Birthday Girls (22 page)

They insisted
that Kris sit down and have dinner. For the past several years she’d spent holidays with Devon and his family when she was in town; this year, however, she decided against it. The all-American family—the family that could have been hers—was not going to help her spirits rebound from the L.A. disaster. The disaster that, after a week and a half of hoping, had culminated when she awoke early this morning to find her period flooding the bed, staining the sheets with the bloody remnants of a dead dream.

Her first reaction had been to return to New York and isolate herself in her penthouse until her next book idea was firmly in place and the damn holiday was over. Then she could take off on a research trip and leave the entire mess behind.

But somewhere over the Mississippi, Kris thought about Abigail and her plea for Kris to hurry home. Self-centered or not, Abigail had tried to be supportive of Kris. The least Kris could do in return was not desert Abigail the way Maddie had deserted her.

Introductions were made: the boy next to Abigail’s “able assistant” had read all her books and seen all the films. Kris acknowledged his praises with what she hoped was aplomb, though she’d have been more comfortable if a fan had not been among them. She was not in the mood for being on stage; she was not in the mood for being her celebrity self.

“You see, Harriet?” said the elderly, bushy-browed man who’d been introduced as “L.C.” “The pretty ones find me wherever I am.”

The matronly Harriet guffawed, her five-strand pearl choker jiggling among the many folds of her neck. “I’ll be certain to announce that at my next club meeting.”

Edmund set another chair between Larry and Abigail; Louisa quickly appeared with a place setting.

Kris waved off the first two courses that she’d already missed. “Don’t want to ruin my girlish figure,” she said, and ignored the stuttering wink from the man called L.C.

When all were resettled Louisa appeared again, this time bearing an enormous turkey on what must have been an heirloom silver platter.

“Before you came in we were talking about Abigail’s new venture,” Larry commented.

Kris glanced at Abigail, who wore an expression that was a cross between fright and flight. “Oh really?” Kris asked. “Something new on the horizon?”

Clearing her throat, Abigail quickly—too quickly—replied: “I’ve signed a deal with Rupert’s Department Stores to handle the licensing for a line of kitchen things.”

Her staccato answer hung in the air.

Kris grinned. “How interesting. What kind of kitchen things?” She watched her friend line up the silverware with her plate, though it already looked perfectly straight to Kris.

“Dinnerware. Linens. That sort of thing.” Her eyes studied the table, not meeting Kris’s.

Larry laughed. “You make it sound so mundane! Honestly, Kris, wait until you see. Exclusive designs expressly with the Abigail Hardy name. They’re going to reinvent every woman’s concept of what today’s kitchen should be.”

“Hey,” Sondra said, “the marketing is my department, remember?”

“Well, well,” Kris said, trying to cover her sarcasm with surprise and trying not to laugh out loud. “Sounds like quite an undertaking.”

From beneath the table Kris felt a sharp kick against her ankle. “I’m sure Kris didn’t come all the way from Los Angeles to listen to business,” Abigail said.

“L.A.?” Grady, the fan, asked as his eyebrows shot up. “My very favorite, to-die-for place. Did you see anyone famous?”

“No one more famous than our hostess.”

Abigail cleared her throat again and slid forward to the edge of her seat. “How long can you stay, Kris? The weekend?”

Something, Kris knew, was up. Something was definitely up. “Perhaps I will,” she replied, passing her plate down to Edmund to be served. “I just happen to have my bags in the rental car.”

More than
anything Maddie had wanted to slip into her long, comfortable skirt today—the one with the shapeless, draping vest. But it was really too big for her now, and anyway she wanted to show off the “new” her when Parker brought the boys home tonight. It didn’t even matter if Sharlene was with him; Maddie knew she would make an impression on Parker, and hopefully make him think twice about what he had lost.

Maybe he’d even wonder if Maddie were seeing another man. Abigail had said it could only work in her favor;
that there was nothing more enticing to a man than to have someone else trying to take over his turf.

Maddie flinched at the thought and wondered how enticed Parker would be if he learned that his “rival” was only twenty-eight, that she was too chicken to call Cody, and that she was still too much in love with her ex-husband to ever consider sleeping with anyone else anyway. Anyhow.

She glanced at her watch. Six-thirty. They had left at two o’clock, so she shouldn’t have long to wait.

“You certainly look festive tonight,” Sophie said as Maddie came into the kitchen, dressed in an apple-green satin shirt and black velvet stirrup pants, which Abigail had said helped her legs look longer and her thighs thinner.

“Postmenopausal zest,” Maddie retorted, and helped herself to a glass of raspberry-flavored sparkling water. She glanced around the room: Sophie had set the table, which, because it was tucked into the corner, didn’t look as lonely as Thanksgiving for two might appear. The dining room would have been unbearable, not to mention impossible, for two years ago they had converted it into a computer/media room for the twins, and the old table and china closet had been relegated to the garage where they had remained ever since.

Sophie sighed and opened the oven door. The aroma of roasting turkey drifted from within. “Don’t be so afraid of the menopause, Madeline. It’s part of life.”

Maddie tried not to bristle at the way her mother said “the” menopause, as though it were a noun, an object, a thing, instead of merely a disease of dysfunction, like arthritis, or lupus, or … dementia.

“Besides,” Sophie continued, “you still get your period.”

Maddie shrugged. “On and off, Mother. And don’t tell me I’m not menopausal. The other day I forgot my last name.”

“You must distract yourself.” Her mother tightened the
apron around her incredibly unfleshy middle and slipped on oven mitts. “Let it happen naturally and you’ll breeze through it The way I did.”

There was no need to remind Sophie that she’d been an uncharacteristic bitch on wheels for six years, from age forty-eight to fifty-four.

“Now help me flip the bird,” Sophie said with a chuckle.

Maddie would have laughed, too, but it was a remark Sophie made every year. She was the only person Maddie knew who cooked a turkey upside down—“to seal in the juices,” Sophie insisted—and whether or not she was aware of the inference of her remark, Maddie had never decided.

“I really wish you hadn’t gone to all this trouble for just the two of us,” Maddie said, reaching for two potholders from the counter. “Thanksgiving is just another day.” She leaned into the oven to hold the roasting pan. Then, suddenly, everything blurred out of focus. Whether it was from the heat, the steam, or the menopause she hadn’t even begun, suddenly her head grew light; the oven, the turkey, everything swirled before her.

Maddie grabbed for the counter.

The potholder slipped from her hand.

The last thing she remembered as she dropped to the floor was the searing pain as the flesh of her palm grazed the hot oven door.

“Maddie?
can you hear me?”

A pungent smell knifed through the masculine voice.

“Maddie?”

Maddie blinked. She realized she was on the floor, that a hand was in front of her face, and that a bottle of … a bottle of Windex was under her nose. And then, dear God, she realized the voice belonged to Parker.

“Parker?” she murmured, then blinked again.

“She’s okay, Sophie,” Parker said, then braced Maddie’s back with his arm. “You fainted, Maddie. You’re okay now.”

She felt the strength of his arm behind her. Parker. He was holding her again—just as she’d dreamed. He was there, inches from her face, so close she could feel his breath. She wanted to reach up and touch his beard; she wanted him to draw her closer; she wanted his lips to meet hers. She closed her eyes.

“Can you sit up?” he asked.

Sit up? Could he kiss her better if she were sitting up?

“Madeline?” Sophie’s voice came now. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

She opened her eyes. Parker slowly pulled her to a sitting position. She looked down at her apple-green shirt, now covered with grease. Beside her lay the culprit turkey, now a mass of legs and wings strewn across the tile. Then Parker let go of her and backed away. He was not going to hold her. He was not going to kiss her.

“Geez, Mom,” Bobby said, stepping into view. “We walked in the door and you were sprawled on the floor. You scared the crap out of us.”

She wanted to correct him for saying “crap” but figured right now it wasn’t important. Behind Bobby, clinging to the doorway, stood Timmy, a look of fear on his face that was very, very real. Suddenly Maddie realized how ridiculous she must look.

“Would someone please tell me what the Windex is for?” she asked.

“Ammonia,” Sophie said, with a look as distressed as Timmy’s. “Windex has ammonia. I haven’t had smelling salts in the house for forty years.”

Maddie tried to make sense of that, then decided against it. “What happened?”

“You tell us,” Parker said. “You’re the one on the floor.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Everything got fuzzy. Everything went black.” Then she felt the pain in her palm again. “Ouch. I think I took off a few layers of skin.”

“I’ll get some ointment,” Sophie said, then added, “Come on boys, your father can take care of this.”

They went from the kitchen, leaving Maddie alone with Parker. Alone in the same room, for the first time since the divorce. It occurred to Maddie that perhaps she should have fainted sooner. Like half a dozen years ago.

“Well,” she said, trying to straighten the mess on her shirt. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked, settling into a cross-legged position on the floor in front of her in his gray flannel pants and light blue shirt—the light blue she’d always liked him to wear because it brought out the depths of his eyes. His eyes, however, looked older and his hair had more gray than was visible in the black-and-white photo stacks hidden in her studio.

“I’m fine. Honest. It’s just female stuff.”

He nodded. “You sure scared the boys.”

The boys?
she wanted to ask.
What about you? Did I scare you, too?
Instead, she said, “I don’t expect it did much for Mother, either.”

“Lucky we came along when we did.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“No problem.”

The smells of turkey and ammonia, and hundreds of words unspoken, hung in the space between them.

“Well,” Parker said, rising from the floor and stepping close to her again, “can I give you a hand? I’d like to be sure you can stand up before I go.”

She took his hand the way she had a thousand times … when they crossed Fifth Avenue in the rain, when they walked through Greenwich Village on a lazy Sunday afternoon, when they stood in line at Madison Square Garden, waiting for the Elton John concert. It was dry and warm and
safe. It was a hand that belonged to the man who loved her. Loved her, when she’d thought no man would. No man could. Because she was not pretty or graceful or rich. Because she was just … Maddie.

He helped her up, then awkwardly—with hesitation—let go of her hand.

“No permanent damage, I presume.”

She shook her head. If only he would put his arms around her. If only he would hold her and hug her and tell her how wrong he’d been, how much he loved her still.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, grabbing his jacket from the stool where he’d apparently tossed it.

“Must you?” she heard her voice ask. She still felt weak. She still felt …

“Sharlene’s in the car,” he said, putting on his coat.

“Oh,” Maddie answered.

And then he was gone.

“What
is
going on?” Kris demanded of Abigail once the guests had left and they were alone in the sitting room of the west wing—the guest wing—of the manor. She had pulled her long legs up beneath her on the sofa and stared at Abigail, who paced the oval, brocade-papered room. “A new venture? Going to be a little difficult to run if you’re living in Madrid.”

Abigail lit a cigarette. “I never said I planned to go to Madrid. And it’s nothing, really.”

“Have you had a change of heart?”

“About leaving? No. Never. Especially not after what’s happened.” She smoked hurriedly, as if she were sneaking a butt in the girls’ room at Arbor Brook, the way they had done so many times when they were twelve.

“Are you going to tell me?”

She stopped in front of a marble-topped oak chest and ran her hand across its smooth, cool surface. “It’s funny,
Kris. You know I’ve been miserable. But until now I’ve never felt quite so … disparate.”

“Disparate,” Kris said. “That’s such a good word. It’s so close to ‘desperate’.”

“I am desperate.” She told Kris about the conversation between Larry and Sondra that she’d overheard. “All these years the son-of-a-bitch has despised me. Now he’s conspiring to take his cut of the Rupert’s deal and leave me high and dry,” She uttered a laugh that was laced with contempt.

“Excuse me,” Kris interrupted, “but you all seemed rather like one happy family tonight.”

“Oh, he has no idea that I know. Which only makes my revenge more pleasant. I was going to kill the Rupert’s deal. But I decided it would be more effective to let him think he’s getting his hands on the money. Once I disappear the deal will be dead, but my guess is he’ll have already spent the money before it reaches his pocket.”

“So you’ll ruin him.”

“An eye for an eye.”

“And Sondra?”

Abigail shrugged. “If she buys into his scheme, I’m afraid she’ll learn a lesson or two. But Edmund will take care of her.” She took another drag on the cigarette. “I’ve got to get out, Kris. Now more than ever. Now that you’re back …” She hesitated, then moved toward the sofa. “Oh, God, I’m such an ass, going on and on about me. What about you? You’re not pregnant …”