Authors: Joy Fielding
“I hope you’re right.”
“What else can I do to help?”
“The table’s set?”
“Wait till you see it. It looks like something out of
Gourmet
magazine. I put the roses Josh sent in the middle, between the candles.”
I blushed and turned back toward the stove, pretended to be watching the pot of small red potatoes that were boiling at a brisk and steady pace. Believe it or not, no one had ever sent me flowers before. “I think we’re all set to go,” I said, running through my mental checklist—turkey, stuffing, marshmallow-covered yams, small red potatoes, homemade cranberry sauce, a pear-and-walnut salad with Gorgonzola dressing.
“We have enough food for an army,” Alison remarked, throwing her hands into the air, as if she were tossing confetti. It was a gesture of pure joy, and it made me laugh out loud. “You’re so pretty when you laugh,” Alison said.
I smiled my appreciation, thinking that if I looked especially nice tonight, it was all because of her. Not only was the haircut she’d given me the best, most flattering haircut I’d ever had—it fell about my face in soft amber waves that stopped just below my chin—but my skin still glowed from the facial she’d administered, and the makeup she’d selected and meticulously applied several hours earlier had somehow managed to be both dramatic and natural. My fingernails matched my toenails, Very Cherry going very well with my navy slacks and newly purchased white silk shirt. My silver cupid earrings dangled from my ears. Tonight, I told myself, was going to be a very special night.
The doorbell rang.
“My God,” I said. “What time is it?”
Alison checked her watch. “Only six-thirty. Somebody’s very anxious to get here.” Big eyes widened in anticipation.
“Do I really look okay?” I pulled my blue-and-white-checkered apron up over my head, careful not to disturb my hair, ran my tongue across the muted red of my lips.
“You look fantastic. Just relax. Take a deep breath.”
I took one deep breath, then another for good luck, before proceeding out of the kitchen. Even before I reached the front door, I could hear giggling from outside. Clearly it was Denise, and not Josh, who’d been anxious to get here. Just as clearly, she wasn’t alone. Had she
and Josh arrived at the same time? I wondered, pulling open the door.
Denise, wearing a pink T-shirt with orange letters that said DUMP HIM, and a pair of tight black jeans, her dark hair spiking rudely around the pale triangle of her face, was standing on the outside landing, skinny arms wrapped around an equally scrawny young man with short brown hair, light brown eyes, and a strong, hawklike nose. The face was vaguely sinister, although it softened a bit when he smiled. Still, he filled me with unease.
“We’re here,” Denise announced gaily. “I know we’re early, but …” She laughed, as if she’d said something funny. “This is K.C.,” she said, and laughed again.
Was she drunk? I wondered. High? “Casey?”
“K.C.,” the young man explained, biting off each letter. He was about the same age as Alison, I estimated. “Short for Kenneth Charles. But nobody ever calls me that.”
I nodded, wondered who he was and what he was doing in my house.
“Denise?” Alison asked from behind me.
“Hi, you.” Denise pushed past me into the living room of my home. “Wow. Nice house. Alison, meet K.C.”
“Casey?”
“K.C.,” the young man explained again. “Short for Kenneth Charles.”
“But nobody ever calls him that,” I added, thinking he must get awfully tired of having to explain himself.
“I didn’t realize you were bringing a date,” Alison said, nervous eyes flitting in my direction.
“Is it a problem? I just assumed it would be all right.
Everybody always makes way too much food on Thanksgiving.”
“If it’s a problem,” the young man interjected quickly, “I can go. I don’t want to put anybody out.”
“No,” I heard myself say. “Denise is right. There’s more than enough food. We can’t very well toss you out on the street on Thanksgiving, can we?” I wasn’t being especially magnanimous. It was more that I suddenly decided Josh might be more comfortable if another man was present.
“I’ll set another place,” Alison volunteered, disappearing into the dining room as I ushered Denise and K.C. toward the sofa and chairs.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I offered.
“Vodka?” Denise asked.
“Beer?” asked K.C.
I had neither, so they settled for white wine. We sat in my living room, sipping on our drinks—Alison and I were sticking to water for the time being—and making awkward conversation. Denise seemed neither particularly smart nor funny, and K.C., who said little, had a way of looking right through you, even in repose, that was quite unsettling. Tonight is going to be a disaster, I thought, almost praying Josh would call to cancel.
“So, where’d you two meet?” Alison asked.
“At the store.” Denise shrugged, her eyes zeroing in on the large painting of lush pink and red peonies that hung on the wall across from the sofa. “That’s a nice painting.”
“Thank you.”
“I don’t usually like stuff like that. You know, flowers and fruit and stuff.”
“Still life,” I said.
“Yeah. I usually don’t like it. I like art with more of an edge, you know? But this is kinda nice. Where’d you get it?”
“It was my mother’s.”
“Yeah? And what—you inherited it after she died?” Denise was seemingly oblivious to the fact this might be none of her business. “Along with the house and everything?”
I said nothing, not sure how to respond.
“I’ve been trying to talk Terry into buying that painting of the woman with the large sun hat on the beach,” Alison chipped in, as if aware of my discomfort.
“You’re an only child?” Denise pressed, ignoring her.
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“No, you’re lucky,” Denise protested. “I have two sisters. We hate each other’s guts. And Alison has a brother she never talks to. What about you, K.C.? You have any brothers or sisters you can’t stand?”
“One of each,” he said.
“And where are they tonight?” I asked.
“Back in Houston, I guess.”
“I didn’t know you were from Texas,” Denise said. “I’ve always wanted to go to Texas.”
“It doesn’t sound like you’ve known each other very long,” I remarked.
“We met last night.” Denise giggled, the incongruously childish sound emerging from between deep-purple lips. “Actually, I’d seen him in the store a few times, but we didn’t talk until last night.”
“I thought you looked familiar,” Alison suddenly exclaimed. “You were in on Monday. You asked about the frog sculpture.”
K.C. looked vaguely embarrassed. “I was trying to pick you up,” he admitted with a laugh.
“Oh, nice talk!” Denise said. “And what? It didn’t work, so you came back last night and hit on me?”
“It doesn’t mean I don’t love you,” K.C. said with a sly grin.
Denise laughed. “Isn’t he cute? I think he’s so cute.” She reached over, scraped clawlike fingers across his skinny thigh. “The thing about art,” she continued, as if this were the most logical of continua, her eyes back on the floral painting, “is that it’s such a lie. Don’t you think?”
“I’m not sure I follow,” I answered.
“Take these flowers,” Denise said. “Or the woman with the hat on the beach. I mean, when have you ever seen flowers this big and lush in real life, or sand that pink? It doesn’t exist.”
“It exists in the artist’s imagination,” I argued.
“My point exactly.”
“Just because art is subjective doesn’t make it a lie. Sometimes an artist’s interpretation of something is ultimately more real than the thing itself. The artist is forcing you to view the subject in a new and different light, to arrive at a greater truth.”
Denise waved my theories away with a careless hand. The wine sloshed around in her glass, veering dangerously toward the rim. “Artists distort, they enhance, they leave things out.” She shrugged. “That makes them liars in my book.”
“You got something against liars?” K.C. asked.
I heard a car pull into the driveway, listened to the sound of footsteps on the outside path, was already on my
feet when the doorbell rang. I couldn’t help but notice the look of anticipation on Alison’s face as I walked to the door.
“You look great,” she called after me, giving me two encouraging thumbs-up.
I laughed and opened the door, then had to lean against it in case my legs gave out and I fell over the large leafy plant to my right. Josh Wylie was wearing a blue silk shirt and carrying a bottle of Dom Pérignon. He looked absolutely gorgeous, and it was all I could do to keep from throwing myself into his arms. Calm down, I told myself. You’re forty years old, not fourteen. Relax. Take deep breaths.
“Am I late?” Josh asked as I closed the door after him, then stood rooted to the floor, as if I’d been planted.
“No. You’re perfect. Perfectly on time,” I qualified quickly, letting go of the doorframe and accepting the bottle of Dom Pérignon. “You didn’t have to bring champagne. Your flowers were more than enough.”
“Ooh, champagne.” Denise was suddenly at my side, lifting the bottle from my hands. “I’m Denise, and I love champagne.” She extended her free hand.
“Denise Nickson, this is Josh Wylie,” I said. “Denise works in the gallery with Alison.”
Alison waved hello from the sofa.
“It’s my aunt’s gallery,” Denise explained. “So I’m kind of a part-owner, I guess. This is my friend K.C.”
“Nice to meet you, Casey.”
“K.C.,” we corrected in unison.
“Stands for Kenneth Charles,” he said.
“But nobody calls him that,” Alison said.
“You must get awfully tired of having to explain that
to everyone,” Josh said, and I smiled, hearing my own thoughts resonating through his words.
What can I say about that night?
My initial reservations were quickly dispelled in a wave of champagne and friendly banter. Despite the disparity in our ages and interests, the five of us made for a lively and interesting group. The food was delicious, the conversation effortless, the mood relaxed and happy.
“So what exactly does an investment counselor do?” Denise asked Josh at one point, the cranberry sauce on her fork competing with the stubborn purple of her lips. “And don’t say he counsels people on their investments.”
“I’m afraid there’s not much else I can say,” Josh demurred.
“Are you counseling Terry on her investments?” K.C. asked.
I laughed. “First I’d have to have some money to invest.”
“Oh, come on. You must have lots of money kicking around,” Denise protested. “I mean, you work, you own your own house, you have a tenant. Plus I’m sure you have a nice pension.”
“Which I don’t collect till I retire,” I told her, a slight twinge of discomfort worming its way into my gut. How had we come to be discussing my finances?
“What about you, K.C.?” Josh asked. “What is it you do?”
“Computer programmer.” K.C. helped himself to another slice of turkey, another heaping spoonful of yams.
“Another job I’ll never understand,” Denise said. “Do
you have a computer, Terry?”
“No,” I answered. “I’ve never really needed one.”
“How can you survive without E-mail?”
“You’d be surprised what you can survive without.” I stared into my lap, trying not to picture Josh slamming me against the wall of my bedroom, eager fingers unbuttoning my blouse.
“You have no relatives across the country you need to keep in touch with?” Denise asked.
I shook my head, caught sight of K.C. as he leaned forward, cold eyes focused on me intently. Snake eyes, I thought with a shudder.
“Okay, so what are we all thankful for?” Alison suddenly asked. “Three things. Everybody.”
“Oh, God,” Denise groaned. “This is so
Oprah.”
“You first, K.C.,” Alison instructed. “Three things you’re thankful for.”
K.C. lifted his glass into the air. “Good food. Good champagne.” He smiled, snake eyes slithering between Alison and Denise. “Bad women.”
They laughed.
“Denise?”
Denise made a face that said this sort of game was beneath her, but that she’d indulge us anyway because she was such a good sport. “Let’s see. I’m thankful the gallery was closed today and I didn’t have to work. I’m thankful my aunt is visiting her daughter in New York and I didn’t have to spend Thanksgiving with her. And”—she looked directly at me—“I’m thankful you’re as good a cook as Alison said you were.”
“Amen to that,” Josh said, raising his glass in a toast.
“Okay, Josh,” Alison directed, “your turn.”
Josh paused, as if giving the matter careful thought. “I’m thankful for my children. I’m thankful for the wonderful care my mother gets each day. And for that, and for tonight, I’m especially thankful to—and for—our lovely hostess. Thank you, Terry Painter. You’re a godsend.”
“Thank
you,”
I whispered, dangerously close to tears.
“I’m thankful for Terry too,” Alison said as I felt my cheeks grow warm. “Thankful that’s she’s given me a place to stay and welcomed me so warmly into her life. Secondly, I’m thankful for my instincts that told me to come here in the first place. And thirdly, I’m thankful for the chance I’ve been given to start over again.”
“Aren’t you a little young to be starting over?” Josh asked.
“Your turn.” Alison blushed, swiveled toward me.
“I’m thankful for my health,” I began.
Denise groaned. “That’s like wishing for world peace.”
“And I’m thankful for all your kind words,” I continued, ignoring her. I looked from Alison to Josh, then back to Alison. “And I’m thankful for new friends and new opportunities. I consider myself very lucky.”
“We’re the lucky ones,” Alison said.
“Does anyone here believe in God?” Denise asked suddenly.
And then everybody was speaking at once, as the conversation veered from philosophic to sophomoric to downright moronic and then back again. Not surprisingly, Alison was among the believers. Surprisingly, so was Denise. K.C. was an atheist, Josh an agnostic. As for me,
I’d always wanted to believe, and on a good day, I did.
Today, I decided, perhaps prematurely, had been a good day.