“Tess Time? Seriously?”
She turned to me, grinning sheepishly. “It’s kinda this thing we do to get you to show up on time.”
“Super.”
I stepped in their home, just blocks from the neighborhood where we grew up. Every inch of the Peterson’s house was so utterly suburban and perfectly Kendra it sometimes terrified me. Red checkered curtains in the kitchen, oak wood dining room table always covered with a hand-sewn tablecloth, soft suede couches positioned in the living room. Each and every room was a Williams-Sonoma showplace. Except for Riley’s nursery, which was more like a Pottery Barn Kids store with its coordinating lamp, throw rug, bed spread, and special-edition wall hangings. All this hominess was background noise now, since the Peterson residence was my second home. What I noticed this time, instead of the rooster-themed potholders, was the total absence of male dinner attendees.
“Where’s Grant?”
“Giving Riley a bath,” Kendra said over her shoulder, stirring a large stockpot filled with her famous beef stew. The smell filled my lungs and traveled to my digestive system. My stomach growled at it. “My darling baby boy decided to experiment with diaper cream today. He gave himself a Mohawk.”
“Delightful.”
“Is that Tessie?” Christian’s voice drifted in from the living room, just over the sound of some kind of sports broadcast.
“Hi,” I called back. To Kendra, I shot an impatient look. “I thought you said I was on time or early. Clearly, I’m the last one here.”
“Well, he came early to help out with Riley while I cooked. Grant took over when his work was finished, so I banished Christian to the Sox game in there. What’s the score?” she yelled to him.
“Two nothing, Sox lead the Yanks.”
Satisfied, Kendra went back to her cooking.
“So let me get this straight,” I frowned, folding my jacket over my arm and unwinding the scarf from my neck. “You invited me early because you knew I’d be late, but I was late for the time you gave me, early for the real time. But since I’m the last one here, it looks like I’m late anyway. I can’t win, can I?”
“Let me put it to you this way: You’re always going to be late.” Kendra crossed her expansive kitchen to give me a hug. “You can try and try all you want, but you’re always the last one through the door. The last one to buy the latest technology. The last one to get a joke. Or abandon a fashion trend, it seems.” She pinched my sweater between two fingers and chuckled playfully. “This is so last season’s colors, little girl.” I swatted her hand away.
“We all know this about you and love you anyway,” Kendra continued. “You should just accept it and give yourself a break.”
“Um, great. Thanks.”
“Anytime,” she jumped back into her work without skipping a beat. “Here, bring this bowl of bread to the table. Don’t break anything, okay?”
We sat down to an incredible spread: beef stew, spinach salad with fresh goat cheese and walnuts, homemade bread, and stuffed peppers. I was in heaven and, from the look on his face, so was Christian. Neither one of us could cook, so we really looked forward to Kendra’s rotation in our monthly dinner tradition.
She truly had a gift, one her father recognized early on. After her graduation from Johnson and Wales, he relinquished control of Birch’s Restaurant and retired early to Florida. With Kendra in the kitchen, I suddenly liked stuff on the menu I’d once despised, like lobster ravioli and roasted lamb chops. She could literally make anything, a theory I once tested while drunk. The three of us were recent college grads, living together to cut expenses, and too poor and lazy to visit a grocery store. That night, I opened the fridge and demanded dinner from an egg, a wilted head of lettuce, two strips of bacon, a mango, and a block of cheese. She called it Tessa-is-a-Jerk salad and it was damn delicious.
Consequently, that was the first dinner in our long-standing tradition. Every week we planned a menu, shared the cooking chores, and then ate until we were completely stuffed. After the three of us split up to live on our own, we settled on a monthly rotation to share hosting duties. Dinners at Christian’s were usually pizza and a movie. Dinners at my place were a worthy effort, though burnt and inedible. At Kendra’s, the food was art.
Based on the “garnished” mud pies she was making at age four, Kendra’s gift for cooking was less of a surprise to Christian and me than her personal life. Fifteen years ago, Kendra seemed least likely to be married with a baby before thirty. She was our wild child, our daredevil; that friend who climbed the swing set to walk the crossbar like a tightrope or tossed toys into a tree then raced to get them down. She was always covered in mud and dirt and always causing trouble. Before she was motherly, diplomatic, and a master chef, Kendra was the mischief-making ringleader.
I suppose I changed too, from the shy girl in the back row of the classroom to the confident assistant vice president at the front of the boardroom. Some days, that surprised no one more than me. Did that change my friend’s perception of me? I looked across the table at Kendra and wondered if I was stronger in her eyes. And Christian, sitting next to me, his elbow touching mine. How did he see things?
As though he could hear me thinking his name, Christian looked up with a half-smile playing on his lips. “I bought myself some gloves yesterday. Tried to wear them to an outdoor photo shoot but I nearly dropped my camera into the Atlantic.”
“What photo shoot?” Kendra grabbed a roll. She handed half of it to Riley, who nodded happily and then chomped down on it.
“Another engagement,” he said, selecting his own roll. Grant, Kendra, and I collectively held our breath, waiting for a reaction from the man who had just broken off an engagement of his own. He looked at me blankly, chewing away on the warm, buttery bread. “High school sweethearts who absolutely
had
to have their picture taken on the football field together. He was the quarterback or something.”
“So what were you doing near the ocean?” I asked.
“They’re sailors too, so we had to go down to the harbor and do another set of pictures. She couldn’t make up her mind because she was afraid the wind at the dock would blow her hair around too much.” He rolled his eyes. “At least they’re paying for all of them, I guess.”
“And no cameras were hurt in the making of this engagement shoot?” Grant asked.
“Happily, no,” Christian smiled. “That would have doubled their bill, at least.”
“Speaking of weddings,” said Kendra, careful to keep her eyes on Riley while she spoke. “Are you free to photograph one, sometime in late May? I think it’s the twenty-seventh or somewhere around there.”
“Am I free at the
end of May
, she asks,” Christian laughed. Nonetheless, he was checking the date on his Smartphone in seconds. “That Saturday?”
“Mm-Hmm.”
“Actually, I am,” he said, truly surprised. “Who’s wedding?”
“A friend of a friend. I’m doing their cake, but the photographer canceled on them last week. They’ll pay you for the eight-hour day and for an assistant, plus a bonus for the short notice. I’d really appreciate it if you could help them out.”
Christian typed the date into his Smartphone. “It’s in the calendar so it’s happening.”
Kendra smiled across the table. I noticed for the first time that she looked tired. Run down. As a mom with a demanding restaurant job, Kendra’s life wasn’t exactly easy but the craziness had never gotten to her like this before. I often wondered if adding a second baby to the mix was a wise goal for someone so divided already. She looked exhausted and possibly a bit ill. Suddenly, she stood up from the table, her chair clattering to the floor behind her. “I’ll be right back.”
This sudden exit didn’t seem to bother Grant, but I couldn’t ignore it. “Is she okay?”
“She’ll be fine,” Grant reassured me, smiling across the table. “She’s been a little jumpy lately because of some stuff at work. Don’t worry.”
I hesitated, but eventually let it go, knowing Grant wouldn’t be so blasé if there was truly something to worry about. With so much stew left to eat, it was easy to distract myself.
“So, Tessie,” Christian turned to me, his tone conspiratorial. “Want to be my assistant? I bet the cake will be delicious.”
I really, really wanted to say yes, and not just because of the cake. I could see it all over his face—a wedding date, like all those family events we attended together as kids. Growing up, it was nice to have a stand-in date for every major function. This time, I couldn’t ignore the big, gleaming door of opportunity.
“I think I’m out of town that weekend,” I said, metering out the appropriate amount of disappointment in my voice. “But I have a friend at work who used to take side jobs as a photographer’s assistant. Don’t you think that would be better anyway? Since she’s got experience?”
Christian’s face faltered only for a second, then fixed itself into a plastic smile. “Sure. Sounds great.”
CHAPTER FIVE
A free Saturday in my world is a celebration in itself. I preferred to spend such days with Riley, who preferred to spend them on a swing. So this Saturday, I was headed to meet up with my thrill-seeking young godson. By the time I’d walked the mile to the playground between the T stop and Kendra’s house, I was frozen solid. I’d been duped. Again.
Late April in New England really wants to be warm, but it just doesn’t have the strength. The sun shined brightly, the trees rustled invitingly, and the flowers coyly peaked up from the soil, all in a well-coordinated effort to seduce me. That morning, everything about the scene outside my window said, “Come out and play, Tessa! It’s just like summer!”
Having lived in Boston since birth, I knew well the foul trickery of a New England spring day. After a grueling winter, a little sunshine and some chirping birds enchant even the most hardened local. Usually, I resisted the temptation to dance around in my bathing suit and sarong, ready to hit the beach. But once a year or so, Mother Nature convinces me to open the trunk under my bed and pull out my shorts and strappy sandals just a few weeks too early.
That Saturday was my annual day of unseasonable fashion.
“What on earth are you wearing?” said Kendra from behind the swing set. She was sensibly dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and sneakers. Her son Riley was bundled up in a hooded parka, his little cheeks rosy from the wind. “It’s twenty below.”
“Easy on the hyperbole.” It took everything I had not to chatter my teeth. “It’s only, like, forty degrees or something. That’s practically summer”
“In Alaska.”
“All right, fine,” I clutched my thin, yet stylish, jacket around my stomach. “It looked warmer.”
Kendra resumed pushing Riley on the swing. I found an empty bench bathed in direct sunlight and sat down, counting on the UV rays to protect me—Mother Nature’s safeguard against stupidity-induced frostbite. At least I looked cute today.
A cute but awkward spectator, who could only watch as parents and children played together in all corners of this neighborhood playground. A line of five- or six-year-olds giggled in line for the slide, while their parents chattered nearby. Some smaller children, only a bit older than Riley, threw toys at each other across the sandbox, much to the chagrin of their pregnant-again mothers. Kendra and Riley blended right in, as she pushed the swing at just the right speed. Not too hard, just enough to elicit a beautiful laugh from her son. He soared through the air, eyes closed against the rushing wind, two tiny hands wrapped around the chains.
I noticed how easily I could group the kids into their respective parental categories, everyone fitting together like a puzzle. I supposed I could’ve passed for Riley’s aunt or something, which made me feel a little less awkward sitting there. Growing up, Kendra and I were often mistaken for sisters. Less because we looked related, people usually said, but more for how we interacted. Our long hair, rounded faces and big, expressive eyes were similar enough, but it was our sister-like relationship that really got noticed. For many years at Halloween, we dressed up in coordinating costumes like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, just as real sisters might. We shared snacks, clothes, and shoes and we fought like sisters too. One distinguishing characteristic always separated us, however: the light cloud of freckles across my nose and cheeks. I hated them as a child, tried to cover them up as a teen, always wishing to have smooth, porcelain skin like my best friend. Finally, after many years of concealers and bleaching treatments, I resolved myself to my unfortunate genetics.
Once, during my denial phase in high school, Christian caught me plastering face powder over those freckles. It was one of the few times I’ve actually seen him get angry.
“What are you doing?” he said, snatching the powder puff from my hand. Startled, I dropped my compact. The mirror exploded when it hit the concrete floor. Shards skittered down the dusty corridor and underneath a row of lockers.
“Christian!” I yelled, kicking the pieces toward him. “What the
hell
was that for?”