Natasha’s velvety voice drifted up the stairs. I clenched my teeth at the sound. In sixth grade she started a rumor that I wet the bed at her slumber party. That scandalous lie had followed me to graduation.
I didn’t actually hate her but found her annoying in the way perfect people so often are. Even though I felt fairly content with my life, Natasha had a tendency to pop up and make me feel inadequate, like an embarrassed sixth-grader again.
We’d competed against each other for almost everything when we were in school—sports, grades, honors. Competition became the norm for us. I fought it but Natasha loved to act superior, which brought out the worst in me. I never entered her world of beauty pageants, though. She did quite well, but I took some satisfaction in the knowledge that she never won a Miss Congeniality title.
Who’d have imagined that Natasha would have her own lifestyle TV show on a local cable channel in Washington, DC, not to mention a lifestyle advice column? And now that my ex-husband, Mars, had set up housekeeping with her, the sound of her voice made me boil. It seemed like she was turning up everywhere lately. But not in my house!
I pounded down to the family room off my kitchen. My mother immediately changed the channel.
My sister, Hannah, reached for the remote. “Mom! I was watching that!”
Dad leaned against the doorway to the sunroom, a mug of coffee in his hand. “I warned them. You shouldn’t be subjected to that woman in your own home.”
“It’s been two years since Mars and Sophie split. She told me she’s moved on. Besides, it’s not like Natasha had anything to do with their divorce.” Hannah tugged the remote from Mom and switched the TV back to Natasha’s show.
The baby in the family, Hannah wore her blonde hair long and loose like a teenager and still thought the world revolved around her even though she was about to turn forty.
My brother and I headed for Northern Virginia, just outside of Washington, DC, after college. But Hannah married two losers in a row and remained in Berrysville, Virginia. Fortunately, she turned out to have an uncanny knack for computers, but I wondered if living in the same small town as my parents had sheltered her too much.
I stifled a sigh of frustration and headed for coffee. Less than twenty-four hours with my parents and sister and I already felt like a child again. I was forty-four, a competent, self-sufficient woman. How did they do that to me?
A fire crackled in the stone fireplace in the kitchen, dispelling the November chill. My dad must have lit it. Just being in my kitchen made me feel better.
Antiqued cream-colored Old World cabinets with plenty of glass doors had replaced drab brown ones. The new hardwood floor still gleamed, as did the Madura Gold granite countertops. But the very best part was the stone wall we uncovered when we renovated. Most likely part of the original house, the rough stones were thought to be ballast stones, used to weigh down ships crossing the Atlantic, then discarded in the streets in colonial times. A four-foot-tall fireplace with hooks for kettles made the wall the best feature in the room.
Built in 1825, my house retained its original Federal-style exterior with red brick walls and tall windows. But when Mars and I inherited it from his aunt Faye, the interior had been authentic 1960s flower power. Twiggy would have been at home in the kitchen with orange countertops and faded mod daisy wallpaper.
The heavenly aroma of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon wafted to me, and Mom joined me. I flashed her a grateful smile as I poured coffee into a Spode mug. I couldn’t remember the last time someone else had fixed breakfast.
“Well, anyone can see you’re single again,” she said. “Married women don’t wear flannel pajamas.”
Ah. I’d been married long enough to have forgotten her rules for catching men. I leaned against the kitchen counter and dumped an extra spoonful of sugar into my coffee along with nonfat milk.
Mom, petite and trim, moved the sugar bowl away from me. “Now that you’re single again, you can’t afford to keep eating this way. That sugar will settle right on your hips.”
How many times was she going to say “now that you’re single again”? Would that be her constant refrain?
She handed me a plate with bacon and pancakes. A chunk of butter melted on the top pancake. I could eat this but wasn’t supposed to take sugar in my coffee?
As though she could read my mind, she said, “They’re pumpkin spice pancakes.” Was the bacon made out of pumpkin, too?
“Your aunt Melly made the boysenberry syrup that’s on the table. She was sorry she couldn’t drive up for Thanksgiving, but she and Uncle Fred will join us for Christmas.”
I straightened the picture of Mars’s Aunt Faye that hung over the fireplace, poured syrup on the pancakes, and settled into my favorite armchair by the fire.
Mom busied herself at the sink like the Energizer Bunny. “I didn’t get an invitation to Thanksgiving.”
She was here, wasn’t she? “You’re the one who told me it would be at my house this year. I didn’t think an invitation was necessary.”
“Do you have an extra one? I’d love to see them.”
I didn’t want to spark an argument by telling her I hadn’t sent invitations. It was just family; it wasn’t like they didn’t know where I lived.
“What kind of soup are you serving?”
“Soup?”
“Sophie! Haven’t you worked out a menu yet? You know everyone has high expectations because you throw parties.”
“I don’t throw parties, I plan events.”
“Natasha’s serving squab and leek consommé in hollowed-out acorn squashes.”
“Squab? She’s serving pigeon broth?”
“Not pigeon, squab. Don’t you watch her show? I think it’s very appropriate for Thanksgiving. Where does a person buy squab?”
I had no idea and I didn’t care. The thought of cooking pigeons was revolting. Besides, could anyone really tell the difference between squab broth and chicken broth?
“Natasha smokes her turkey. She did an entire episode on smoking meats.”
Wonderful. Natasha probably had an entire kitchen staff on hand to do it all, too.
“Her mother tells me that Natasha is dying to get her show on a national network. I’m sure it won’t be long before people in California love her as much as we do. That girl perseveres until she gets what she wants.” Mom frowned at me. “Do you always eat in that chair? Just because you’re alone doesn’t mean you should be sloppy.”
I stuffed my mouth with pancake so I wouldn’t be tempted to snarl at her.
“Hannah,” she called into the family room, “are you dressed yet?” She turned back to me. “We’re swinging by Saks because Hannah says they have gorgeous wedding gowns. We’re having lunch in Georgetown and in the afternoon we’ll pick up her fiancé at the airport.” She walked over to me and kissed my forehead. “I’m so glad to see you, sweetie. I know you’re busy with that stuffing contest coming up, but don’t you think you could find time to squeeze in a haircut?”