Читать книгу The Power House Wives - Fredrica Greene - Страница 5

Thanksgiving dinner was the only meal Charlie really cooked any more. What was the point for one person? Since this might be her last Thanksgiving in this house, she would make it one to remember. She’d have her own ‘orphans’ dinner. When Meredith made her weekly call home, Charlie would tell her to invite her friends. She’d leave messages for Brad at the fraternity house and on his cell phone. Sooner or later, he’d call back. Although Craig had pretty much dropped out of their lives since the divorce, she and the kids were a tight-knit group. Once, when she had commented that Meredith’s then boyfriend seemed aloof, Meredith had said, “Mom, we’re a hard clique to break into.”

This Thanksgiving she’d go all out. No pumpkin pie in a box from the freezer case; no canned yams in syrup. She’d make everything from scratch. With the holiday two weeks away, it wasn’t too soon to get started. Her shopping list looked like a page in the phone book, tiny scrawls filling the page.

As she drove to the grocery store, she couldn’t help notice large HOLIDAY SALE signs in almost every store window. When did they start having sales before Thanksgiving? There was still Halloween candy on the supermarket shelves. This was the time of year when merchants could charge whatever they thought they could get away with. This was the time of year they made most of their annual profits. Why markdowns now?

The supermarket was warm and welcoming. An abundance of vegetation filled the produce section, pyramids of bronze yams, dimpled oranges, shiny apples, plump bags of cranberries, and an enormous tub of rotund pumpkins, small and large. Christmas music wafted through the aisles. Charlie wondered if the idea was to subliminally seduce shoppers into spending. She didn’t need inducement today. She ordered the largest turkey she could fit in her oven -- twice the size of her usual bird. She’d pick it up two days before Thanksgiving. As she steered her cart up one aisle and down the next, checking off her list, her spirits rose. By the time she reached the check-out stand, she had to put one hand on top of her groceries to keep them from tumbling out of her cart.

Charlie arrived home to find the Realtor’s card jammed in the door. On the back Sheila had written “Call me.”

“Right,” Charlie thought as she tossed the card in the trash.

She had half the bags emptied when the phone rang. Sheila, no doubt. Charlie let the machine answer, but when she heard her daughter’s voice, she grabbed the receiver before Meredith clicked off. “This is the first chance I’ve had to call,” Meredith said. She was stuck in traffic on the 110 in Los Angeles calling from her cell phone. “I hate to tell you this, Mom, but I can’t make it home for Thanksgiving.”

Charlie hoped she hadn’t heard right. Cell phones sometimes sounded garbled.

“I have to work Friday.”

“It’s not Thanksgiving without you.” Charlie thought fast. “You don’t have to work on the holiday do you? Come for the day. I’ll pay for the plane ticket, and we’ll eat early.”

“Why don’t you come here? I won’t have time to cook, but we’ll go out. ”

Shoot. Charlie looked at the piles of food on the kitchen table. “Brad will be disappointed if you’re not here.” Despite Brad’s laid-back approach to life and Meredith’s driving ambition, the two were close. If nothing else worked, playing the ‘Brad’ card might persuade Meredith.

There was a moment of silence. Meredith cleared her throat. “Didn’t he tell you? He’s going to Dad’s.”

“He’s what?” Charlie’s breath stopped as if she had leapt into icy water. “No,” she said, getting her voice under control. “I didn’t know.”

“Dad called me, too. Out of the blue. I told him no way would I go. ”

Charlie couldn’t speak for the lump in her throat. Craig knew how much this holiday meant to her. This was his revenge for her refusal to cave in. Brad could never say no to his father. He probably was flattered to be asked. He obviously felt too guilty to call her. He could always count on Meredith to pick up any balls he dropped.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Meredith said. “I assumed you knew.”

“That’s okay,” Charlie tried to keep her voice light.

“Come to L.A. We’ll have fun.”

“Thanks sweetie, but I can’t leave the dogs.” Finding a sitter for three elderly canines was harder than finding a babysitter. And she couldn’t kennel them. They’d think they were being abandoned again.

“You and your dogs,” Meredith sighed. “I know you’re disappointed, but I promise to come home next year.”

Home next year! What home? Where would it be? Charlie had not felt so alone since Craig moved out. The mountain of food loomed ominously. Thank God she hadn’t brought the turkey home. As it is she’d be eating cranberries and yams for awhile. A long while.

The next morning Charlie sat at her kitchen table, Gunther’s chin on her knee, drinking her third cup of coffee and gazing glassy-eyed at the real estate ads, trying to concentrate. Her world was falling apart, and she was scrambling to reassemble it. She envied Lucky who was chasing a squirrel across the yard without a care in the world. Finally, she picked up the phone and dialed Laurel’s number. “Do you have room for another orphan? And can I please, please, please bring something?”

Thanksgiving Day was as sunny as Charlie’s mood was dark. This was her first Thanksgiving without her children ever. Brad had phoned the day before and promised to come home for Christmas, but Charlie felt her family slipping away. They had a right to their own lives. Still, she felt as if she were alone on an atoll in the middle of the Pacific, watching them sail off to sea.

At least she wouldn’t be alone. Laurel always had an interesting assortment of “orphans.” Charlie balanced the pumpkin pecan pie on one arm and rang Laurel’s doorbell. Laurel’s front door was half hidden by a huge wreath, a fiery ring of crimson, rust, and amber leaves, probably the ones Laurel had gathered on their walk. Laurel packed a mean glue gun.

Laurel opened the door and practically pulled Charlie inside. “I’m so glad you’re here.” She took the pie from Charlie reluctantly. “You didn’t need to bring anything.”

Charlie shrugged. “Yes, I did.”

Laurel hung Charlie’s coat in the hall closet and ushered her into the living room. Wes was in the living room, holding a tumbler of Scotch. But where were the other guests? Wes offered her a drink, but before she could answer, Laurel interrupted. “Shall we eat?”

Charlie was confused. “Am I the only orphan?”

“We’re keeping it small this year.”

“Not Zora and Nathan?” Charlie asked.

Laurel shrugged. “They cancelled. Said something had come up.”

“What came up was I’m not at Power House any more,” Wes muttered.

Laurel narrowed her eyes, signaling him to drop the subject. “Dinner,” she called down the hall. Justin ambled from his room. He’d grown a foot since Charlie last saw him, and his cheeks had lost their baby fat. He even sprouted a hint of facial hair. As he eased his lanky frame into a chair, he flicked a lock of hair off his forehead.

Laurel’s table was as festive as ever: white damask cloth, gold-rimmed plates, crystal wine glasses. The centerpiece appeared to be a turkey made out of a large pumpkin, a gourd attached for a head. Ears of Indian corn fanned out to form a tail. Red gloves, their fingers splayed, made up its feet. At each place sat a smaller version: a pine cone turkey with pipe stem legs, walnut head and chicken feather tails. Charlie’s mouth twitched as she struggled to keep a straight face.

Laurel disappeared into the kitchen and returned bearing a trembling tower of orange gelatin studded with miniature marshmallows and cranberries. Justin rolled his eyes and Charlie gave him a conspiratorial smile. On her next trip, Laurel appeared with a tureen of chestnut stuffing. When it was apparent there was more to come, Charlie followed her back into the kitchen. Laurel handed her a bowl filled with string beans and onion rings. “Take this,” she said as she pulled a sweet potato casserole out of the oven.

“You made my favorites.” Charlie wanted to hug Laurel, but her hands were full.

“Can’t break with tradition.”

When the two carried in the last of the food, cranberries, gravy, mashed potatoes and rolls, Wes shook his head. “Holy Christ,” he said, “There’s only four of us.”

Laurel settled in her chair. “It’s Thanksgiving.” She pulled her napkin from an orange band. “Guess what these are.”

“Napkin rings?” Charlie flicked her napkin open.

“They’re made from toilet paper rolls. A little spray paint and lacquer. I bet you’d never guess.”

Charlie turned hers over and pretended to study it. “Never.”

“Let’s eat,” said Wes. He stood, raised the carving knife and fork with a flourish as if he were about to lead an orchestra. He proceeded to saw angrily at the turkey as if it was responsible for his job loss. Charlie had the urge to grab the knife and carve the bird properly, but she just smiled graciously as he handed her a plate with tattered slices of breast meat.

“Wine?” Wes held up the bottle.

“Can I have some?” Justin asked.

“Sure.” his father said.

“Wes,” Laurel protested. “He’s too young.”

“It’s Thanksgiving,” he said, mimicking her tone.

Justin and Wes, plates piled high, plowed into their food. Laurel picked at hers, and Charlie, although she’d been hungry when she arrived, found she had little appetite. An awkward silence followed, punctuated by the clinking of silver against china. The silence filled the room. The atmosphere felt like a guitar string tightened to its limit. Charlie felt the need to pluck it, to break the tension. But how? She couldn’t talk politics. That would start World War III right in this room. Wes was to the right of Rush Limbaugh. The weather? That was good for two sentences. Power House was definitely off limits. Finally she broached the only safe subject she could think of. “How’s school?” she asked Justin. It was the kind of question teen-ager hated, but it was all she came up with. Between mouthfuls of food, he mumbled a response which she interpreted as “Fine.”

“So,” Wes asked between bites, “What are your kids doing tonight?”

Laurel gave him a warning look.

Charlie swirled her wine in her glass.“They had other plans.” She folded her napkin and set it on the table. “I really should be going soon,” she said, having had enough of both food and the atmosphere.

“Oh no,” Laurel pleaded. “You have to stay for dessert.”

“What’s the hurry?” Wes asked.

“I have to let the dogs out.”

“What are you going to do with them when you move?” Laurel asked.

“You moving?” Wes asked.

“If Craig has his way,” Laurel blurted out.

If she’d had any warning, Charlie would have stopped her. But it was too late. Wes was interested. Laurel launched into Charlie’s story.

“He’s an even bigger asshole than I thought,” Wes said.

“Wes,” said Laurel, nodding toward Justin as if his ears were too tender for this.

“I guess he needs the money,” Charlie said. “He said he won’t be able to afford to keep up my support any more.”

Wes snorted.“If you believe that, I have a bridge to sell you.”

“That’s enough, Wes!” Laurel said.

He continued to focus on Charlie.“You didn’t fall for that shit.”

Charlie’s eyes widened. “You mean he’s not out of a job?”

“Oh, he’s out all right. In fact, he’ll never have to work again. He negotiated the merger and included a big fat buyout for himself. Left everyone else hanging out to dry.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure as I am of my own name.”

Charlie felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. If that was true, why was he after her house? “I’m going to call him on it.”

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Wes said.

“Why not?” Charlie laughed. “What’s he going to do? Kill me?”

Laurel reached out and touched Charlie’s arm. “Let’s not talk about this now. I have dessert.”

“You heard about Larry Hopkins,” Wes said, ignoring Laurel.

Charlie nodded. “That was tragic. Who would have ever thought a golf cart was lethal.”

“You know who was riding that cart with him, don’t you?” His eyes narrowed.

“Don’t tell me,” she said.

“You got it.”

“What happened?”

“The way the story goes, and I emphasize the word ‘story’, is they were playing near a water hazard. There’s a lake right off the fourth fairway. Larry’s ball landed at the edge of the water. He went to find it, while Craig teed up for his shot. For some strange reason, the cart rolled down the slope, hit Hopkins, knocked him into the water and landed on top of him.”

“Didn’t Craig try to stop it? Or at least warn him?”

“Claims he was concentrating on his ball and didn’t see it move until it was too late.”

Charlie sat back. “Good Lord. Wasn’t anybody else around?”

“Nope. Nathan was in a cart behind them. By the time he caught up with them, it was all over.”

Charlie sat back in her chair. “If you’re implying what I think, you’re wrong. Craig may be a nasty bastard, but he’s not a murderer. Besides, why would he want to kill Larry? They were friends.”

“Rumors are going around.”

“That’s enough, Wes,” Laurel interrupted. “Time for dessert. Charlie come with me.”

In the kitchen she said, “Don’t pay attention to Wes. He’s just letting off steam, and Craig makes a good target. Besides, he’s a little tipsy. A lot of that is the liquor talking.” She handed Charlie four dessert plates. “Here, take this out. I’ll bring the cake.”

Laurel followed her with a platter bearing what appeared to be a shaggy orange basketball. “What’s that supposed to be?” Wes asked.

“A pumpkin”. A celery stem poked out from the top.

He rolled his eyes. “At least you didn’t try to bake the Mayflower.”

Laurel returned to the kitchen and brought out Charlie’s pie. No one asked for a piece. Charlie picked at the cake, pushing crumbs into a ball. The frosting looked strange, and she couldn’t put her finger on what it tasted of.

“Is it all right?” Laurel asked anxiously.

“Oh yes.” Charlie took a bite. “It’s very...” she searched for the word. “different.”

“I used pumpkin pie filling for the frosting. Made that up myself. It’s like two desserts in one.”

Charlie pursed her lips. “Very clever.”

Wes clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back. “Maybe...” he said, then stopped.

“Maybe what?” Laurel asked,

“Maybe Craig had a reason.”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about this,” Laurel said.

“Maybe Larry knew something.”

“Stop it,” Laurel insisted.

“Like what?” Charlie asked.

“About the time I left, some auditors were poking around.”

“Well, of course,” Laurel said. “That makes sense, with the company being sold.”

“These looked like government types. Pole up the ass, clean cut, wouldn’t talk to anybody except Craig and the finance guys. Lots of closed doors and, secret meetings.”

“What are you saying?” Charlie asked.

“I’m saying he may be in deep shit.”

“Not like jail or anything?”

He threw up his hands. “Wouldn’t bother me if it was.” He pushed away from the table and stumbled out of the room.

Charlie followed Laurel to the kitchen with an armload of dirty plates. They worked side by side till everything was cleared away except for the myriad pots draining on the counter. While Charlie dried them, Laurel filled a grocery sack with food. “Who’s that for?” Charlie asked.

“You.”

“Please, no,” she protested, staring at the oversized doggy bag. “I have so much food at home, I should bring you some.”

Laurel forced the bag into Charlie’s hand and walked Charlie to the door. “You’re invited for Christmas dinner. I know Wes was a pill tonight, but he’ll be in a better frame of mind by then. I don’t want you to be alone.”

Charlie kissed Laurel’s cheek. “Thanks, but I’ll have the kids then.”

“Just remember, you’ve always got us.”

That night, sleep eluded Charlie. She replayed Wes’s last statements over and over in her head trying to make sense of them. What kind of trouble might Craig be in? If that was the reason he was so adamant about selling her home, was there any way she could persuade him to back off?