There, sitting on the coffee table was a red cardboard ornament box.
Her father must have left it out for her last night.
She put down her tea and reached for the ornament that was on top. It was a lovely white angel, no bigger than her palm, made of shiny porcelain with silvery fabric wings. Her mother had given it to her on her fourth birthday; the last such present Elizabeth could recall.
Each year, she’d wrapped and unwrapped it with special care, and taken great pains to choose the perfect place for it on the tree. She hadn’t taken it with her when she moved out because the angel belonged here, only here, in this house where her mama had lived.
“Hey, Mama,” she said quietly, smiling down at the angel in her palm. Once, it had seemed so big. The most important part of the angel was the memory attached to it.
Can I hang up the angel now, Mommy? Can I?
Why, darlin’ Birdie, you can do most anything. Here, let me lift you up …
She had so few memories of Mama; each one was valuable.
She hung the ornament from the second-highest branch, then plugged in the lights and stood back. The tree looked beautiful, sparkling with white lights and festooned with decades’ worth of decoration. Everything from the pipe-cleaner star Jamie had made in kindergarten to the Lalique medallion Daddy had bought at an auction in Dallas. Golden bows adorned the branches.
Anita walked into the room. She wore a frothy pink negligee and Barbie-doll mules. “I had a heck of a hard time finding that box.”
Elizabeth turned around. “You left this box out for me?”
“You picture your daddy rootin’ around in the attic for a certain box of Christmas ornaments, do you?”
Elizabeth smiled in spite of herself. “I guess not.”
Anita sat down on the sofa, curled her feet up underneath her. The puffy pink pom-poms on her slippers disappeared. “I’m sorry Jack couldn’t get here yesterday.”
Elizabeth turned back to the tree. She didn’t want to talk about this. For all her pancake makeup and fiddle-dee-dee-don’t-confuse-me airs, Anita sometimes saw things you’d rather she didn’t. “He’s busy with some big story.”
“That’s what you said.”
There was something in the way she said it, a hesitation maybe, as if she didn’t believe the excuse. “Yes, it is,” Elizabeth answered curtly.
Anita sighed dramatically.
It was how they’d always communicated, in fits and starts. Ever since Daddy had brought his new wife home.
Elizabeth had been thirteen, a bad age anyway, and worse for her than most.
And Anita Bockner, the beautician from Lick Skillet, Alabama, was the last person she would have chosen to be her stepmother.
This is your new mama, Birdie, he’d announced one day, and that was that.
As if a mother were as replaceable as a battery.
Mama had never been mentioned again in this sprawling white house amid the tobacco and cornfields. No pictures of her graced the mantels or the tables, no stories of her life had ever been spun into a wrap that would warm her lonely daughter.
Anita had tried to mother Elizabeth, but she’d gone about it all wrong. They’d been oil and water from the beginning.
Elizabeth had hoped that time and distance would sand away the rough edges of their relationship, but that wasn’t how it worked between them. They’d remained at odds for all these years. For Edward’s sake, they’d learned at last to be polite. When things got too personal, one of them always changed the subject. It was Elizabeth’s turn. “I hear you and Daddy are going to Costa Rica this spring.”
“I’m a fool, that’s for sure. I could choose a beach somewhere, with margaritas and pool boys, but noooo. I agree to visit a country that’s famous for snakes and spiders.”
“A lot of women dream of exotic vacations with husbands who love them.”
“That’s because most women can’t remember why they fell in love with their husbands. Without that …” Anita let her voice trail off. “You have to work to remember the good things sometimes.”
Elizabeth wasn’t sure whether this conversation was idle chitchat or not. It didn’t matter. Anita’s comments were getting too close to the truth. It was bad enough that Elizabeth’s marriage had gone stale. She wasn’t about to add insult to injury by talking to her stepmother about it. “Did you notice the snow? The backyard looks beautiful,” she said, scouting through the obviously empty box, looking for a not-there ornament.
“Ah, the weather. Always a good topic for us. Yes, Birdie, I saw the snow. Edward thought we’d all go down to the pond tonight.”
“I think—”
The doorbell interrupted her. She glanced back at Anita. “Are you expecting anyone?”
Anita shrugged. “Benny, maybe? Sometimes when he has a hot date, he does his deliveries at the crack of dawn.”
“Who in the sweet bejesus is that?” came Daddy’s voice from upstairs.