Simon’s red convertible is missing, so
I park on the far side of the drive to give him access when he returns.
Their two-story concrete block of a house looks severe from the outside, but the interior frames the spectacular view perfectly.
The house sits high above the ocean and every window on the west side overlooks the water, revealing cocoa cliffs, sapphire
waves, and the sandy cove below.
Christie opens the door and greets me with a hug, mindful of my bags and platters. “Happy Thanksgiving!” She’s wearing a brown-and-white
animal-print tunic with a chunky bead necklace, and her necklace crunches against my collarbone in her quick hug. “How was
the drive?”
“Easy. Fast.”
She looks at me closely. “You okay?”
“Yes. Wonderful.”
She’s not entirely convinced, but she doesn’t press. “Let me take some of that,” she offers, reaching for the three ceramic
platters and flowers.
I’m happy to share some of my burden, and I follow her into the house, closing the door behind me with my foot. “Where’s Simon?”
“He got called in to the hospital. But we’re hoping he’ll be back by dinner.”
The girls come rushing down the staircase, screaming and feet pounding. “Tiana! Tiana’s here!”
I set down the bags and hug each of them in turn. Christie’s girls, just like Marta’s Eva, always make me feel like a rock
star.
“Hey, girls.” Hands on my hips, I grin and take them all in. They’ve grown again, and at eleven, nine, and seven they’re as
opposite as opposite can be. Melanie’s a little Simon, brown hair and brown eyes. Melissa’s the spitting image of her mom,
blonde hair and blue eyes. And Kari with her red curls, well, she must be the milkman’s daughter. No one knows where her dark
red curls came from.
“We’re setting up Disney Princess Monopoly,” Melissa tells me. “Come play!”
“You have to play, Tiana,” Kari adds.
Disney Princess Monopoly. If that doesn’t get the heart pumping, I don’t know what would. “Maybe later?” I say, catching Christie’s
smirk. She finds it very funny that I can’t say no to her girls. “But first I need to help your mom in the kitchen. She’s
got a lot to do today.”
“But we already counted out your money,” replies Melanie, the youngest.
“And it’ll be boring without you,” Kari, the eleven-year-old, adds. She’s in a phase where everything is now boring and babyish
for her.
“I will play,” I promise them, “but first let me put together the appetizers I brought and lend your mom some help in the
kitchen.” When the girls protest again, I hold up a hand. “Unless you all want to help your mom in the kitchen instead?”
They scream and run back up the stairs, feet pounding once again, and Christie makes a face and reaches for one of my grocery
bags. “Something tells me I’m not raising them right,” she says.
We head to the kitchen with the flowers and groceries. I slip the bottle of white wine into the fridge to chill and start
unpacking the bags, placing platters on the counter along with the ingredients for my fruit-and-cheese tray.
“That’s all right,” I console her, unpacking the Tupperware containers with my ingredients for the baked mushroom caps and
stuffed Brie. “You’ve got me.”
“Great. The girl that doesn’t know how to cook.”
“I know how to cook.” I see her expression. “Appetizers.”
She laughs and returns to the preparation of her stuffing. “So what’s the latest at
America Tonight
? Are they serious about making Shelby a co-anchor?”
I open the package of thawed puff pastry for my baked Brie. “All the big network bosses were there Monday, for one hour.”
I exhale and begin unwrapping the wheel of Brie. “The
one
hour I wasn’t there on Monday.”
“Was Shelby there?”
I look at her, nod grimly. “I’m trying to keep my cool, but it’s hard when it feels like I suddenly have no control.”
“So why
I park on the far side of the drive to give him access when he returns.
Their two-story concrete block of a house looks severe from the outside, but the interior frames the spectacular view perfectly.
The house sits high above the ocean and every window on the west side overlooks the water, revealing cocoa cliffs, sapphire
waves, and the sandy cove below.
Christie opens the door and greets me with a hug, mindful of my bags and platters. “Happy Thanksgiving!” She’s wearing a brown-and-white
animal-print tunic with a chunky bead necklace, and her necklace crunches against my collarbone in her quick hug. “How was
the drive?”
“Easy. Fast.”
She looks at me closely. “You okay?”
“Yes. Wonderful.”
She’s not entirely convinced, but she doesn’t press. “Let me take some of that,” she offers, reaching for the three ceramic
platters and flowers.
I’m happy to share some of my burden, and I follow her into the house, closing the door behind me with my foot. “Where’s Simon?”
“He got called in to the hospital. But we’re hoping he’ll be back by dinner.”
The girls come rushing down the staircase, screaming and feet pounding. “Tiana! Tiana’s here!”
I set down the bags and hug each of them in turn. Christie’s girls, just like Marta’s Eva, always make me feel like a rock
star.
“Hey, girls.” Hands on my hips, I grin and take them all in. They’ve grown again, and at eleven, nine, and seven they’re as
opposite as opposite can be. Melanie’s a little Simon, brown hair and brown eyes. Melissa’s the spitting image of her mom,
blonde hair and blue eyes. And Kari with her red curls, well, she must be the milkman’s daughter. No one knows where her dark
red curls came from.
“We’re setting up Disney Princess Monopoly,” Melissa tells me. “Come play!”
“You have to play, Tiana,” Kari adds.
Disney Princess Monopoly. If that doesn’t get the heart pumping, I don’t know what would. “Maybe later?” I say, catching Christie’s
smirk. She finds it very funny that I can’t say no to her girls. “But first I need to help your mom in the kitchen. She’s
got a lot to do today.”
“But we already counted out your money,” replies Melanie, the youngest.
“And it’ll be boring without you,” Kari, the eleven-year-old, adds. She’s in a phase where everything is now boring and babyish
for her.
“I will play,” I promise them, “but first let me put together the appetizers I brought and lend your mom some help in the
kitchen.” When the girls protest again, I hold up a hand. “Unless you all want to help your mom in the kitchen instead?”
They scream and run back up the stairs, feet pounding once again, and Christie makes a face and reaches for one of my grocery
bags. “Something tells me I’m not raising them right,” she says.
We head to the kitchen with the flowers and groceries. I slip the bottle of white wine into the fridge to chill and start
unpacking the bags, placing platters on the counter along with the ingredients for my fruit-and-cheese tray.
“That’s all right,” I console her, unpacking the Tupperware containers with my ingredients for the baked mushroom caps and
stuffed Brie. “You’ve got me.”
“Great. The girl that doesn’t know how to cook.”
“I know how to cook.” I see her expression. “Appetizers.”
She laughs and returns to the preparation of her stuffing. “So what’s the latest at
America Tonight
? Are they serious about making Shelby a co-anchor?”
I open the package of thawed puff pastry for my baked Brie. “All the big network bosses were there Monday, for one hour.”
I exhale and begin unwrapping the wheel of Brie. “The
one
hour I wasn’t there on Monday.”
“Was Shelby there?”
I look at her, nod grimly. “I’m trying to keep my cool, but it’s hard when it feels like I suddenly have no control.”
“So why
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