“Oh, pish,” said Winifred. “Fried deviled egg? Bloody Mary?” Before we had answered, Lupita and her daughter Chandra appeared in their uniforms, bearing silver trays. “Hope you don’t mind,” said Winifred. “We’ve invited a few close chums to brunch.”
Jake sighed, but Lainey seemed enthusiastic. She held out her recorder and followed Winifred into the dining room, which was filled with Lockhart celebrities and (it seemed) the entire Lockhart Lions football team in uniform. Lupita handed me a fried deviled egg and squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry about the baby,” she said. Tears sprang to my eyes, and she pulled me into a floral-scented hug, then pushed a Bloody Mary into my free hand. Lupita had been with Jake’s family since he was a child; Winifred had hired her during a Cancún vacation and had liked having a nanny so much, she’d arranged to bring sixteen-year-old Lupita back to Lockhart at the end of their trip. I’d never asked the details, but Lupita had moved into the Conroe manse, freeing Winifred up to plan events and play tennis. Jake loved Lupita like a mother. (In this case, maybe even more than a mother. Or equally, for certain.)
Lupita had left a boyfriend behind in Cancún, and when she told the Conroes she wanted to go back and marry him, they (somehow) brought Jesus to Texas as well. A talented farmer, Jesus was tasked with growing all the vegetables needed for Harrison’s side dishes. Eventually he was hired by Lone Wolf, too, and after a long career, he had recently retired and taken up topiary gardening.
Lupita, Jesus, and their children lived next door to the Conroes in a miniature version of the columned brick home, and Jesus created whimsical hedges all over town. A Jesus Melendez garden was much prized among Lockhart society, Winifred told Lainey, leading her past the dining table to the backyard, where Jake’s father, Collin, was smoking meat alongside the Noah’s Ark topiary. “And he just this week added the baby pandas,” Winifred said into Lainey’s recorder. “Can you see them? Right next to the giraffes? It’s hell to keep them watered in the summer, but you do what you have to do for art, know what I mean?”
“Stupendous,” proclaimed Lainey.
“You might think you’ve tasted the best brisket in the state of Texas, but you haven’t tasted my goddamn brisket, so you’re wrong!” boomed Collin, who I guessed had been practicing this exaltation all night.
“Oh, really?” said Lainey coquettishly.
“Goddamn right!” said Collin. “Hi, honey,” he added, in a softer voice, holding out his arm to me. I settled in for a one-armed hug; Collin was tending the meat, and I knew better than to expect him to put down the metal spatula. He kissed the top of my head. “You okay, girl?” he asked.
I nodded, lifting my chin.
He cupped his hand over the back of my hair. “God’s plan,” he said quietly. “God’s plan.”
I did not respond, but wriggled free and went around to the side yard to have a minute to myself. I sat down next to what might have been zebras or maybe horses crafted from yew, and tried to breathe evenly. How the fuck, I wondered, was it God’s plan for me to be infertile? For Mitchell’s mom to give me one night of bliss before taking him away? As Jake had asked that night, drunk with sadness and tequila, what was the point of this pain? If you believed there was a plan, then what the fuck was the end game here?
I didn’t believe there was a plan. Look at Evian, for Christ’s sake. What was the plan for her? God had given her a shitty mother, then hooked her up with someone like me, who hadn’t a clue about how to help her. What was I supposed to do? How could I change this situation? I felt angry and impotent.
But then I thought—why not? I wanted to take care of someone, and Evian sure as hell needed care. I took out my phone and called her, readying myself to do something—whatever was needed. Evian answered on the second ring. “Alice?” she said.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m just checking in. How are—”
“I’m fine,” she said coldly.
“Okay,” I said. “Good, I’m glad to hear that.”
“Not that you care,” said Evian.
“What? Evian, you know I—”
“Not that you’d answer your phone when I need you.”
“Evian!” I said.
“Look, you don’t need to call me anymore.”
“Please, Evian,” I said. “Listen. Let’s plan—”
But she had cut the line.
I slipped my phone back into my pocket. I sat inside the topiary for a while.
Lunch was elaborate and delicious. Winifred had invited not only the football team but a chef visiting from Paris named Daniel, who gave Lainey a great quote as he hoisted his pork rib. “Meat with handles,” he declared in his sultry accent, “it is always a good thing.”
“Hear, hear!” said Collin, raising his Shiner.
After lunch, the guests departed, and Lainey perched on the cowhide sofa to interview Jake with his parents. I wandered upstairs, curling into Jake’s childhood bed. It was unchanged from when he was in high school, the flannel sheets smelling faintly of Polo cologne. I couldn’t get comfortable in my tight-waisted dress, so I climbed from the bed to rummage in the bureau for a T-shirt. I slid open the top drawer, but instead of Jake’s old stuff, I saw a pale blue blanket. I took it from the drawer with a sickening feeling. It was new and impossibly soft.
I spread the small blanket across the bed and touched the white embroidery at the edge—elegant script, spelling “Mitchell.”
I don’t know how long I’d been staring at the name when Winifred pushed open the door. “Oh, honey,” she exhaled.
“Hi,” I said.
Winifred sat down next to me on her son’s bed. She wasn’t looking at me but out the window, which faced the football stadium. I thought about how awful it must have been for Jake to sit in this room, his knee blown, listening to the crowds across the street cheering for a team he wasn’t on. “I’m sorry you found the blanket,” said Winifred. “I didn’t want to … throw it away.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Well, here’s some news: we’re selling Martin the restaurant,” said Winifred. “We don’t have any more money to lose.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Don’t know if he’ll change the name,” said Winifred. “I don’t care, to be honest. The Lone Wolf! What a jackass.” She sighed. “Collin can damn well cook for me every night,” she said.
“Maybe not brisket … maybe Italian,” I said. She turned to me, amused, then laughed.
“Maybe Indian,” she said. We both began to giggle, sharing a joke few women would understand. Winifred shook her head and leaned against the wall, crossing her boots. She seemed frail, and I realized how much energy this party must have cost her. She was deflated without an audience. “There’s some good news, too,” she said. She took an envelope from her pocket and handed it to me. “It’s money,” she said. “Do with it what you will.”
“Oh,” I said. “Thank you, Winifred.”
“How much for the Mormon baby?”
“The what?”
“Didn’t you tell me about a cheap private adoption? Some Utah organization?”