Catch of the Day (Gideon's Cove #1)(20)

Over the past year, I’ve become well-acquainted with this kitchen. I’ve cooked corned beef on St. Patrick’s Day, mulled cider for the carol sing, boiled eggs for the Easter egg hunt. Here I make huge pans of lasagna for after-funeral gatherings, throw together blueberry cakes and cookies for bake sales. Coffee hour? No problem…I donate the scones, set up the beverages, fill the creamers. My home away from home, this kitchen. “You’re such a loser,” I tell myself. My voice echoes through the basement.

I fill the huge pots with hot water, throw in some salt and turn on the gas. Then, feeling a little bit dizzy, I decide to lie on the floor and wait for the water to boil. It’s nice on the floor. Cool and smooth. My back aches a little, and I stretch, then close my eyes. A brief nap, perhaps, before everyone comes.

“Hey, boss.” The voice floats to me over the counter. Octavio and his wife come in, each carrying a giant vat of sauce, followed by their many children.

“Oh, hi!” I say. “Hello! How are you? It’s nice to see you, Patty. Hello, Mookie. Hello, Lucia. Hi, other kids! Hi!”

“You okay, boss?” Octavio asks, giving me a questioning look.

“Yes. Yes, I am. I am A-okay. Thank you,” I answer. Perhaps I should get up? I do, groping for a handhold on the counter and hauling myself unsteadily to my feet. “And you? How are you lovely people?”

“We’re fine.” He and his wife exchange a look, then set the sauce down and go back to the van for the meatballs. The kids start running around, playing hide and seek. I turn the sauce on low and notice the bottles of wine under the counter. That’s right—this is a wine event. How nice! Not just another boring spaghetti supper—a nice wine dinner. That’s nice. It’s nice to have wine. “You kids are nice,” I announce to the Santos children as I uncap a bottle.

The oldest girl, Marie, who is seven, stops running. “Thanks, Maggie,” she says, smiling shyly. “You’re nice, too.”

“I know,” I say. I wrinkle my nose and smile at her. What a nice girl.

An hour later, the place is full and conversation bounces around the basement like a hundred ping-pong balls. I must not think about that, or it will make me woozy. And I’m already very busy trying to conceal the fact that I might be a little tipsy. Every movement must be carefully planned, every phrase prethought. My parents come over, looking the nice part of the nice parents they are.

“Hello, Maggie. This looks very pretty,” Mom says. She glances at the tables we set up, the little fake flower centerpieces. In order to avoid that prison-cafeteria feel that so many church events have, we’ve turned on only the recessed lighting, not the fluorescents.

“Thank you, Mom. You are so nice to say so,” I say. “Hi, Dad. It does look nice. Not like prison. Like a nice place. Like a church.”

Luckily, Mom is scanning the room for someone for me to marry. “Maggie, are you…have you been drinking?” Dad asks quietly.

“A little,” I admit. It’s hard to keep both eyes focused right now…the left eye seems to be wandering. I squint it shut so it will stop bothering me.

“Have you had anything to eat today?” Dad asks.

“Hmm. Yes. I had a sour cream cranberry muffin this morning, and let me tell you, Daddy, it was freaking fantastic.”

“Okay, baby, let’s get you fed.” Dad, good old Dad, steers me to a table and pushes me into a seat.

“Can’t I sit with Octavio?” I ask. “I love that guy!”

“Stay here,” Dad says. “I’ll be right back.”

It’s nice, staying here. I’m glad I have to. But the room is spinning just a little, so I put my head on the table. It’s like being on a carnival ride…I can feel the movement, but with my eyes closed, I don’t have to see.

Someone sits next to me. “Hello,” I say without lifting my head. “Welcome to the dinner.”

“Are you drunk?” It’s my sister.

“Mmm-hmm. Daddy’s getting me some food.” I lift my head. Oops. I’m drooling. There’s a wet spot on the table. I grab the flowers and place them on the splotch, then turn to face Christy. “Hi.”

“Whoa,” she says. “What happened?”

It doesn’t seem prudent to mention the whiskey I drank earlier. “Oh, I don’t know…I think I had a glass of wine on an empty stomach. Thash all. Jushta li’l wine.” I smile to cover the fact that I’m slurring.

Dad returns with some salad, bread, a glass of water and a bowl of pasta that could feed a family of four. “Eat, sweetie,” he instructs. “And Christy, can you run interference with your mother? She’s over there talking to Carol.”

“Sure,” she answers. She stands up and pats me on the shoulder.

“I love you!” I call, waving to her. “You are so sweet, Christy.”

I eat the food—it’s delicious, I have to say—and begin to feel drowsy. Christy, Violet and Will come over with plates, and after a little while, Mom, too. Another family dinner. My eyelids droop, but Dad has me on the far end, away from Mom so she won’t know her spinster daughter is now also the town lush. Maybe I can go lie down on the coat pile, I think. It looks so cozy. People mill around, going up for seconds. “Great food, Maggie,” several people call, and I wave sloppily in response.