All I Ever Wanted(29)

For years, Dad had exemplified the sheepish charmer…I know, I was so bad, but don’t I have the twinkliest eyes? Does anyone need a new car? Mom, on the other hand, was the ice queen, never letting Dad forget just how little she’d forgiven and forgotten. Freddie got along with everyone for the most part. Hester, like Mom, had never forgiven Dad, but she tolerated him and admitted that he was a good grandfather to the girls.

As for Noah, he was a crusty old Vermonter. He and Gran met when they were seventeen, married at eighteen, and stayed in love for thirty-nine years. Noah viewed the rest of us as somewhat retarded when it came to human relations. He may have had a point.

“Can we eat?” Noah barked from his corner, where he was busy scowling at the rest of us. “I’m so hungry, I’m gaunt. And this beer’s flatter than a plate of piss.”

“That’s beautiful, Grampy,” Bronte said.

“So now you got an attitude, huh? I just started liking you,” Noah said.

“I’ll get you another beer, Dad,” my own father offered.

“Good, son. ’Bout time you did somethin’ useful with your life,” Noah returned. “Speakin’ of useless, Freddie, when the hell are you goin’ to graduate from that fancy-ass college of yours and stop bleedin’ your parents of their life savings?”

“About five more years, Noah,” Freddie said cheerfully. “I just switched my major to parapsychology. I’m going to be a ghost hunter. What do you think?” Noah, not realizing that Fred was jerking his chain, sputtered on his fresh beer. Mom, though she usually defended Fred, didn’t comment, as she was willing my father to turn into a pillar of salt or something.

“I love family dinners,” Hester grumbled.

“Oh, me, too,” I said.

“Hey, will you chaperone some Brownie troop field trip next week?” she asked. “I have a seminar in Boston.”

“Sure,” I agreed. “When is it?”

“After school on Thursday,” Hester answered. “Josephine really didn’t want to miss it.”

“Of course,” I said. “Where are we going? Cabot’s?” I hoped so. The creamery had a free cheese bar.

“Uh…Josephine, where are the Brownies going next week, honey?” Hester asked. Josephine, who was rubbing Bowie’s tummy and sending clots of fur onto the just-vacuumed floor, jumped up.

“It’s a farm, I think,” she said, leaping up to clutch my waist and beg. “Can you come, Auntie? Can you? Please?” Today she was dressed in a black-sequined unitard and a purple skirt with pink Crocs.

“I sure can,” I said. I had oodles of vacation time socked away, and Mark, who had no nieces or nephews, had always been great about letting me do things with Bronte and Josephine. At the thought of Mark, my heart twisted. He’d kissed Muriel when he was leaving the office today. On the cheek. “See you later, babe,” he’d said. Not that I was eavesdropping. And Muriel’s face had flushed even brighter than her usual consumptive look.

Babe. Mark had never called me babe. Honey, yes. But he called Karen honey, too, and she was basically a barracuda with legs. Once, he called me sweetpea, something so old-fashioned I’d melted (you’re not surprised, are you?). Dad used to call Mom Bluebird, because, he said, she made him so happy. At this moment, she was fingering her knife and looking at him with great speculation in her eyes.

I herded my family around the dining room table, got drinks, fetched a clean fork for Josephine, who’d dropped hers, moved the centerpiece of zinnias and cosmos, which I’d picked that very evening, wiped up a spill and finally sat down. “This is nice,” I said. No one answered, as they were all halfway done already. Seven minutes later, it was official. Dinner, which consisted of my famous garlic-roasted chicken, mashed potatoes with dill, homemade gravy, braised carrots and green beans almondine, all of which took me two hours of prep time, was consumed in just under thirteen minutes. Setting the table had taken more time.

“That was wonderful, Poodle,” my father said, twinkling at me.

“I’ve got to get back to the shop,” Noah grumbled, pushing his chair back and hopping out of the dining room.

“Where’s your leg?” I asked. He didn’t answer.

“It’s under the table,” Josephine said, peeking.

“So gross,” Bronte grunted, pushing her potatoes around her plate.

“Maybe we can play Monopoly,” Dad suggested hopefully, beaming at my mother, who was staring at the tablecloth, lost in pleasant fantasies about dismembering her ex-husband. “Eleanor? I seem to remember you loved being the iron. Would you like to be the iron again?”

“Is that your come-on line, Dad? It needs work,” Freddie offered, glancing up from the message he was texting.

“Let’s play Wii!” Josephine chirruped. “Callie, can we play Wii?”

“Who named that thing?” Mom asked, examining her manicure. Frequent exposure to formaldehyde made her fingernails quite strong and lovely. “Whenever I hear it, I imagine children playing with a urine-filled balloon.”

Dad gave a booming laugh. “That’s funny, Ellie! How about that Monopoly? Bronte, sweetheart? Want to play with your old Poppy and Grammy?”

“No,” Bronte mumbled, folding her arms across her nonexistent chest.