“Sounds good. I’m just going to wash my hands.” He heads for the powder room, and I go to the kitchen to grab the bottle and some glasses. I pour us each a couple of fingers with a single ice cube and get back to the living room just as he is settling into the couch, with his new girlfriend Simca at his side. I hand him the glass and sit on his other side. We clink and I sip the strong liquid, making a smooth, fiery hole in my full belly. It never ceases to amaze me how this stuff can cut through a huge meal.
Shawn pulls out his phone and shows me his photos of the buffet at his aunt’s house, and I’m instantly jealous. It looks like magic. Turkey and a huge glazed ham. Mashed potatoes and potato salad, candied yams. Two kinds of stuffing, macaroni and cheese, green bean casserole, and a huge pot of greens. Something called green salad, which appears to feature lime Jell-O, and a bowl of ambrosia. A huge basket of biscuits, apparently his aunt Elsie’s specialty, and another basket of his mom’s rolls. The dessert table has four different pies on it—pecan, sweet potato, apple, and banana cream—as well as a towering coconut cake, a chocolate cake, and a huge platter of cookies.
“I’m so jealous. That looks amazing,” I say when he finishes scrolling through the pictures and pointing out his family members with little funny stories about each.
“I dunno, there is something about a quiet dinner without a million people that sounds kind of nice.”
I laugh. “That’s the same thing my boss said this morning. I guess we always want the opposite of what we have.”
“I don’t want anything other than what I have right here,” he says, leaning in for a kiss. I feel the electric shocks all the way to my toes.
We kiss for what seems like an hour before I can’t stand it anymore. I pull away. “Did you want to come upstairs?”
He looks me in my eyes and nods. “Yes, Eloise, I would like that very much.”
? ? ?
I open the fridge and start grabbing tubs. Mashed potatoes, stuffing, the bag of turkey.
“I’m gonna need sweet potatoes too,” Shawn says, snuggling up behind me and kissing my neck.
“Well, naturally,” I say, reaching for the tub of sweet potatoes.
We stand at the island, me in my robe, Shawn in his boxer briefs, and eat as if we’ve been starved for weeks. Feeding each other turkey with our fingers, chunks of cold stuffing dunked in cranberry sauce. I microwave the two kinds of potatoes while Shawn opens the bag of rolls, making us little sandwiches with a smear of gravy on the bread. When we have feasted on leftovers, Shawn reaches for me and kisses me hard—he tastes of sage and cranberries—and he pulls me back upstairs, where, fortified by our midnight snack, we show each other how very thankful two people can be.
Just before I fall asleep I think that there are two very important things I know for sure. Number one, Shawn Sudberry-Long is a spectacular and generous lover, and if there is a shoe that is going to drop, it is not going to be in bed.
And two, there is going to be pie for breakfast.
Twelve
I’m checking the cooler bag against my list. I’ve got a baguette, a chunk of a triple-crème Brie and a slab of aged Gouda, a tub of cold fried chicken legs, a green bean salad with new potatoes and roasted cherry tomatoes, a bunch of grapes, and a thermos of white gazpacho. Plates, plasticware, napkins. Marcy is bringing desserts, Lynne is bringing wine, and Teresa is just excited to be getting out of the house, now that she can drive again. Her ankle is healing slowly, but the doctor said that as long as she uses the big hard boot for walking or doing anything where she is exposed, she can use the smaller fabric boot for driving or hanging out in the house.
We celebrated her freedom on Tuesday night with a visit to Opart Thai House, where I introduced her to the magic of brilliantly prepared Thai dishes for the first time. She really loved the appetizers, especially the Tiger Cry, a marinated grilled beef with a spicy dipping sauce, as well as the chicken and eggplant in oyster sauce, and pad kra praow, a ground-pork dish with basil and peppers, which felt almost familiar to her—it has a background that tastes a bit like crumbled Italian fennel sausage. She liked the pad Thai, which she thought her youngest would really enjoy, and was sure that Gio would at least get into the various satays and embrace the broccoli and beef. She didn’t love the curry, but that is advanced reading. I was delighted that she was so open to tasting and that she had a good time. Lynne had a business dinner, so it was the first time Teresa and I had been alone together, and it struck me how easy and comfortable it was just to be with her, with who she is now. We didn’t really speak much about the past, just about current stuff, and I have to say, she is exactly who I would have hoped she’d be as a grown-up, and I know if I met her today I would want to be friends with her.
Simca gives a little yip as she always does when she hears the front gate unlatch. In ten seconds my doorbell is ringing.
“Hello, ladies!” Marcy says, coming in and shaking the light snow off her head. “It is like a snow globe out there.” She hands me a bag that contains a large box. “Desserts.”
I peer inside, but the box is sealed. “What do we have?”
“Toffee chip cookies, pine nut shortbread, raspberry oatmeal bars.” She rattles them off. “Sophie says hi and thank you for the onion kuchen recipe, she really appreciated the share. Sent you a Nutella babka as a present.” Marcy hands over a second, smaller bag that feels like a brick. Sophie Langer’s Nutella babka is about the most perfect food I’ve ever put in my mouth. It will make for a wonderful breakfast treat the next time Shawn sleeps over, which he has done three nights out of the past six. We cannot get enough of each other, both in and out of bed, and I’ve just given myself over to enjoying his company and carnal attentions.
“It was my pleasure, and I never say no to babka. My grandmother would be very excited that someone wanted her recipe.”
“Are they meeting us there?” Marcy asks. I think she is very curious about Lynne and Teresa, especially since she knows about the bet. She also knows about Shawn—not that it’s feeling serious to me or that we’ve slept together, just that we have seen each other “a couple of times” and that I find his company enjoyable. Not ready to let that cat out of the bag, and have sworn her to secrecy for tonight with the girls.
“Yep, Teresa is picking Lynne up on her way down to the studio.” Tonight the four of us are doing a glassblowing class as part of my bet obligations. We’re allowed to bring in food and drink. The class will be about twelve people altogether, so I get to check the “socialize with strangers” box, but still have my peeps as backup. I’m more nervous about the wine tasting I’ve scheduled for next week, since that one I have to do all on my own. At least there will be drinking.
“Well, let’s get this party started!”
? ? ?
It looks like a vagina,” Marcy says to Teresa, looking at her paperweight cooling in the asbestos-lined box with the rest of the class’s efforts. There is indeed an internal design of somewhat Georgia O’Keeffe sensibility.