You Deserve Each Other(72)

“Heather!” Deborah nearly fans herself. I’ve hit the jackpot. “Shame is right. It’s beyond shameful she wouldn’t come home for Thanksgiving. I’ve begged. Her father’s begged.”

Harold frowns as he shovels food into his mouth, probably wondering if he did in fact do any begging. He gives up thinking about it and sneaks a piece of turkey.

“It’s like we’re nothing to her!” Deborah continues. “I always tell her on the phone that it’s lucky we have Nicky, or else we’d be all alone. Our Nicky understands the value of family.”

She pauses and looks at him, preparing to speak to him directly, so I say, “Yes, he does. Nicholas is a good man and I couldn’t be prouder of him. You did a fine job raising him. Wow, this cranberry sauce is something else! I haven’t had cranberry sauce this tasty in forever. The way my mom always made it was bleh.” I make an exaggerated expression of disgust.

This gets her full attention. Deborah pounces on any opportunity to put herself above my mother. She hates that Nicholas is going to have a mother-in-law more than she hates Harold’s ex-wife. And she literally had a priest come bless Harold’s house after they got together, to rid it of Magnolia’s essence.

“Thank you. It’s true, not many people know how to fix it properly.”

“Including you,” Harold grunts too quietly for her to overhear.

I take a bite, then make a savoring noise. “Mmm. Divine. I’m not sure I’ve ever told you, but this dining room set reminds me of a French castle. I feel like Marie Antoinette when I sit here, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Her eyes light up. “That’s the inspiration!”

“You don’t say! Solid job.” I raise my glass and do a mock toast, which she reciprocates to my mingled wonder and horror. I don’t dare look at Nicholas because I know if I do, whatever I see on his face is going to make me laugh.

She starts to tell me more about her table and chairs, which I respond to with enthusiasm and a great many questions. I weave compliments about herself, Nicholas, and her knack for interior design wherever I can fit them.

Sucking up to Deborah was easy as breathing when Nicholas and I first started dating. I’d been out to impress, and I didn’t know her very well. Everything’s easy when your eyes are innocent and you don’t spot the hidden dangers. My eyes aren’t innocent anymore. I know exactly who this woman is. We have a history now. The sugary compliments still flow like they used to, but I’m summoning them through a different channel because my goal is different. My priorities are different. Nicholas deserves one holiday in which he isn’t nagged to death.

When Deborah excuses herself to the kitchen to fetch the dessert, I gasp for air and gulp down all my cranberry juice, plus a glass of water. I brave a glance to my right and my heart skips.

Nicholas’s eyes are resting on me. They’re warm with gratitude, and that gratitude makes my exhaustion worth it. I’ll go ten more rounds with Mrs. Rose if it means I get another look like that at the end.

When Deborah glides back in bearing a cake the size of a small island, I’m already laying the groundwork to pump her ego. “Mmm, that looks incredible!” I don’t even have to lie. I didn’t eat much of my dinner because I was so busy gabbing, and the cake smells like heaven.

“Doesn’t it?” She’s glowing from my praise. Deborah cuts two pieces of cake and slides them onto two small dishes. One she keeps for herself, and the other she gives to Nicholas. “Salted caramel apple cake. It’s a Rose family recipe, passed down from generation to generation.”

“I can’t wait to try out the recipe myself.”

Her smile is tight. “Someday, when you’re a mother, I’ll let you in on the secret.”

Lovely. Using a recipe as leverage to get grandchildren. Still, I rub my hands together and say, “Until then, I guess I’ll have to be content with simply eating the cake and not baking it!” I scan the table for another plate.

“I want some, too,” Harold insists.

“Hush,” Deborah scolds him. “You know you can’t have this much sugar. Think of your bowels!”

I wish she would stop forcing us all to think of Harold’s bowels.

I scrape cold food around on my dinner plate to make room for a slice of cake. But as I reach for the cutting knife, her hand closes over mine. Her skin is warm. Human.

But her eyes are cold. “I don’t think you should, dear.”





“Don’t you agree?” she continues when I don’t retract my hand. “You know …” Her eyes dip to my waistline. “For the wedding. It’s tradition for brides to curb their appetites until the big day, so there aren’t any rude surprises when it comes to the dress fitting. Normally I wouldn’t say a word, you know I wouldn’t, but you just ate an exceptionally large meal. Overstuffing yourself wouldn’t be wise.”

My mind spins, blinks, and shuts down. In the black vacuum, there exists a single word floating adrift. What.

“Mom,” Nicholas says icily.

She places her other hand over mine, as well, patting fondly. My stomach revolts from all the polite, syrupy sentiments I’ve been feeding her entitlement complex over the past forty-five minutes. It doesn’t matter how nice I am. It’ll never matter. She’ll always be horrible.