Birthday Girls (21 page)

“So, don’t do it.”

“It’s a lot of money.”

“You already have a lot. You don’t need more.”

“It would mean jobs for people.”

He snickered, picked up the bundle, but said nothing.

“And if I don’t do it, someone else will.”

“Maybe that’s what’s really bothering you. That if you don’t, someone else will. To which I can only say, ‘so what?’ ”

“It’s always easy for you, isn’t it, Edmund? You have every goddamn answer.” She ripped off her work gloves.

“I don’t have every answer, Abigail. I only try to understand you,” he said, exasperation filling his voice. “Which is something I don’t recall you ever doing for me.”

“Understand you? What’s to understand? You love your work, you love your daughter, you love these godforsaken gardens. What’s to understand, Edmund? You love everything about your goddamn life. You always have.” She knew she was opening herself up for comments she did not want to hear. She knew it, yet she could not stop herself.

“Not everything, Abigail. I did not love it that my mother died of breast cancer at age forty-one. Or that my father got Alzheimer’s and you wouldn’t even visit him once he forgot your name. I did not love losing a young wife to childbirth, although yes, I do love the daughter she bore me. And, quite frankly, I do not love the way everything has become about you. Your business, your problems. I’m human, Abigail. I hurt sometimes, too.”

“Edmund … I had no idea.”

“No,” he replied, drawing a rake through the dead underbrush, “I guess you didn’t. Then again, you’ve never asked.” He continued his work in punctuated silence.

Abigail watched him for a moment, wondering where
Edmund’s anger had come from. She considered telling him about Larry and Sondra—about Larry’s plan to betray her and to make Edmund’s daughter a star. She considered it, then decided against it. Edmund, after all, didn’t care about her business. He’d just made that perfectly clear.

Gathering her things, Abigail tromped to the greenhouse, to the potter’s shed, knowing that Edmund was right about one thing: she did not understand him. And right now she was too tired to try.

Inside the small, dark building she sank down on a bench, stripped off her rubber boots, and shivered in the dampness. Within the next three days she would have to tell Rupert’s her decision. A simple “No” would cut Larry off all together—give him what his betrayal deserved.

“No” would be a statement. And it would serve him right.

However
, she thought,
a “Yes” might hurt him more
. He would feel as if he’d won. Then revenge would be so sweet when she leaped—or pretended to leap—from the Tappan Zee Bridge.

Staring at the cold, stone floor, Abigail whiffed the aroma of dank compost, the strong scent of decay, and the acrid stench of rotting life.

Then she dropped her face into her hands and wished that she could cry. Wished that for once she could just break down and cry.

For the
next three days, it seemed like all Maddie did was cry.

“It’s only Thanksgiving,” Bobby had said, with an aloofness that sounded too much like his father when Parker had so often noted “It’s only your birthday” or “It’s only one day out of three hundred and sixty-five. There will be plenty of others.” Then she had acquiesced, for Parker’s traveling meant boosting the vision of
Our World
and reaching their mutual dream. She’d had no idea then that the time would come when the holidays could mean so much; no idea that there would not, alas, be “plenty of others.”

So Maddie had tried to act interested when Bobby made the announcement. “Where is he taking you?” she’d asked with suitable decorum of divorced parenting skills.

“Newbridge Cross Inn,” Bobby replied.

She tried to forget that they had often gone there as a family, like the one special night when the boys were about six or seven and they’d gone on the sleigh ride, bumping along the snow-covered paths of the country, snuggled together under fur blankets. Newbridge Cross Inn. She wondered if Parker would remember.

She had wondered for three days. Wondered and cried, as the reruns of their life together played a marathon film in her mind. Now, seated at the telephone nook in the kitchen, staring at the wall, Maddie waited for Parker to pick up the boys.

“Dad said they have turkey with all the fixings,” Bobby was saying as the four fifteen-year-old footsteps clomped down the stairs. “Like potatoes and stuffing …”

“And turnip,” Timmy cut in. “Puke.”

They rounded the corner, nearly running into their mother.

“You don’t have to go, dipshit,” Bobby chided. “Stay here with Mom and Grandma. It’ll be more fun without you, anyway.”

“Mom …” Timmy whined.

Maddie rubbed the back of her neck. The pattern of the new wallpaper grew fuzzy, then dissected itself into harsh double images. She closed her eyes.

“Stop it,” she said. “Both of you.”

“Sssh,” Bobby hushed. “Nobody make any noise. Mom’s going through her change.”

She felt an urge to throw something, preferably
something breakable and of great worth. She wanted to shout
so what if I am!
Maybe it wasn’t that at all; maybe it was simply the pressure of having two sons and an ex-husband who could be so insensitive that it was making her nuts. She opened her eyes again. The double images merged back into one—the clusters of beige grapes and pale pears were blurred, yet whole. She turned to the boys.

“Timmy,” she said. “You are going with your father, and that’s final. You spent Thanksgiving here last year because Dad was out of the country. It’s only fair.” Despite trying to remain calm, her muscles tensed; the urge to throw something returned. She gripped the edge of the counter to ward off the hundred-times-magnified PMS response.

“It wouldn’t be bad if that stupid hitch wasn’t going.”

“Watch your mouth”

“Well she is stupid, Mom.”

“She’s our stepmother, dork,” Bobby said. “And I think she’s nice.”

“Only because you’ve got the hots for her.”

“Stop it!” Maddie screamed.

Timmy pivoted on his heel and left the room in a pout.

“Sometimes I hate it that he’s my brother.” Bobby spat out his words with venom.

Maddie wanted to tell him not to talk like that, but her head hurt and her heart hurt and she just didn’t have the strength.

Then the doorbell rang.

The table
setting was worthy of Abigail’s finest television special There were no pumpkins or gourds or other predictable accouterments for Abigail Hardy: only burnished crockery; matte-finish brass urns adorned with grape ivy; and chunky, spiced apple candles, burning warmly, staggered across the wide mantle and down the center of
the long, walnut-inlaid table. The only pure color in the room was the bittersweet. She had decided the name alone made today’s gathering most interesting, although black dahlias might have been more appropriate.

Between the mellow leek soup and the tiny creamed onions, Abigail decided to make her announcement. She raised an antique, French cut-crystal goblet, one of a set of twenty-four, passed down for four generations—four generations of Hardy women, four generations who had pleased everyone, if not themselves.

From the far end of the table she glanced at Edmund, who had remained distant these past few days. This evening, however, he seemed to be hiding his feelings.

She looked around at her guests.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” she said with a small grin.

“Here, here,” studly young Grady responded with a white-toothed smile and raised his glass in return. “With compliments to our extraordinary hostess.”
Gigolo
, Abigail thought,
would be an appropriate label for him
.

L.C. Howard, who blessedly had come alone, raised his glass with a chuckle.

Harriet Lindley followed suit, her many gold bangles clinking down her fleshy forearm as she held up her glass.

Sondra’s wineglass remained in its place on the hand-crocheted tablecloth. Abigail wanted to suggest that just because her stepdaughter was pregnant did not mean she could not raise her water glass in a Thanksgiving toast.

Instead of speaking, however, she looked over to her Benedict Arnold assistant, and purposely maintained her smile. Despite the somber mood that accompanied his arrival, Larry had the hypocritical nerve now to raise his glass high in the air. Perhaps he had decided not to insult Abigail in her own home. He’d rather steal her stepdaughter and ruin her business behind her supposedly unsuspecting back.

Yet Larry did not look back at his boss, but kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if studying the basswood carvings in earnest, as if he’d never seen them, as if it were his first time in this room. Little did he know that Abigail relished his passivity, that she knew it was because she’d put him off about her Rupert’s decision. He had no idea, after all, that she had telephoned the magnate yesterday.

All in all, it was an interesting table.

“I’d like to take this opportunity to say how grateful I am that you are all here today, and that I hope you all know how important friends are to Edmund and me.”

Within the deep fireplace, perfectly dried apple logs simmered and crackled. Within her soul, Abigail felt oddly detached—as if she were merely staging another television special, as if those who graced the traditional Hardy table were studio extras hired for scale.

“Here, here,” Grady said again, then frowned into his glass. “Or I should say, ‘there, there,’ as my wine seems to have disappeared.”

Larry cast him a look that said he wanted to kill. But Louisa, ever-present within earshot of the dining room, was instantly by his side, refilling his glass.

“Wonderful woman,” Grady said and took a hearty sip. “Abigail, you must give Larry the name of your service.”

Everyone laughed a hollow, isn’t-he-cute laugh—everyone, including Louisa, for everyone knew that Louisa was part of the family, as important to Windsor-on-Hudson as the crystal itself. She’d even been befriended by Harriet Lindley years ago and was a frequent fill-in at her bridge parties when Harriet needed a fourth—a fourth pair of ears, that was, to listen to her latest and greatest tidbits of gossip.

“I do have an announcement to make,” Abigail said when the laughter diminished. “And it does concern Larry.”

Larry brushed the thin hair from his forehead but did
not have the courage to look at his hostess. She suspected that beneath the table he was clutching Grady’s firm thigh.

“The Rupert’s deal is done,” she said, her eyes fixed on her assistant whether he liked it or not. “I signed the papers yesterday afternoon.” She raised her glass again. “Congratulations, Larry. Now, among your other eternal duties, you are also the official Hardy Enterprises Managing Consultant for Rupert’s Department Stores.” She did not add that he shouldn’t spend his 15 percent any too soon.

He raised his eyes to hers. A light film of tears began to cover them. “Abigail,” he said, “I was convinced …”

“What? That I changed my mind? With all that money at stake? With your future at stake?” It wasn’t easy trying not to sound smug.

Then she turned to her stepdaughter. “And Sondra, if you’d like, you may have the position of Marketing Director. I thought you’d enjoy more of a challenge.”
There
, Abigail thought,
now the two of them can go hang themselves or each other from the damn yuppie gallows of greed
.

Sondra shot a quick glance at Larry, then looked back to Abigail.

“Here, here!” Grady exclaimed, and everyone laughed again. “To Abigail Hardy Home Collections, or whatever the hell it’s called!”

The laughter rose again. This time it sounded genuine, even from Edmund. This time the room seemed filled with warmth and love. And for one brief, very brief moment, Abigail felt a small twinge of remorse. She glanced around at the mismatched family, the too-often-taken-for-granted friends, and wondered if anyone’s Thanksgiving table really was what it seemed. Then she wondered what the holiday would be like for her next year, and if she would be alone. Quietly she returned her goblet to its place and sat down.

“Well,” L.C. Howard pronounced, “I, for one, am having a perfectly delightful day.”

“You, for one,” Harriet Lindley chided, “have had too much wine, and are absolutely despondent because no women accompanied you.”

“Harriet! That’s not true! Any lady—no matter her age—would pale to the trio of lovelies around this table.”

Edmund brightened. “L.C. is really only merry because I’ve told him I located another Gauguin.”

“Gauguin!” Grady exclaimed. “Brilliance in reds and yellows! He would have loved the bittersweet, Abigail.”

“Ah,” L.C. added, “his was a life of bittersweet. The selfless martyr who banished himself from his wife and five children, all for the sake of his art, for the sake of his soul.”

The silver teaspoon with one tiny pearl onion was halfway to Abigail’s mouth. She quietly placed it in the gold-rimmed sauce dish, reached for her goblet, and took a long sip of wine.

Just then—thank God—the door chime sounded.

Abigail clutched the stem of her glass, waiting for Harold to return with news of who was at the door. She hoped it would be someone—something—to distract her, to allow her to excuse herself from the table. A crisis with the servants, perhaps. Or a young woman come to fetch L.C.

“Excuse me,” Howard said softly to Abigail, “there’s a woman to see you, ma’am. Miss Kensington.”

Abigail jumped up. Her linen napkin slid to the floor. “Kris?” she cried, then forgot to excuse herself and raced to the foyer.

Kris
was beautifully dressed in a coral cashmere mini-dress, with a short ermine coat grazing her shoulders. Her dark eyes spoke volumes as she chewed on her lower lip.

Without a word she reached out for Abigail, who stepped into her arms. “I just couldn’t pass up Thanksgiving at Abigail’s,” she said into her shoulder. “And besides,” she added with a small crack in her voice, “the frigging rabbit just wouldn’t die.”