Amelia skipped a beat. “No reason.”
“Don’t be coy,” Liz said, and speared a nibble of her scrambled egg. Wondering.
And just like that, it hit her. She didn’t need Amelia to explain, nor did she want her to. If the words were said out loud she would have to acknowledge them, and if she acknowledged them they would feel all too true. Irrevocable.
Liz didn’t realize she had dropped her fork until it clattered on the table. Making an excuse about the UPS man at the door, she hung up quickly. Then she sat very still, hands folded neatly in her lap, eggs forgotten. Could it be true?
Quinn was pregnant. Or, no, not yet. She was trying to become so. The syringe, her obvious agitation when Liz showed up on her doorstep. (Okay, in her living room, but the house was Liz’s, surely she was allowed to pop in.) Maybe Quinn and Walker were struggling? Liz had never had any trouble conceiving; in fact, Quinn had been a surprise. Not a mistake, mind you, but having the girls twelve months apart and only two years after JJ had made for several rowdy seasons at the Sanford home. Liz had her tubes tied after Quinn was delivered, and she never regretted it. But though she had been fertile and experienced relatively easy pregnancies, she knew that not all women had it so good.
“Oh, Quinn,” Liz murmured, absently picking up her plate and fork and carrying them to the kitchen. She scraped the cold eggs into the garbage disposal and ran it while she washed her dishes. One sad little cup from when she woke up, one plate, one fork. Life wasn’t meant to be lived alone, Liz thought as she toweled off the three pieces and put them away. Even her cutlery knew that one was a melancholy number.
A party. The thought came into her mind unbidden and certainly unexpected. How long had it been since she had thrown a party? Two years at least, for there hadn’t been a single get-together at the Sanford home since Jack Sr. had passed away. It felt wrong somehow, too festive, too bright. How long was one supposed to mourn? There was no handbook for this sort of thing.
But, oh, did Liz know how to throw a party.
Champagne and cocktails and hors d’oeuvres that Liz had whipped up in minutes but that looked as if she had spent hours preparing. Flaked white fish with chiles and sesame, sliced zucchini with goat cheese and mint, heirloom tomatoes from her garden with a drizzle of balsamic vinegar and fresh mozzarella. Her designer talents extended to food and festivities, and Sanford parties were extravagant affairs in Key Lake. Their house was built on a bluff overlooking the water, and from the long boat dock to the flat yard above there were forty-two steps that arched up in three zigzagging staircases. All along those weather-worn boards Liz had hung Christmas lights, tiny white globes that glittered merrily in invitation whenever she was entertaining. Lights meant a gathering, but it was only a public party when the flag was flying at the end of the dock.
It used to be a rainbow flag—before Liz realized that the gays had claimed that particular symbol. “Mother,” Nora groaned when she heard why the rainbow flag had ended up in the garbage. She turned Liz’s title into two syllables that sounded exactly like something that should not be uttered in the presence of a lady. But Liz didn’t care. She bought a new flag, one with the nautical symbol for S. It was neat and clean and simple: white with a blue square in the middle. And it meant Sanford. Because she liked to claim what was hers.
Yes, Liz decided, looking out over the lake and the handful of boats that dotted the dazzlingly blue water. She would put the flag out. Maybe the vacationers wouldn’t know what it meant, but the residents of Key Lake had long memories. Liz knew that they would come. For the food, for the chance to sit in the vividly painted Adirondack chairs that lined the patio where Jack Sr. had once sat and held court with stories only he could tell.
A party would cost her more than she should spend, but Liz still had several one hundred dollar bills rolled up in her underwear drawer from the secret interior design jobs that she had taken from time to time when her husband was alive. Jack didn’t like her working, but sometimes people came begging for her magic touch, the unique combination of color and contour and light that she could bring to a room. Liz had done it on the sly, hiding the money and insisting that her clients hold their tongues. After Jack passed she could have started her own little business, but it felt like an affront to his memory. She never consulted again.
Liz’s underwear drawer looked like the counter in an upscale lingerie store. Her panties were carefully fanned so that she could extract the pair she wanted, her bras were laid out in order by color and style. The only thing out of place was an old Republic of Tea tin that was slid into the farthest recess of the drawer. When Liz popped the top she was disappointed to find that what she thought would be several bills was only two. But it was August, and she could lean heavily on produce from her garden. Lemonade and vodka would make an easy drink she could mix in volume. A single case of champagne and flowers from her yard arranged in vases she already owned would add a touch of flair. It would work. She would make it work.
It was a flimsy plan, as thin and fragile as gauze. But it was all that Liz had. If she was going to save her daughter from ruining her own life, Liz had to start somewhere. Best case scenario, Quinn would see the error of her ways and remember the love that she had left behind. Reclaim the life she could have had. Leave Walker? Is that what Liz really wanted? Maybe. But she hardly dared to hope. And because she was a realist, she knew that the most she could reasonably wish for was a concession or two. Maybe Quinn could be convinced to settle herself, put down some roots, return to the sweet, simple girl she once had been. At the very least, their relationship could be resurrected.
The best way she knew to begin was by reminding Quinn of the life she had left behind. Surely it hadn’t all been bad.
Once, when Quinn was almost a woman herself, tall and thin and lovely in the way of all eighteen-year-olds, she had accused Liz of taking sides.
“You always put him before us!”
“Him?” Liz was only half paying attention. She was on her knees in the garden, a wire basket of green beans in the dirt beside her. The beans weren’t important, and Liz didn’t make a habit of disregarding her children, but Quinn had warmed recently to the role of victim and Liz wasn’t about to encourage it. Self-pity was a slippery slope, and Liz considered it her motherly duty to hold her daughter’s hand. Firmly.
“Dad.” Quinn threw up her arms in anger or defeat, Liz couldn’t tell. “He’s manipulative and controlling. He’s been reading my emails again, Mom. That’s not okay.”
“He’s your father, Quinn.”