“He just had to play eighteen holes. I lost eighteen dollars and had to buy him a beer.”
“A dollar a hole?”
Adam nodded his head. “Pissed me off.” He was accustomed to winning. Well, not really, but for reasons obvious to me, he didn’t like losing to Carl.
“So it’s safe to assume you’ll be taking golf lessons starting tomorrow?”
“I’m meeting the pro late this afternoon on the putting green.”
“That’s so great! Why not take the boys?”
“Eliza, this is serious. I can’t have them driving me crazy when I’m trying to concentrate.”
“Oh, okay.” I looked into his eyes. “I never knew you to be so competitive.”
“Between us? This is war.”
chapter 4
eliza’s merry christmas
home on the stono, 1994
Luke and Max were out of school for their winter break. None of the schools called it Christmas Holidays anymore because not everyone celebrated Christmas. Everyone in America, or so it seemed, was suddenly twisting themselves inside out trying to be politically correct. Call the season what you like, but it was the end of another year and most people were feeling celebratory. And it had been a darned productive year for our little family.
I had a bumper crop of vegetables pickled in jars and in the freezer, and I was working on that cookbook I’d always wanted to write. Adam had the most profitable year in his business’s history and bought us matching red SUVs. The boys had started kindergarten that prior August and their first semester had been one of many challenges and small victories. They made lots of new friends and took up hand-bell ringing and Bitty Basketball, the sport redesigned for kids under four feet. Because they were like asparagus in a field of sprouts, my twins were the stars of the team. But they were not exactly the descendants of Mozart, so when they performed in what was billed as a winter concert, they didn’t distinguish themselves for the right reason. They somehow stayed a little behind the class, ringing with dramatic enthusiasm a few seconds after it was their turn to chime in, causing lots of tittering among the audience members. Of course, Adam and I nearly burst with pride watching them onstage. I blotted my eyes with a tissue, surprised at my tidal wave of emotion, while Adam held his movie camera over our heads, hoping to capture the boys on film. After the concert the little rascals were officially on vacation, free from the extraordinary stresses of elementary school until the first week of January. They were practically convulsing with excitement over what Santa might bring and on the best behavior of their young lives thus far.
The afternoon of December 16 found them on barstools in our kitchen at home under my watchful eyes. Dozens of cookies doused with liberal shakes of green and red sprinkles were cooling on wire racks strewn across the counters. They were the same type the boys had proudly given their teachers as a holiday gift, and this batch was destined for Mr. Proctor and for our few neighbors. But for the moment, Max and Luke were stringing popcorn for our enormous Christmas tree, which they had cut down with their father in the deep woods on our property. I was a little nervous about them handling needles, but so far there was no blood.
“You boys are doing a fine job, but be careful, okay?” I said.
“We handle fish hooks and they’re much worse,” Max said.
“Dad does that. Not you,” Luke said in a whisper.
Max knitted his eyebrows together, disappointed that his twin had exposed his exaggeration of the facts. Luke usually agreed with whatever he said. Had something changed?
“Tell Luke to quit eating all the popcorn! There won’t be enough for the tree!” Max said in revenge.
“But I like popcorn!” Luke said with a frown. “And besides, I’m—”
“Starving?” I laughed. “Oh, Luke.” I tousled his hair and said, “Precious child. I can always make more.”
Adam had taken the week off too. He was in the next room, all snug in his favorite recliner reading Field & Stream while the fireplace hissed and crackled from the flaming logs our caretaker had chopped for us. The enormous family room was where we congregated because it was the most comfortable. There was a game table, three deep sofas, and several club chairs. There was always a jigsaw puzzle in progress and stacks of magazines, as we subscribed to many. Hundreds of books lined the shelves, with framed photographs interspersed between inexpensive but nice replicas of antique Chinese blue and white ceramics. And of course, the biggest television in captivity stood opposite the fireplace. Adam loved his new television. The New York Philharmonic’s rendition of holiday favorites filled the air with music streaming from the discreetly placed speakers of our mini stereo system. The disposition of the Stanley household was just right.
I was humming along with the music and going through the mail, opening holiday cards and stacking catalogs to recycle.
“Oh! Adam? Look here. We got a card from Eve and Carl. It has one of those annual newsletters in it.”
“Really? Read it to me,” Adam said, trying to sound blasé.
He was fooling no one.
“It’s three pages long,” I said.
“Well then, just give me the highlights,” Adam said.
Who has three pages of news about themselves? I said to myself as I began to read. The largest section was a chronicle of all their daughter’s activities. She had started school too. Daphne was artistic and becoming quite the little ballerina and only wanted tutus from Santa. My eyes traveled to the what we did on summer vacation part of the letter. I was astonished to read Eve’s feelings about us.
. . . as unpredictable winds seem to blow throughout our lives like the breath of Mischief itself, we had the occasion to connect with an old, dear, and precious friend of mine and to become friends with his beautiful family. We have never enjoyed a family vacation as much as we did during the brief period we were their neighbors at Wild Dunes on the Isle of Palms.
I wondered if Carl felt the same way, because he had flirted with me relentlessly throughout our stay on the island. Naturally, I’d been flattered, but I quickly recognized I wasn’t getting special treatment, as he spouted the same nonsense to every waitress, checkout girl, and any other female we encountered. When I realized he considered himself to be an intergalactically ranked Don Juan, I began to think of his ridiculous flattery as actually very funny. Still, I wondered what part he had in choosing the wording of Eve’s holiday letter. He probably didn’t even know she’d written one.
“Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit,” I said to the room in my best southern accent.
“Mom! You said ‘butt’!” Luke said.
Max began to singsong my words and Luke joined in. Butter my butt and call me a biscuit rang through the air like a doorbell that wouldn’t stop ringing until Adam called them down.
“That’s enough!” he said.