An Invincible Summer (Wyndham Beach #1)(29)
“—and bring it into the dining room and make this big show of carving it.” Natalie smiled at the memory.
“Dad really went all out for every holiday,” Grace reminisced. “He loved seeing the dining room all dressed up for Thanksgiving. That plum tablecloth and the dark gold napkins and the dishes with the cornucopia in the middle. The table was always so gorgeous.”
“Mom always made these fabulous centerpieces,” Natalie added.
“And she always got those little pumpkins and stood up little candles in them and put them at every place,” Grace said.
“Mom is right here, and she can hear you,” Maggie said lightly, hoping to lift the nostalgic mood that was threatening to turn somber. “And yes, your dad loved to go all out for the holidays, and yes, before you ask, I still have the plum-colored tablecloth, and I can buy little pumpkins at the farmers’ market.”
“Excellent.” Grace made a thumbs-up.
“I can’t wait. Thanks again for dinner.”
Natalie turned to Daisy. “Dais, what do you say to Nana?”
“Thank you for my book.” Daisy reached up for a hug and planted a big kiss on Maggie’s cheek.
Maggie’s heart melted. “You’re most welcome. Come back and see me again.”
Daisy looked up at her, nodded, and said, “I will.”
Natalie kissed her mom and followed her sister outside.
Maggie stood on the front step and watched her girls walk down the path to the driveway while she deadheaded the colorful mums she’d bought at a local farm to bring some autumnal touches to her porch, observing that the mums, too, appeared sadly neglected. The jack-o’-lanterns she’d carved for Halloween had collapsed upon themselves and should have been put into the trash days ago. Maggie made a mental note to bag them up and take them to the curb before the next trash day.
She folded her arms across her chest and watched Grace lean on the side of Natalie’s car while Daisy was strapped into her car seat. Her daughters spoke for another minute before hugging, Natalie getting into her car and Grace walking to the end of the driveway to hers. One last wave and Maggie stepped back inside the house and proceeded to straighten the kitchen, returning Daisy’s discarded toys to the basket she kept in the family room and setting the gas fireplace to a low flame as she finished picking up the last pieces of their visit. A photo out of place here, a magazine tossed carelessly onto the coffee table there. She settled into a chair near the fireplace, where she’d left the book she was supposed to read for her book club, and turned on a nearby lamp. She read almost a dozen pages before admitting neither the story nor the characters were appealing to her. She closed the book and stared into the fire, then grabbed her phone and tapped Emma’s number.
“What are we supposed to wear to Chris’s show?” she asked when Emma picked up. “My girls were here for dinner tonight, and I think they’re concerned that I’m going to dress like a nineteen-year-old. Or worse, a fifty-eight-year-old. What are three women who are closing in on sixty supposed to wear to a rock concert?”
“We wear Tshirts with my son’s picture on them, which Chris already sent, and your favorite jeans,” Emma told her.
They discussed the travel arrangements Chris had made for them, and then, travel and wardrobe issues settled, they said good night. Maggie closed up the house, turning on the security system before turning off the downstairs lights, then slowly climbed the steps to the second floor, her heart heavy. All night she’d tried to forget that tomorrow would be the anniversary of the worst day of her life. In its honor, she’d allow herself a good cry in the shower, which was a habit she’d developed while Art was alive. She’d turn the water on high to muffle her sobs, and if Art noticed the red blotches on her cheeks, she’d pass it off as the water having gotten too hot. Over the years, she’d become so accustomed to crying on her own that she’d long since stopped wishing for someone to hold her and to comfort her, someone who would understand. But that someone was the only other living soul who knew of her heartache, and when it had mattered, even he hadn’t understood. So she’d learned to weep alone and mourn in silence and tried not to wish that the day would ever be marked by anyone except herself.
The Flynns’ normally sedate Thanksgiving dinner turned out to be anything but. While Maggie had to accept the fact that her turkey would never be as golden brown and juicy as Art’s, her sweet potato casserole never quite as delicious as his, her cranberry sauce somehow not quite as sweet even though she followed his recipe to a T, the day had been a success. Grace drove to the airport to pick up Liddy and Emma, and they’d arrived at the house just as the florist delivered a gorgeous centerpiece in autumnal shades. When Maggie had read aloud the card—Wish I was there with you. See you soon. Love to all, Chris—Emma had sighed and said, “Ah, my boy.”
“Just imagine how much that card would be worth if Chris had signed it himself,” Grace noted. “You could auction it off.”
“And if you’d had the presence of mind to save all his dirty socks over the years instead of laundering them,” Maggie said, “you’d make a fortune.”
“Yes, well, if only I’d known.” Emma laughed. “I should have learned to read tea leaves like my mother.”
“I say we toast Chris for sending those flowers.” Not bothering to wait for a response, Grace opened a kitchen drawer and brought out the corkscrew. “Nat, grab some glasses.”