She holds a hand to her heart. “Jill, a burn? Let me get some aloe.”
The last thing I need is her coddling. Having spent much of my childhood with my walk-it-off dad, not to mention rough-and-tumble Max, I’ve developed a higher-than-average tolerance for pain. Besides, the cold water helped, and upon second inspection, the burn doesn’t seem so bad after all. “I’m fine,” I say. “Besides, I’ve got dozens of sugar cookies to finish before tonight, and then there are the peanut butter bars and pecan sandies, plus the pumpkin spice snickerdoodles I want to make for fun.”
She gives me an awed smile. Meredith doesn’t cook anything for fun. She’s the prepackaged angel food cake of housewives: light and airy, easily influenced by bolder flavors.
“Will you still be able to make the brownies?”
There’s a sigh building in my chest, but I swallow it. Sliding one of the salvageable cookies from the baking sheet with a spatula, I deposit it on a wire cooling rack. “As long as I start melting the chocolate soon.”
She attempts to straighten a cluster of glass magnets on the fridge. Her hands flutter and flit, shuffling them into a jumble as she says, “You saw the list your father left before he went into work, right? He put it on the dining room table this morning so you wouldn’t miss it.”
Because I spend loads of time in the formal dining room. Good thinking, Dad.
Meredith bustles out of the room, presumably to recover the list that’s so important my dad left it in a room nobody sets foot in. I sneak a nibble of the crumbled cookie rejects, then dump them into a Tupperware container in case I need a snack later—they look awful, but taste amazing. Then I retrieve another mound of cookie dough from the fridge. I’m rolling it across a dusting of flour when Meredith returns, waving a sheet of yellow legal paper.
“Okay, here it is,” she says, skimming the list. She hesitates. “I can help.”
I fight an eye roll. “You shouldn’t even be off the couch. Just read it.”
“So … the tree needs to be decorated, the winter village needs to be set up, the mistletoe needs to be hung, coolers need to be moved down to the basement, and when you get done with all that…” She pauses until I look up from my dough, then smiles in the way that’s sometimes helpful in exploiting my dad, but has little impact on me. “Maybe you can take care of the hors d’oeuvres?”
I set my rolling pin on the counter—gently. “Meredith!”
She’s already got a hand in the air. “I know it’s a lot. But the tree’s up and the hors d’oeuvres just need to be heated and set out—I can definitely help with that.”
She should be helping—this is her party. She talks my dad into it year after year. We should know our community, Jake. It’s good for networking, Jake. People expect it, Jake. And this year: Who cares if I’m pregnant, Jake? Jillian can help!
I pick up my rolling pin and resume my work with an urgency I lacked before, because I can do this—I can help my parents maintain tradition, a night of normalcy in a year that’s been anything but. Besides, this party’s as important to Dad as it is to Meredith. He never misses out on a chance to make business connections, hobnob with the neighbors, and put his party basement to use. I’m more than willing to surrender an afternoon to helping out if the result is his satisfaction.
“I’ll ask Kyle to come over,” I tell Meredith. Football season’s over (the boys lost their third-round play-off game—a heartbreaker) and I’m sure he’ll be willing to help out.
She grins. “I knew I could count on you.”
*
Kyle breezes in shortly after I call, a cloud of cologne and lively chatter. He leaps into the role of sous-chef, and when the peanut butter bars are cooling, the last batch of cookies is iced, and the brownies are baking at three hundred twenty-five degrees, we tackle decorating.
He’s putting the finishing touches on the winter village—miniature people, smiles frozen and ceramic—and I’m teetering on a chair, trying to fasten a sprig of mistletoe to the archway between the living room and the front hall, when Meredith appears, belly first, flushed and breathless. “Jillian, I’m in crisis mode!”
My thoughts soar to the baby and I nearly fall off my chair. “What’s wrong?!”
“I need you to play Bunco tonight.”
I prop a hand on my hip. “Jeez, Meredith! I thought you were in labor!”
She touches her stomach, confused. “Of course not—the baby’s months from ready. The Robertsons just canceled because Jackie has the flu. I’ve got to have you to fill the table.”
Only in Meredith’s world would uneven Bunco tables equate crisis. “Uh, no thanks.”
She gives me a pouty face. “Please! You’re my only hope.”
“Meredith, no way.” Bunco’s mindless, all about luck and a shot at winning a few bucks, and tonight’s guest list averages well beyond my age bracket. “The game will go on, even without the Robertsons.”
“But there should be four people playing at each table,” she says. “Otherwise everything will be thrown off.”
This is technically true. Though players are forever moving seats and changing partners, the game flows best with quartets. That’s why Meredith invited thirty-two people to come over tonight. But that doesn’t mean the game’s going to fall apart if only thirty show up.
“It is sort of annoying to play with empty seats,” Kyle remarks unhelpfully.
I shoot him a dark look. “Even if I play, we’re still short a person.”
“I’d fill in,” he says, “but there’s this root canal I’ve gotta get.…”
“Ha-ha,” I deadpan.
“It’s okay,” Meredith says, waving off our banter. “I talked to Marcy. Max’ll play.”
Incredulity voids my mind of suitable responses.
Kyle’s eyes are wide. “Max? Really? Becky’s cool with that?”
I manage to find my voice. “Uh … is Dad cool with that?”
“Jill, your father knows how important this party is. And Max told Marcy he’s fine with filling in, but only if you play, too.”
Wait—what? Why would Max care if I play? We’ve said perhaps twelve words to each other since our post-football-practice encounter a few weeks ago. I tilt my head, considering.
“Oh, just play, Jill,” Kyle says, sprinkling fake snow crystals over his winter scene.
“Please?” Meredith says. “I really need you.”
I toy with the sprig of mistletoe I’m still clutching.… If Max is getting in on Bunco Night, and if my joining the game means a tally on the Get Back on Dad’s Good Side scorecard I started after Halloween, well … “Fine,” I say, jabbing a thumbtack through ribbon and drywall. “I’ll play.”
Meredith smiles victoriously before toddling back to the kitchen. I hop off the chair and sink onto the couch with a sigh.
Kyle flops down beside me. “What’s with the attitude? It’s just Bunco.”
“Bunco sucks.”