The Spinster Sisters (4 page)

We head inside and flop on the overstuffed couch in the front parlor. Something savory and buttery smelling is wafting in the air. We can hear the ice rattle in the cocktail shaker. All is right with the world.

Jill leans into me and whispers, “Where’d you run off to after the show today? I finished talking to John, and you were gone.” John is the producer of our Thursday satellite radio show,
Lunch with the Spinster Sisters
, coming to you live from twelve to two central time at number 187 on your XM dial.

“I got abducted.” I grin at her.

“I thought you looked happy. Sneaky bitch. Ben?” she asks.

Ben is my other beau at the moment, my aforementioned Saturday night conflict, and the antithesis of Abbot. He’s brand-new, just met him a few weeks ago, and he is wooing me like crazy, which, I have to say, feeds my ego enormously. Twenty-eight, graphic designer, rides a bike everywhere. Fun, spontaneous, a little bit of ADD but not in an annoying way. “Nope, Abbot.”

“The Silver Fox? Really? In the afternoon? On a workday? I’d have thought he’d be too busy scaling some corporate walls to plunder and pillage. You must have him really smitten.”

“What can I say? The man can’t stop thinking about me.”

“Well, who could blame him?” She winks. “No wonder your cheeks are so pink and glowing. When did he leave?”

“About twenty minutes ago.”

“You and your back-door Johnnies.” We giggle. Lucky for me, Jill doesn’t think I’m a slut. She knows that since Brant and I split I need to keep my relationships noncommittal and varied. And that I’m a little bit of a slut.

Aunt Ruth reappears with the cocktail tray.

“Darlings, today we are sampling a classic Gibson, made with Skyy vodka, dry vermouth, and your aunt Shirley’s homemade pickled onions.” She deftly fills the four chilled martini glasses.

Aunt Shirley comes in from the kitchen with her own tray, her candy floss hair in its usual chignon, slightly flushed from the heat of the kitchen. “Hello, sweethearts. Let me put this down.” She rests the tray on the coffee table in front of us, and we rise to kiss her powdery cheeks.

“What are we eating?” Jill asks Aunt Shirley, after the four of us clink glasses and take a simultaneous long sip of the ice-cold drinks.

“Cheese gougères,” she says, pointing at crispy-looking puffs. “Artichoke bundles with Boursin, and asparagus wrapped with bresaola.” It’s a mini feast, and we dive in with hearty appetites. Of course, I always have a hearty appetite, hence the size-sixteen pants I’m currently sporting. But in light of the afternoon’s indulgences, I figure I’m entitled to some sustenance.

“The show was very good today,” Aunt Shirley says, delicately placing an asparagus spear on her plate. “I approved of the advice you gave that girl who was afraid to break up with her boyfriend, very sage.”

We had encouraged the girl, who didn’t love her guy but was afraid to be alone, to test her potential for joy in freedom by taking a short vacation by herself, to someplace she’d always wanted to go.

“I’m not so sure,” Aunt Ruth pipes in. “After all, she would still have him waiting for her at the other end. She would still have the backup plan in place; she wouldn’t really be free. She wouldn’t really be challenging herself to be independent.”

The two of them begin a quick discourse on the pros and cons, and Jill and I wink at each other and stuff our faces. They always do this. It’s a comforting sound, the two of them debating.

“Oh, hush now, Ruthie, I want to hear from the girls.” Aunt Shirley, who at age seventy-one is the younger of the two by nearly three years, always treats Aunt Ruth with the slight impatience usually reserved for an older sibling. And to her credit, despite her fiery personality, Ruth shows particular deference to her sister most of the time. Shirley turns to us.

“More importantly,” she says, getting serious, “I want to know about the security issue. Has it been handled?”

Last week we had a series of e-mails from some wacko who appeared to be threatening to “cleanse the earth of our sinful propaganda” by utilizing an explosive device in his possession.

“They got him this morning,” Jill says. “Turns out it was some seventeen-year-old kid whose parents are a part of that Family First organization that was protesting at the station last month. He seemed to think it would make him look cool to some of the younger women in the group if he were to really make us sweat. The cops’ Internet division tracked him down and searched the home, but the parents were genuinely horrified, and they didn’t find any bomb-making stuff, so it sounds like he’ll do some community service. The lawyers said they won’t need us to appear at the hearing.”

“Well, thank goodness for that,” Ruth says. “I swear, I worry sometimes about you girls, with all the crazies out there.”

“Don’t even get me started,” I say. “I’ve been trying to tell Jill we need to pay more attention and consider a broader protection plan for this place and the office—”

“We can’t live in fear of a couple of twisted idiots who get off by writing nasty e-mails.” Jill is very dismissive of the security issue, generally, and I’m in too good a mood to push it tonight.

“On to happier subjects,” I say.

“Quite right,” Aunt Shirley says. “Jill, are you going out this evening?”

“Yep. Hunter’s coming to get me at six.” Jill pops another pouf of cheesy goodness into her mouth.

“You will let the boy come in for a cocktail this time, won’t you?” Aunt Ruth asks. “We haven’t seen very much of him lately.”

Jill nods. “He’s been traveling a lot, you know, the new job and all. But he misses you, and of course he’ll come in for a drink. Our reservations aren’t until seven.” Hunter’s architectural firm recently won a bid to design a small art museum in St. Louis, and Hunter is the lead architect on the project, so he’s been back and forth every week for the last couple of months.

“Well, as long as he’s happy,” Shirley says.

“And as long as he’s still keeping you happy,” Ruth adds.

“He’s great, we’re great, everything is great.”

“These asparagus things are great,” I say. “What are they wrapped in again?”

“Bresaola,” Shirley says. “Italian, spiced, air-cured beef.”

“Are you still working on that appetizer cookbook, then? Good Lord, it’s been ages!” Ruth exclaims.

“Sadly, yes. I never thought I’d get so bored of hors d’oeuvres, but this cookbook has no originality.” Shirley sighs deeply, as if the lack of creativity in the catering guru who put together the book is a personal insult. “The gougères are delicious, but nothing new in the world about them. Artichokes and cheese in puff pastry is hardly revolutionary, and the asparagus called for prosciutto, but I just couldn’t bear it.” When Aunt Shirley is testing recipes, she can’t help but fix them to make them better. Not in the usual way, adjusting salt or cooking times, but actually reworking recipes materially more often than not. If anyone had a real idea of how many cookbooks would be filled with inedible food were it not for her diligence, she’d win a goddamned Beard award.

These Thursday night cocktail hours began when Jill joined me at the U of C, a way to lure us home once a week, as if we needed reason beyond laundry and a hot meal. But the tradition became a sacred obligation after I married Brant, since it was a way to ensure that the four of us had some quality girl time, no matter what. The only time we ever miss it is when we go on vacation; the rule has become that no business travel can happen over a Thursday night. All four of us are equally committed to keeping it in place, the most important hour of every week.

We are in the middle of our allotted half a refill (a lady never gets tipsy at cocktail hour; we are restricted to one and a half drinks each) when the doorbell rings.

“I’ll get it,” I say, getting up and heading to the front door. I smile at Hunter through the mottled glass.

“You’re early,” I say, kissing him on the cheek.

“I couldn’t help myself,” he says. “She have any idea?”

“None,” I say, grinning. “Your surprise is safe with me.”

“Shall we?” He offers me his arm.

I take his arm. “Absolutely.”

Hunter escorts me back into the parlor, where Aunt Ruth is already pouring him a cocktail. Aunt Shirley rises from her overstuffed chair to greet him.

“Hello, Hunter dear,” she says, offering her cheek, which he kisses. “It’s so lovely to see you. Please eat something.” Aunt Shirley is only happy if you are eating something.

“Let the boy get inside, Shirley,” Ruth says, handing over the martini glass. “And for Lord sakes, let him sit down and have a cocktail before you try to feed him.” Hunter kisses Aunt Ruth and accepts the glass gratefully. He crosses to Jill, who is beaming at him.

“Hello, you,” she says, as he leans in to her.

“Hello, you,” he says, after planting a soft kiss on her lips.

“You’re early,” she admonishes him.

“I had something very important I needed to discuss with your hands,” he says.

“My hands?” she asks.

“Not just yours, all four of you,” he says.

“All four of us?” Shirley asks.

“Our hands?” Ruth asks.

“Hunter, what on earth are you talking about?” Jill asks.

Hunter gestures for us to sit down, and even though I know what’s coming, I can feel my heart thumping in my chest.

He takes a deep draw on his drink, places the glass on the table, and clears his throat gently.

“I’m a pretty traditional guy,” Hunter begins. “And one of the things that I’ve always appreciated about Jill is not only her traditional nature but the specific traditions that the four of you uphold. The comfortable rituals in your holidays and celebrations, how important it is for all of you to maintain your strong connection to each other. Even these Thursday-night events, which on the surface can seem like such a simple thing, how serious the four of you take it, how you don’t let anyone or anything get in the way of your time together. That is a rare and special quality in all of you. And it is just one of the rare and special qualities I see in Jill.” Hunter reaches for his glass, takes another deep sip, replaces it on the table, and turns to Aunt Ruth and Aunt Shirley. “The two of you have embraced me as a part of Jill’s life and have made me feel very welcome in your home.” He turns to me. “And Jodi, even though it’s your first instinct to protect Jill, you’ve always made me feel as if you were on my side and in my corner, and I’ve come to view you as a good friend.” Then he turns to face Jill, who is sporting a very confused look.

“Jill, you are the most extraordinary woman I have ever met. Every day I know you, I like you more. Every day I know you, I’m amazed by your intelligence. Your strength, your humor, your commitment to your family, and more importantly, your commitment to me. I have never loved anyone the way I love you. The four of you are an incredible family, and I’m not so naive as to think that I could just ask for Jill’s hand in marriage. I know that this is a package deal. And so I’m asking for all four of your hands, to embrace me and let me join your family by allowing me to spend my life with Jill.”

We all have tears in our eyes as he drops to one knee, reaches in his pocket, and pulls out a small, black velvet box. Ruth and Shirley reach for each other’s hands, their heads nodding delightedly up and down in perfect unison. He nudges it open, and even from my place across the room, I can see the bright sparkle of the ring. I don’t need to see it up close. I helped him pick it out over a month ago. Jill’s face lights up in a wide grin as she nods vigorously, and Hunter places the ring on her finger.

Hunter rises, and they embrace tightly, Jill laughing delightedly, as Aunt Shirley holds her arms out to me. I fall into them, burying my face in her neck, soft as fresh bread dough. There is tightness in my throat that goes beyond simple emotion. My head is filled with a dozen images at once. The joy on Jill’s face. Hunter’s eagerness at the jeweler to find the perfect ring. How much Ruth and Shirley approve, and how open they have been about their opinion that my parents would have approved; more, that they had sent Hunter to Jill. When we expanded and redesigned our offices, Hunter was our architect. By the time we approved the final plans, it was clear he and Jill had amazing chemistry. And by the time we checked the last item off the punch list, they were well on the way to falling in love. And while I missed having Jill as my constant companion in our dating adventures, I loved how happy Hunter made her so quickly, how joyous she was to take herself off the market, despite the delightful array of possible men on her roster when they met. I only poached two of them, which I thought very restrained of me.

Aunt Shirley releases me, and I turn around to see my sister, my best friend, my business partner, grinning and weeping behind me. We throw our arms around each other and start to laugh.

“Did you know?” she says through her joyous tears.

“Of course. You know I know everything,” I admit.

“I needed help with the ring,” Hunter says, smothered by the attentions of two very happy aunts, who are trying to hug and kiss him nigh to death.

“He did not, actually,” I say. “He had already picked that one out; he just wanted my stamp of approval on it.”

A three-and-a-half-carat flawless cushion cut, in a beautiful filigreed platinum setting with pavé diamonds all around. Elegant, unusual, and very Jill. She has an old-world sensibility that I appreciate but cannot fathom. We are as different in taste as two people could be. Her apartment is a slightly less dusty version of the aunts’: all antiques and lush rugs and eighty-five thousand throw pillows. I’m more of a minimalist myself: clean lines, spare, simple furniture, nothing froufrou. My apartment looks more like a high-end spa in Sweden meets a chic lounge, and hers looks like a cozy B and B in New England meets a cozy B and B in old England. She’s a little bit country, and I’m a little bit rock and roll.