barely touched her tea.
Paulette glanced at the clock. She hadn't seen her daughter in a year; now, after a tense twenty minutes, she had resorted to babbling about the neighbors. Did Gwen remember Phillip Marsh, Warren Marsh's younger brother? She didn't? He may have been younger, Scott's age. He was engaged to be married in the spring. Paulette had read the announcement in the Globe. Listening to herself, watching the expression—or lack of expression—on her daughter's face, she felt herself sink into despair. Heavens, this is dreadful.
She set down her glass. "I'm sorry to go on and on. There's no reason you should care about any of this. Tell me about you, darling.
Have you—" She was just tipsy enough to say it. "Is there anyone special in your life?"
The change in Gwen was astonishing. Her face flushed. She squirmed uncomfortably in her chair."Mother, I—" she began haltingly.
Just then, the doorbell rang.
"I'll get that," Gwen said, springing from her chair.
Paulette rose, half disappointed, half relieved. Had Gwen been ready to confide in her? Or—and this was far more likely—to storm out of the room in a fit of pique, casting a tense mood over the entire holiday?
She followed Gwen to the front door. "For heaven's sake, what is that noise?"
The sound tore through the foyer like a very loud lawn mower.
Gwen opened the door. Scott stood on the sidewalk in a ratty old sweater, no hat or coat. The van idled loudly in the driveway.
"Good heavens," said Paulette."What on earth happened?"
"We're dragging a something ," Scott said, with a sheepish smile.
"Oh, dear." Paulette didn't catch what the something was; she was looking at her son. He had always favored the McKotch side, not the Drews; his features weren't as fine as Billy's, but somehow this made him more attractive. He had the kind of blunt, masculine good looks Frank had, minus the luxuriant hair. In recent years she'd noticed Scott's hairline receding, which saddened her. Perhaps to hide his bald spot, he'd grown his hair long and shaggy. She guessed he hadn't had a haircut in months.
"It happened back on the pike. We're lucky we made it." He bent to kiss her cheek. A stiff wind blew through the open doorway.
"Oh dear," she said again, eyeing the flowers on the hall table.
The icy wind could be devastating to her orchids."That's unfortunate.
But, darling, you need to close the door."
"Just a sec. Guys, are you coming?" he shouted out to the van.
"Grandma wants to close the door." He turned to his mother."Where's Bill?"
Paulette and Gwen exchanged glances.
"Your brother's running late," said Paulette. She was certain it had been Billy's car they'd spotted. Why on earth had he run away?
Paulette brought out platters of oysters and laid them on the table. At the center of the table was the steaming soup tureen and the pink poinsettia (its plastic pot covered in purple foil) that Scott's wife had brought. Paulette had accepted it graciously, moving aside the nineteenth-century Scroddleware pitcher and bowl that usually occupied its place.
The family assembled around the table: Billy at the head and Paulette at the foot, the children and Gwen on one side and Scott and Penny on the other. "Heavens, you look chilly," Paulette said to her daughter-in-law, who invariably showed up in a summer blouse; after three years in Connecticut, the girl still didn't own a sweater.
Billy rose to fill their glasses with a lovely pinot gris he'd picked up at the wine shop in town. So that's where you ran off to , Paulette said when he explained. Your father was so disappointed.
Sorry I missed him , said Billy. Maybe next time.
"This is delicious, Mother," he said, and everyone agreed. Sabrina, uncommonly helpful, cleared the soup bowls while Paulette brought in the goose she'd stuffed that morning. She did not explain that the rest of the meal—the gingered carrot soup, roasted vegetables, a nice crusty bread—had come from a gourmet shop in town.
Paulette glanced at the clock. She hadn't seen her daughter in a year; now, after a tense twenty minutes, she had resorted to babbling about the neighbors. Did Gwen remember Phillip Marsh, Warren Marsh's younger brother? She didn't? He may have been younger, Scott's age. He was engaged to be married in the spring. Paulette had read the announcement in the Globe. Listening to herself, watching the expression—or lack of expression—on her daughter's face, she felt herself sink into despair. Heavens, this is dreadful.
She set down her glass. "I'm sorry to go on and on. There's no reason you should care about any of this. Tell me about you, darling.
Have you—" She was just tipsy enough to say it. "Is there anyone special in your life?"
The change in Gwen was astonishing. Her face flushed. She squirmed uncomfortably in her chair."Mother, I—" she began haltingly.
Just then, the doorbell rang.
"I'll get that," Gwen said, springing from her chair.
Paulette rose, half disappointed, half relieved. Had Gwen been ready to confide in her? Or—and this was far more likely—to storm out of the room in a fit of pique, casting a tense mood over the entire holiday?
She followed Gwen to the front door. "For heaven's sake, what is that noise?"
The sound tore through the foyer like a very loud lawn mower.
Gwen opened the door. Scott stood on the sidewalk in a ratty old sweater, no hat or coat. The van idled loudly in the driveway.
"Good heavens," said Paulette."What on earth happened?"
"We're dragging a something ," Scott said, with a sheepish smile.
"Oh, dear." Paulette didn't catch what the something was; she was looking at her son. He had always favored the McKotch side, not the Drews; his features weren't as fine as Billy's, but somehow this made him more attractive. He had the kind of blunt, masculine good looks Frank had, minus the luxuriant hair. In recent years she'd noticed Scott's hairline receding, which saddened her. Perhaps to hide his bald spot, he'd grown his hair long and shaggy. She guessed he hadn't had a haircut in months.
"It happened back on the pike. We're lucky we made it." He bent to kiss her cheek. A stiff wind blew through the open doorway.
"Oh dear," she said again, eyeing the flowers on the hall table.
The icy wind could be devastating to her orchids."That's unfortunate.
But, darling, you need to close the door."
"Just a sec. Guys, are you coming?" he shouted out to the van.
"Grandma wants to close the door." He turned to his mother."Where's Bill?"
Paulette and Gwen exchanged glances.
"Your brother's running late," said Paulette. She was certain it had been Billy's car they'd spotted. Why on earth had he run away?
Paulette brought out platters of oysters and laid them on the table. At the center of the table was the steaming soup tureen and the pink poinsettia (its plastic pot covered in purple foil) that Scott's wife had brought. Paulette had accepted it graciously, moving aside the nineteenth-century Scroddleware pitcher and bowl that usually occupied its place.
The family assembled around the table: Billy at the head and Paulette at the foot, the children and Gwen on one side and Scott and Penny on the other. "Heavens, you look chilly," Paulette said to her daughter-in-law, who invariably showed up in a summer blouse; after three years in Connecticut, the girl still didn't own a sweater.
Billy rose to fill their glasses with a lovely pinot gris he'd picked up at the wine shop in town. So that's where you ran off to , Paulette said when he explained. Your father was so disappointed.
Sorry I missed him , said Billy. Maybe next time.
"This is delicious, Mother," he said, and everyone agreed. Sabrina, uncommonly helpful, cleared the soup bowls while Paulette brought in the goose she'd stuffed that morning. She did not explain that the rest of the meal—the gingered carrot soup, roasted vegetables, a nice crusty bread—had come from a gourmet shop in town.
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