was just leading them into the living room. “How was traffic?” he was asking Robin.

“Oh, not too bad,” Robin said. He’d made an effort—nice plaid shirt, clean corduroys—but he wasn’t dressed up. It took a lot to make Robin dress up. Mercy, on the other hand, wore a ruffled white blouse and a good wool skirt and heels. She passed Alice a brown paper bag and said, “Ice cream.”

“Oh!” Alice said. She sent a sidelong glance toward Lily.

“They’re not here yet?”

“Not yet,” Alice said, and she went off to the kitchen with the ice cream.

“How do, kids?” Robin asked his three grandchildren. They glanced up from their puzzle and murmured their hellos, but only Robby the Girl got to her feet to give him a hug. “Hi, Pop-Pop,” she said.

“Hey there, honey.”

“Hi, Grandmom.” She hugged Mercy, who kissed the top of her head. The two of them looked alike, in fact—both with that gilded kind of blond hair that had skipped Mercy’s daughters, unfortunately.

“Little spot of congestion on the JFX—” Robin was telling Morris, and then Robby the Girl said, “They’re here, I think.”

They all looked toward the picture window, which was veiled with a sheer white curtain so they had only the mistiest impression of the view. But it revealed enough that Morris could tell Lily, “I see they’ve parked at the curb, too,” and he sent her a mischievous look.

One, two, three blurry figures, coming up the front walk.

“Three?” Alice asked. Unnoticed, she’d returned from the kitchen. “Who is it they’ve got with them?”

It was a child. Somebody small, in a skirt.

They all exchanged glances.

“Men!” Alice said.

The doorbell rang.

Kevin and Alice, together, moved toward the foyer. “Hello!” the others heard Kevin say, and Alice said, “Welcome!” and then, in the confiding tone she would use for a child, “Well, hi there!”

Murmur, murmur. A woman’s voice, briefly, and then David saying, “Hope we’re not late.”

“No, no…” and they entered the living room, David leading.

Lily’s first sight of David never failed to startle her. Mentally, she had him fixed at some point in his late teens—his hair still golden, his face still unformed and tentative. But his hair was a darker blond now, straight and floppy and a bit rough-edged, as if he’d waited just a week or two past the time when it should be cut, and his face had taken on a squarer shape. Today he wore faded jeans and a flannel shirt fraying at the cuffs. That was the teacher in him, she supposed. Teachers were notoriously shabby dressers.

The woman who followed him was several years his senior—easily ten years, and maybe more. She was holding the hand of a little girl aged perhaps five or six, and the two of them wore identical expressions: serious, focused, on the very edge of frowning. Kevin and Alice trailed after them. Alice’s own expression was a study.

“Hi, all,” David said. “Like you to meet Greta Thornton and her daughter, Emily. Greta, these are my parents, Robin and Mercy; my sister Lily…”