Elizabeth ran forward, hugged her daughter fiercely.
“What?” Stephanie said, laughing as she drew back. “No camera to record the auspicious event of our deplaning?”
“Very funny.” Elizabeth’s throat felt embarrassingly tight. She hoped it didn’t ruin her voice. “Where’s your sister?”
“There was a seating mix-up. We got separated.”
Jamie was the last person off the plane. She stood out from the crowd like some gothic scarecrow. First there was her height, almost six feet, and her hair color—cornsilk blond that fell in a wavy line to her waist. And then there was her outfit. Skintight black leather pants, black shirt that must have sported a dozen silver zippers, and black combat boots. The mascara around her blue eyes was thick as soot.
She pushed through the crowd like a linebacker. “God almighty,” she said instead of hello. “That was the worst flight of my life. The child next to me should be institutionalized.”
Nothing was ever in between to Jamie; it was either the best or the worst.
She kissed Elizabeth’s cheek. “Hi, Mom. You look tired. Where’s Dad?”
Elizabeth laughed. “Thanks, honey. Your dad had to stay behind for a day. Some big story.”
“Gee, what a shock.” Jamie barely paused for a breath and started talking again. “Could they put more seats in that plane? I mean, really. When the guy in front of me leaned back, my tray dropped down and almost snapped my jaw off. And you have to be Calista Flockhart to get out of your seat.”
Jamie was still talking when they pulled up to the house.
Daddy and Anita must have heard the car drive up (they’d probably been standing at the window for the last thirty minutes, waiting impatiently); they were already on the porch, holding hands, grinning.
Jamie bounded out of the car, hair flying, arms outstretched. She launched into her grandfather’s open arms.
Elizabeth and Stephanie gathered the bags together and followed her.
“Stephie,” Anita said, teary-eyed, taking her granddaughter in her arms.
After a quick round of hello-we-missed-you-how-was-your-flight? they all went inside.
The house smelled like Christmas; fresh-cut evergreen boughs draped the mantel and corkscrewed up the banisters; the cinnamony scent of newly baked pumpkin pies lingered in the air. On every table, vanilla-scented candles burned in cut crystal votive containers. There were artifacts of the girls’ childhoods everywhere—clay Christmas trees that leaned like the Tower of Pisa, papier-maché snowmen covered in glitter and acrylic paint, egg cartons cut into nativity sets.
They spent the rest of the day talking and playing cards, wrapping presents and shaking the packages already under the tree. By midafternoon, Stephanie and Anita had disappeared into the kitchen to make homemade dressing and a bake-ahead vegetable casserole.
Elizabeth stayed in the living room, playing poker for toothpicks with Jamie and Daddy.
“So, missy,” Daddy said, puffing on his pipe as he studied his cards. “How’re things at Georgetown?”
Jamie shrugged. “Hard.”
That surprised Elizabeth. Jamie never admitted that anything was difficult, not this child who wanted to climb Everest and publish haiku and swim in the Olympics.
“Jamie?” she said, frowning. “What’s wrong at school?”
“Don’t lapse into melodrama, Mom. It’s just a tough quarter, that’s all.”
“How’s Eric?”
“That is so over. I dumped him two weeks ago.”
“Oh.” Elizabeth felt oddly adrift suddenly, unconnected. Once she’d known every nuance in her daughters’ lives; now boyfriends appeared and disappeared without warning. In the other room, the phone rang and was answered. “Are you seeing anyone else?”
“Hell’s bells, Birdie. Who gives a rat’s hindquarters about boys? How’s the swimming, that’s what matters. Are we gonna get seats to see you at the next Olympics?”
Jamie had vowed to win Olympic Gold when she was eleven years old. The day she’d won her first race at the Ray Ember Memorial Pool.
“Of course,” she answered, smiling brightly.
But there was something wrong with that smile, something off. Before Elizabeth could say anything, Anita walked into the room, heels clacking on the floor. She was holding the cordless phone to her ample breast.
“Birdie, honey, it’s Jack.”
Elizabeth knew instantly: bad news.
Elizabeth hadn’t slept well. All night, she’d tossed and turned on her side of the bed. Finally, at about five a.m., she gave up, got dressed, and went downstairs.
Jack hadn’t been able to get away yesterday.
Of course he hadn’t. Something important had come up. The video, honey, it’s first rate, but blah, blah, blah. I’ll be there tomorrow night. I promise.
Promises were a lot like impressions. The second one didn’t count for much.
Elizabeth made herself a cup of tea and stood at the kitchen window, staring out at the falling snow. Then she wandered into the living room to make a fire.