Beverly led us through the living room. It was simply furnished, a little cluttered, with Jonah’s beautiful glass pieces displayed on side tables, bookshelves and windowsills. A gallery of photos on one wall showed Theo’s artwork—he’d been a talent since he was a toddler—and Theo and Jonah at every stage of life: Little League, school portraits, prom pictures. Mugging side-by-side from preschool to adolescence, one smiling bright, the other making a face or scowling.
“You’ve been adorable your whole life,” I said, pausing to examine a middle school photo, Jonah’s teeth obscured by braces.
“Let’s move along, nothing to see here,” he said, gently dragging me to the kitchen.
Theo sat at the island, its counter brown speckled granite that matched the backsplash. The cabinets were a warm, scuffed white. Like the living room, the kitchen was simple and cluttered. The heart of the house, filled with warm, comforting smells and good food. The last of my nervousness fell away, and I went to wrap my arms around Theo from behind and kiss his cheek.
“Good to see you, Teddy.” He smelled good—a clean, sharp cologne over the softer smell of his soap.
He tolerated my hug and kiss, and hunched further over his beer bottle.
Beverly shut the oven door and shot me a knowing smile. “Theodore is named after my husband’s great–grandfather, who went by Teddy. But Theo refuses to answer to it. Right, honey?”
Theo’s jaw clenched. “Not that anyone fucking listens.”
“Language,” said a voice at the kitchen door. Mr. Fletcher joined us at the island. He was a tall, slender man, with dark hair graying on the sides. He stuck his hand out to me as if I were a potential business partner. “Henry Fletcher,” he said, giving a firm shake. “A pleasure, young lady.”
Jonah shot me an amused look, but I nodded politely. “Thank you, sir. It’s nice to meet you.”
“No sirs here. You can call me Henry or Henry.” He winked. “Whichever you prefer.”
“Something to drink, dear?” Beverly asked, opening the fridge. “I have beer, soda, wine. I picked up O’Douls for you, Jonah.”
“I’ll have one of those, too,” I said.
Beverly handed the green bottles to us. “The night is so lovely, I thought we’d eat in the back yard. Do you mind, Kacey? We can stay indoors if you prefer.” A nervous lilt wove through her words. And her hands never stopped moving. Fussing, arranging, doing.
“Outdoors is perfect,” I said.
“Wonderful,” she said. “I’ll turn on the lanterns Jonah made his first year at Carnegie. You’ve never seen anything so beautiful in your life.”
“They really are something,” Henry said.
“I believe it,” I said. “Jonah’s work is astonishing.”
Jonah waved his hand. “Enough.”
“Astonishing, yes,” Beverly said, her eyes resting on her son.
“And an ample payoff of the tuition investment,” Henry added.
“Dad,” Jonah said quietly.
Theo’s muscled shoulders hunched and he took a slow, deliberate pull from his beer bottle.
“I’m merely stating a fact,” Henry continued. “The arts isn’t an easy sector to make a living in. One has to direct one’s talents appropriately.”
“And not squander them working at a tattoo parlor,” Theo said.
Like a stick wedged into a gear, the levity of the room came to a screeching halt. Henry and Theo exchanged long, hard glances.
“Who wants to help me set the table?” Beverly asked, her voice taking on a shrill edge. She reached into a cabinet and lifted down a stack of plates.
“I got it.” Theo took them from her hands and shouldered out the door toward the patio.
“I’ll help too,” I said, taking napkins and silverware and following.
Mrs. Fletcher beamed, and the night was rolling again.
“Wonderful!”
The outdoor dining table sat beneath a pergola, clusters of glass globes hanging down like elegant fruit. Here we ate lasagna, bread, and a green salad. Solid, homecooked food. The kind of meal my mother made when I was a kid. But dinnertime at my house was a sullen, cold event where I was always talking too loud, even when I wasn’t speaking. My father’s stony, oppressive presence turned the good food to dust in my mouth.
The Fletchers’ table was full of laughter, nonstop talking and bickering. A bit of silent tension lingered between Theo and Henry, but Beverly defused it with stories of her sons’ youth that had me choking on my bread.
“I swear,” she said, pouring herself a glass of cabernet. Her third, I noticed. “Lake Tahoe has an enormous beach. Plenty of sand for everyone. Millions of grains, and these two fought over one bucketful.”
I nudged Jonah on my right. “You fought over sand at the beach?”
“So speaketh an only child,” Jonah said. “Sand appropriation is critical to four and six year olds.” He glanced at Theo with a sly smile. “So are imaginary butterflies.”
Theo jabbed his fork in Jonah’s direction. “Don’t even.”
Jonah ignored him. “Once, Theo got pissed at me because he caught an imaginary butterfly and I let it get away.”
Theo reached across the table to poke his brother with the fork. “Shut. Up.”
“I love this story,” Beverly sighed.