By the time I convince Martin that his father is not hiding in my parents’ backyard and lure him back into the house with the promise of cornbread and pie, dinner is already underway. I plop Martin down at the end of the table as far away from my father as possible, and I take the spot next to him.
My phone buzzes with a text the moment I sit down, and the name Martin flashes across my screen. Of course, I know that this text isn’t actually from Martin. It’s from Smith, whose number I mislabeled, but Martin, who happens to be looking over my shoulder, does not.
“Holy shit,” Martin announces during an unfortunate lull in the conversation. He points at my phone screen. “How did I do that?”
He garners a few curious looks from around the table, but none quite as obvious as Smith’s.
“Eat your cornbread,” I whisper through a clenched smile.
I hold my phone underneath the table and open the text.
Martin: We need to talk.
Penny: Now isn’t a good time.
Martin: Before dessert?
Penny: IDK
I make a show of putting my phone on silent and turning it facedown on the table as Marie brings out the salad course. I shovel a few bites into my mouth and keep an eye on Martin to make sure he eats something too. My understanding of how marijuana affects the body is limited at best, but at least if Martin is eating, he isn’t talking.
A walnut flies across the table and hits me on the cheek. Across the table, Phoebe points at my phone and motions for me to turn it over. She’s about as subtle as a mime on acid, but my parents don’t notice. They’re too busy listening to my doppelg?nger to realize that a quarter of the table is completely stoned.
I grab my phone and once again make sure to keep it out of Martin’s view.
Phoebe: R U hi 2?
Oh, Phoebe. I only wish I could record this moment and savor it later on when I’m not in charge of stopping a grown man from making an ass out of himself in front of his boss.
Penny: No
“Do you smell that, Silvia?” My father lifts his nose in the air like a bloodhound trying to catch a scent. “I think that skunk is back again. You know, we’ve had the worst time with skunks lately.”
My mother’s face turns as red as a brick. “No, Carter. I don’t smell anything.”
It’s the worst lie ever. The dead can smell the weed on Martin’s jacket.
“Really? You don’t smell anything?” My father appears utterly befuddled. “Mother, what about you?”
Half the table shifts their attention to Nana Rosie.
“Oh, it’s definitely a skunk,” Nana Rosie replies without breaking a sweat. “I was talking with Alice next door, and she thinks there’s a family of them squatting in the neighborhood.”
“Do skunks normally travel with their families?” My mother shoots Nana Rosie a sideways look. “They always seemed like solitary animals to me.”
“Of course they have families,” Nana Rosie fires back. “Do you think baby skunks just fall from the sky?”
“Like ninjas,” Martin says with a mouthful of cornbread.
“What was that, Martin?” my father asks.
“Skunks are ninjas,” Martin replies.
“They certainly are. Every time I go out there, the little bastards completely vanish. If it wasn’t for that god-awful smell, I’d never even know they existed.”
“You should do a stakeout.” Martin smacks the table enthusiastically. “You could set up a tent and wait for them to show themselves, or if you’re afraid to sleep outside, you could put up some cameras. You should probably have some cameras in the backyard anyway to make sure nobody breaks into Nana Rosie’s weed house.”
“Weed house?” my father asks slowly.
“He means seed house,” Falon blurts out. “Nana Rosie keeps heirloom seeds in there. They’re very valuable.”
My phone screen lights up with a text.
Nana Rosie: Penny, dear, please change the subject before I write you and your sister out of my will and leave my remaining fortune to build a skunk sanctuary by the beach. Love, Nana.
I’m not built for this kind of pressure. I’m not the person you call to make sure that a dinner party doesn’t go off the rails. I’m the one who does the derailing.
I scan the table for a lifeline. I just need someone I can volley a question to and change the subject. Phoebe and Falon are out. Phoebe can barely keep her eyes open, and Falon looks like she’s afraid of her own shadow. Martin’s useless, and I’d rather talk about skunk ninjas than listen to Smith right now. Mom and Nana Rosie are eyeing each other like rival mob bosses, which means my only real lifeline here is Sarah.
Oh, goody.
“So, Sarah, you mentioned you had an early flight tomorrow,” I say. “Where are you going?”
She drops her fork and puts her hand to her chest as if I just called her name from the podium of the Golden Globes. “A couple of places,” she says excitedly. “First I’m going to Denver to attend this big expo for work.”
“What do you do for work?” Look at me asking a follow-up question. I’m basically Barbara Walters.
“I’m a baby-name consultant.”
“A what?” My father scratches his head. “Did you say you’re a name consultant?”
“That’s right.” She nods. “I help expecting parents come up with names for their new babies and fur babies.”
“Fur babies?” Nana Rosie asks. “Honey, do you mean dogs and cats?”
“Among other furry and even scaly family members.”
“I’m struggling to follow this conversation,” Martin whispers in my ear. “Is it because I’m high?”
“Nope.” I shake my head.
“What does that mean?” my mother asks. “I mean, what exactly is it that you do?”
Sarah informs us that for a fee of anywhere between $50 and $300, she provides parents-to-be with a curated list of baby names to choose from. People message her through her social media platforms and provide her with a list of their likes and dislikes when it comes to names. She then scours social security records and vintage yearbooks to build a list of possible names. Depending on the level of service paid for, Sarah will continue to meet with the new parents until the perfect name has been selected.
“And you support yourself doing this kind of work?” my mother asks.
“Oh, yes,” Sarah replies. “It started out as a hobby, but it quickly turned into a full-time job. I was just named to Forbes 30 Under 30. Can you believe it?”
No.
I can’t believe any of this. She’s young, smart, and rich. She’s also freakishly unjaded by having to spend a holiday with her boyfriend’s ex-wife and her family. I want to hate this woman with every fiber of my being, but she’s making it damn near impossible.
“That sounds absolutely fascinating,” my father says. “And where will you be off to after that?”
“Dubai.”
My heart stops.
“Smith’s family has been going there for years for the holidays.” She rests her head on his shoulder. “Since I wasn’t able to meet his sister here, we’re going to spend Christmas with her in Dubai. I’ve never been before, but Smith says the beaches are brilliant.”
“They are,” I say so softly that only Martin can hear me.
If there is any place that Sarah would ever be completely within her rights to describe as magical, it’s Dubai. Dubai was my magic place, and now just like my old engagement ring, it’s going to be hers.
Chapter 19
Thanksgiving 2011:
The One with Fruit Salad
This year is different.
This year I’m eight thousand miles away from Marie’s Thanksgiving buffet, Nana Rosie’s famous pies, and my parents’ infamous judgment. This year it’s not even really Thanksgiving at all because this year my husband and I are in Dubai with his family, which is now my family. Our family. This year, we’re with our family, and I’ve never been happier.