“What the fuck?” Eliza demanded. “Do you have an eating disorder?”
Shipley closed the trunk. The stranger must have been living out of her car, using the trunk as his pantry. She opened one of the back doors and tossed the bags onto the seat. “It’s not my food. It belongs to someone else.”
“What do you mean, ‘someone else’?” Eliza persisted. “Who?”
“I don’t know,” Shipley said. “Just someone I let use my car when I’m not using it.”
All that week Shipley had left the car in the Dexter lot with an empty tank to guarantee that it would be there on Thanksgiving morning when she needed it. She felt a little guilty for doing so, and even guiltier for removing the car from the premises without any explanation, but hopefully the warm clothes would make up for it.
Eliza stared at her. “You let this someone drive your car, and you don’t know them?”
“Right.” It made even less sense to Shipley now that she’d said it out loud. She opened the driver’s side door and got in. “Come on,” she said. “Grab the map out of the glove compartment. I’m looking for Oliver Road, in Bedford.”
Tom hadn’t gone home for Thanksgiving. Ever since Shipley had posed with the Macy’s bag over her head, he’d been holed up in his room, painting. Shipley left him to it. She could have taken the opportunity to rush right into Adam’s arms, but Tom was her first real boyfriend, and she loved him—she did! She loved everything about him, except for his horrible naked Eliza paintings and how hyper and sweaty he got on ecstasy and his sometimes indelicate language. Adam was handsome—in a freckly, awkward sort of way—and measured and polite, but he was basically a townie, and a timid one at that. He hadn’t even come after her since their kiss in Professor Rosen’s kitchen. She hadn’t even seen him, not once, and his desertion baffled her. Was it just a one-off? Did he think he could use her to satisfy some horny selfish urge and then move on? Or maybe he really did want her. But how could he expect to win her when he wasn’t willing to fight for her? Tom had made a play for her from the beginning. There was never any confusion with him. She was sorry she’d strayed. They were perfect for each other. Just to be sure, though, she needed to see where he came from.
Eliza was very good with the map. They took the Merritt Parkway south from Darien, getting off at the Round Hill Road exit in Greenwich. Round Hill led to Bedford Banksville and on to Greenwich Road, followed by Oliver, a country road with only a few large properties. Number 149 was all the way at the end, a stately gray colonial with a wide front porch, a pink door, and a vast green lawn punctuated by mounds of raked leaves. Elegant old trees surrounded the property. A deep flower bed skirted the house, wherein hunkered November’s spoils of rhododendrons, hydrangeas, hostas, lilacs, lilies of the valley, irises, and peonies. Beside the house was a fenced-in tennis court, and behind that a swimming pool covered with a green tarp. A black Jeep Cherokee a few years older than Tom’s was parked outside the two-car garage.
Shipley eased the car around the cul-de-sac where the road ended and circled past the house again. Indiana Jones, the Fergusons’ arthritic Bernese mountain dog, rose from his roost by the front door, gazed at them curiously, and then lay down again. A middle-aged couple and their grown-up son sat in white wooden Adirondack chairs on the porch, eating pie.
“Is this Tom’s house?” Eliza pressed her face against the window. “Do you think those are his parents?”
“Yes,” Shipley said, barely breathing. The house was bigger and more authentic somehow than her own. She imagined the whole family played doubles tennis together, and Tom’s dad had probably taught the boys to swim. Tom’s mother was probably passionate about her flowers, and everyone pitched in to rake the leaves. Shipley’s mother employed a gardening service staffed by migrant Mexican workers. Her family never did anything together except go on an annual Caribbean beach vacation, during which they would sit in separate locations on the sand, depending on their tolerance to the sun, reading books.
Eliza put her window down and stuck out her arm to wave.
“What are you doing?” Shipley hissed. To her horror, the entire family stood up and descended the porch steps, pie plates balanced in their hands. As they approached, Shipley recognized Tom’s features in all of them. He had his mother’s blue eyes, her thick brown hair, and her determined chin, but he was built like his father. His father even walked in the same floppy-footed style, like he’d never quite grown into his feet. Tom’s older brother, Matt, was blond and stocky, but with the same blue eyes and chin.
“What do we say?” Shipley whispered.
Eliza was never at a loss for words. “Hi there,” she called. “We’re friends of Tom’s. He asked us to stop by and apologize for him not coming home for Thanksgiving.”
“How nice of him to send you as envoys,” Mrs. Ferguson quipped. “Would you like a slice of pecan pie? It’s my great-grandmother’s recipe.” She cupped her hands around her mouth and lowered her voice. “Highly alcoholic.”
Eliza laughed and glanced at Shipley, whose face and neck were flushed pink. “Sorry, but we can’t. We’re actually sort of late for our own Thanksgiving.” She jabbed her thumb at Shipley. “We’re having it at her house, in Greenwich. This is Tom’s girlfriend, by the way. This is Shipley.”
“Hi,” Shipley croaked.
Matt chuckled. “So you’re Shipley. I’ve heard a lot about you. We all have. Apparently you’re the love of his life. He’s going to marry you one day.”
“Well, we’ll see.” Shipley giggled and gripped the steering wheel to steady herself.
Mr. Ferguson leaned against the car and ducked his head into Eliza’s open window. He smelled like freshly laundered sheets with a hint of candied nuts and bourbon. “Are you sure you don’t want some pie?”
Shipley’s foot hovered over the gas pedal. She was obviously dying of embarrassment. “Thanks so much, but we’re actually both allergic to nuts,” Eliza fibbed.
Deep, worried creases appeared on Mr. Ferguson’s forehead. “Tom’s all right, isn’t he? He hasn’t even called today.”
Eliza could have told him what she truly thought of Tom, but she wasn’t an asshole. Not really. “Tom’s great,” she said. “He’s really into this art class he’s taking. And he’s acting in a play.”
Mr. Ferguson nodded. “He mentioned that. Any idea when they’re putting it on? We were thinking about making the trip up to see it.”
“It’s next weekend. Saturday night. You should come! And the Portraiture open studio is totally the same weekend. I would know because I’m sort of the star of the show.” Eliza winked at him. “You’ll see what I mean when you see it. Anyway, we won’t tell. You know, in case you want to surprise him.”
Mr. Ferguson grinned. “Good idea.” He stepped away from the car and pushed his hands into his khaki pants pockets. “Thanks for stopping by.”
“Tell Tom he missed a kick-ass turkey,” Matt called.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” Mrs. Ferguson waved as Shipley leaned on the accelerator and sped away.
Shipley didn’t say anything on the way home. Tom’s parents were nice and his house was idyllic. It was just as she’d thought. Tom was the perfect boyfriend. When she got back to Dexter, she’d have to work very hard to fix what she’d very nearly ruined. She would make it clear to Adam that kissing him had been a mistake, and while she was happy to be friends, it must never happen again. She would try to be more understanding of Tom’s art. Artists took drugs and behaved strangely sometimes. The work required it. Besides, Tom was only experimenting. Pretty soon he’d figure out that art and ecstasy really weren’t his thing. Deep down he was still her Tom. Even more so now that she’d met his parents. She could imagine planning the flowers for their wedding with Mrs. Ferguson in her sunny kitchen. She could hear Tom’s brother giving a witty best man toast. “Tom had only been at college for a week when he called me and said, ‘I’ve just met the girl I’m going to marry….’ Of course I didn’t believe him, especi
ally not after I met the girl. She was way too pretty for him.”
Dinner was already laid out on platters on the dining room table. Mrs. Gilbert was seated at one end, drinking wine. “I didn’t actually cook,” she admitted. “I got it at Good Enough to Eat. Everything there is so fresh.”
Eliza took a seat, her new coat zipped up to her chin, and helped herself to a piece of turkey breast with blood orange and pine nut stuffing.
There were only three places set. “Wait,” Shipley said as she settled into her chair. “Where’s Dad?” She hadn’t seen her father since she’d arrived, but that wasn’t unusual. Mr. Gilbert never appeared until dinnertime.
Mrs. Gilbert took a sip of wine. Then she took another. She looked like she wanted to disappear into the glass. “Your father doesn’t live here anymore.”
Eliza was sorry she was present to witness this, but she was also sort of thrilled. She waited for the shit to hit the fan. She expected Shipley’s hair to stand on end and for her to leap on top of the curtain rod, a major gymnastic feat in ironed underwear and flawlessly creased jeans.
Shipley trimmed the skin off her presliced turkey and took a bite. Her father wasn’t the type to run off with his secretary. He worked hard and read a lot and ran in marathons and skied. He liked old movies.
“What happened?” she asked. She supposed she wasn’t all that surprised.
“I meant to tell you, but you never call home,” Mrs. Gilbert explained. “After you left for college, he and I just agreed that we didn’t have anything to say to each other. We’d had that feeling for a while, or at least I had. Your father suggested marriage counseling, but I just couldn’t see the point. He’s renting an apartment in the city, near his office, and he’s just bought some sort of surf shack in Hawaii. I suppose the real estate out there was a steal after the hurricane.”
“Hawaii?” Shipley repeated. She was still processing the information that her parents were no longer together. Tom’s father would never leave Tom’s mother. They were still in love, even after all these years.
Mrs. Gilbert poured herself some more wine. “Yes, Hawaii. He said he’s going to fly you out there for Christmas. He said there’s even a place out there where you can ski. Some volcano. Imagine.”
Shipley cut off another strip of turkey. “Patrick would like that.”
“Yes, well,” her mother responded with a shrug of her shoulders.
Eliza just sat there, stuffing her face. She felt sorry for Shipley. She felt sorry for Shipley’s mom. But it was still better than TV.
Shipley reached across the table and poured herself a glass of wine. She got up and retrieved a pack of cigarettes from her bag out in the hall, lighting one before she sat down.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” her mother said. “I didn’t even know you liked wine.” She watched the smoke trail into the air. “Maybe I should start smoking.”
Shipley stuffed the pack of cigarettes into her back pocket, annoyed that her mother wasn’t more horrified. “It’s bad for you,” she said, taking another puff.
Eliza waited for one of them to raise her voice, make accusations, demand an explanation, but it never happened. The silence was infuriating. She couldn’t help but wonder what Shipley’s mom did all day, alone in that big house. Iron her underwear? Or maybe she was secretly addicted to Nintendo or porn. Maybe she was a coke fiend. Maybe she was learning Russian or Mandarin or sign language. Maybe she had a huge dildo collection and hosted orgies or key parties or whatever kind of parties Greenwich housewives hosted.
“You know what my family usually does for Thanksgiving?” Eliza asked. “Mom always makes two different flavors of Jell-O with those little mini marshmallows mixed in, and Dad makes turkey meat loaf with Wonder bread and catsup because neither one of them really likes whole turkeys with drumsticks and skin and everything. And sometimes I make root beer floats. It’s always just whatever we feel like eating. One year we had nachos.” Her voice trailed off. Her mom said they weren’t even having a Thanksgiving this year without her there. They were going to a casino to watch a floor show and play the slots.
“Would you like some wine?” Mrs. Gilbert offered her the bottle. She sounded a little sloshed.
“No thanks, but would you mind if I nuked the potatoes again, with some butter maybe?” Eliza asked. “They’re a little cold.”
Shipley yawned her way through the meal, her mind back on Tom. Did he miss her? Was he painting her right now? She was glad she’d taken her clothes off in the end, although she sort of regretted the Macy’s bag.
“I thought we could stay up and watch It’s a Wonderful Life,” Shipley’s mother said. “It’s on tonight. Shipley and her father used to watch it every year,” she explained to Eliza. “I’ve never even seen it.”
“Sorry, Mom.” Shipley yawned again and pushed back her chair. “I can’t keep my eyes open.”
Eliza followed her upstairs. On the way down the hall she spotted something that made her stop in her tracks. “Wait a second. Come here.”
Shipley sighed and retraced her steps. “What?”
“Who is that?” Eliza pointed at a framed photograph on the wall.
It was the family, the four of them, on the beach in St. Croix during Shipley’s seventh-grade spring break. Patrick wore a heavy black windbreaker even though it was ninety-five degrees. His face was ruddy and marked with blond stubble. His long blond hair was wild and windblown.
“Oh, that’s just Patrick, my older brother.” Shipley yawned. “He’s a little strange.”
Eliza put her face up close to the picture. “When’s the last time you saw him?”
Shipley shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. He went to Dexter, but then he left. None of us have seen him since. I guess the last time was when we dropped him off for his orientation—a little over four years ago?”
Eliza nodded. “Well, you’re wrong about him leaving Dexter. He’s still there.”
13
Nick lost his zen the hard way. It was taken from him. He flew into New York’s LaGuardia airport from Portland, Maine, the night before Thanksgiving. Holiday backlog delayed his flight for nearly three hours. Then he couldn’t get a cab. By the time he arrived home, the apartment was dark and his mother and his sister were fast asleep.
All the way home Nick had been thinking about how good his bed would feel when he finally crashed on it. For the past week and a half he’d been sleeping on the plank floor of his yurt. Tom, the asshole, had basically locked him out, insisting that he couldn’t “work” when anyone was in the room. Home at last, Nick fumbled his way through the dark to his room and turned on the light. His bed was gone, replaced by a futon. A large black filing cabinet stood beside his desk, and on his desk was a Macintosh computer that was very definitely not his. The futon had been made up with fresh sheets and an old blanket. On top of the blanket was a note from his mom. Welcome home, babe. Sweet dreams.
I’ll explain everything in the morning. xxoo Mom.
Thanksgiving morning he awoke to the pungent smell of frying bacon and the sound of opera. A man was singing loud, obnoxious arias and laughing his head off. Nick got up and put on his cords and his Dexter sweatshirt. He opened his door.
“Mom?” he called, rubbing his eyes. “Mom?”
“We’re in the kitchen, babe!” his mother called back. “Come and meet Morty!”
Nick went to the bathroom first. He suspected that Morty was not a kitten or a puppy or a goldfish; the pair of muddy running shoes in the bathtub confirmed it.
“Hi.” Nick stood in the kitchen doorway scratching his head. His mom looked beautiful in her indigo-colored caftan, her blond curls spiraling down to her waist. His sister Dee Dee was in her lap, eating bacon—real bacon. A man in sweaty running clothes was at the stove, frying up more bacon. He wiped his hands on his T-shirt and strode over to Nick.
“Hello there.” He held out his hand for Nick to shake. “Welcome back. Happy Thanksgiving. Have a seat. I’ve got more bac
on coming up.”
Nick stared at Morty’s hand and offered his own limp-wristed one. “I don’t eat meat.”
“I do,” Dee Dee said, stuffing bacon into her mouth. “I love it.”
Morty was still holding Nick’s hand. Nick pulled it out of his grasp. “So are you, like, living here?” he asked rudely.
“Morty and I have known each other since college.” His mom pushed Dee Dee off her lap and breezed toward him, arms wide, the deep V in her caftan spilling open. Nick averted his eyes. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him toward her. Nick had always allowed her to kiss him all over, nuzzle his hair, press his face into her bosom. He liked it. But this time he arched his back, trying not to get too close.
“There’s my hug,” she said, squeezing him even tighter.
“Hi, Mom.”
She ran her hands over his chest and felt his arms. “Wow, babe. You feel all muscular.”
“Mom,” Nick protested.
“I knew you were still growing! And don’t worry,” she murmured into his ear. “I’m making your Thanksgiving tofu.”
Dee Dee ran over, a piece of bacon flapping from her lips, and wrapped her arms around their thighs. This would have been cute if Morty wasn’t looking on with a smug, paternal smile.
He ruffled Dee Dee’s curly blond hair. “This kid kills me,” he told Nick. “I have another daughter out in California. Grows artichokes. She was never as cute as this one.”
“I like artichokes,” Nick said, trying to remain positive. Another daughter?
“There’s no future in artichokes, especially not those organic ones with worms all over them,” Morty insisted.
He was bald, Nick realized. He’d grown out the curly fringe around the base of his skull to give the illusion of hair. He looked like he was wearing one of those rubber clown masks—big nose, crab apple cheeks, and a ring of hair around a bald rubber pate.