We were saved from an uncomfortable silence by the arrival of our food. It took a few minutes to distribute and get started on consuming, but that brief time was enough. Mary sighed, stabbing a fried potato.
“We could have beer.” She shrugged. “Get a keg.”
“A couple bottles of wine,” said Patricia grudgingly. “And we’d have to have champagne, I guess. To toast. It’s been thirty years. I guess they deserve a toast. Don’t they?”
They were all looking at me to decide. My fork hovered over the omelet my stomach was deciding it no longer wanted. They wanted me to say yes or no, to make the choice for them. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want that responsibility.
“Anne,” said Claire at last. “We’ll all be there. It’ll be okay.”
I nodded once firmly, the sharp action hurting my neck. “Fine. Sure. Of course. Beer, wine, champagne. James can set up a bar outside and make mixed drinks. He likes that.”
We all said nothing for another long moment. I imagined I felt relief from my sisters at not having to be the ones to make the choice, but perhaps it was only my imagination.
“Now. What about the guest list?” I said, my voice firm as I took charge.
Keeping the surface polished.
I wanted James to refuse to have the party at our house, but, of course, he thought it was a great idea. He was at the grill with a beer in one hand and the tongs in the other when I broached the subject. His apron had a picture of a decapitated, bikini-clad woman imprinted on the front. Her breasts bulged every time he lifted his arms.
“Sounds great. We could rent a tent in case the weather’s bad. It’ll give some shade, too.”
The scent of sizzling steaks should have made my mouth water, but my stomach was too twisted for me to appreciate it. “It will be a lot of work.”
“We’ll hire help. Don’t worry about it.” James flipped the steaks expertly and lifted the lid on the bubbling pot of corn.
Watching him, the master in front of his superfab-andgroovy grill, I let a small smile tug my mouth. James needed step-by-step instructions to make microwave oatmeal, but he fancied himself the Iron Chef of outdoor cooking.
“It will still be a lot of work.”
He looked at me then, finally getting it. “Anne, if you don’t want to have it here, why didn’t you say so?”
“My sisters outvoted me. They all want a pit beef barbecue, and this is the only place to have it. Besides,” I conceded, “even if we rent a tent and hire people to serve and clean up, it will still be cheaper than having it at a catering hall. And … we do have a nice place.”
I looked around. Our house and property were more than nice. A lakefront home with its own stretch of beach, privacy and seclusion, surrounded by pine trees. One of the first homes built along the shore road, the house itself had belonged to James’s grandparents. Others on the road were selling in the high nine hundreds and above, but we’d paid nothing. They’d left it to James in their will. It was small and worn, but clean and bright and most importantly, ours. My husband might build luxury half mansions for everyone else, but I preferred our little bungalow with the personal touches.
James slid the steaks onto a platter and brought them to the table. “Only if you want to, babe. I don’t care, one way or another.”
It would have been so much easier if he had. If he’d put his foot down and demanded we host my parents’ party someplace else. If he’d taken the choice from me, I could’ve blamed him for making what I wanted come true.
“No.” I sighed as he slapped an immense portion of beef onto my plate. “We’ll have it here.”
The steak was good, the corn crisp and sweet. I’d made a salad with in-season strawberries and vinaigrette dressing, and crusty French bread rolls. We ate like kings as James told me about the new work site, the problems he was having with some of the guys on his crew, about his parents’ plans for a family vacation.
“When do they think that’s going to happen?” I paused in cutting my steak.
James shrugged, pouring himself another glass of red wine. He didn’t ask me if I wanted any; he’d stopped asking long ago. “I don’t know. Sometime this summer, I guess.”
“You guess? Well, did they think to ask any of us when we might like to go? Or if we want to go?”
Another shrug. He wouldn’t have thought of it. “I don’t know, Anne. It’s just something my mom mentioned. Maybe sometime over the fourth.”
“Well,” I said, buttering a roll to give my hands a reason not to clench. “We can’t go away with them this summer. You know we can’t. I wish you’d just told her that up front.”
James sighed. “Anne—”
I looked up. “You didn’t tell her we’d go, did you?”
“I didn’t tell her we’d go.”
“But you didn’t tell her we wouldn’t.” I frowned. It was typical and unsurprising, and right now, immeasurably more irritating.
James chewed in silence and washed down his food with wine. He cut more steak. He poured steak sauce.
I, too, said nothing. It wasn’t as easy for me but had come about from long practice. It became a waiting game.
“What do you want me to tell her?” he asked, finally.
“The truth, James. The same thing you told me. That we couldn’t take a vacation this summer because you’ve got that new development going in and you need to be on-site. That we’re planning on using your vacation time to go skiing this winter, instead. That we can’t go. That we don’t want to go!”
“I’m not saying that.” He wiped his mouth and crumpled his napkin, then threw it on his plate where it soaked up steak sauce like blood.
“You’d better tell her something,” I said sourly. “Before she books the trip.”
He sighed again and leaned back in his chair. He ran a hand over his head. “Yeah. I know.”
I didn’t want to be fighting with him about this. Especially since I wasn’t really tense about his mother, but about hosting my parents’ anniversary party. It all cycled around, though, a snake eating its own tail. Feeling pressured into doing something I didn’t want to do for people I didn’t want to please.
James reached across the table and grabbed my hand. His thumb passed over the back of it. “I’ll tell her.”
Three words and such a simple sentiment, but some of the weight dropped from my shoulders. I squeezed his hand. We shared a smile. He tugged me gently, pulling me closer, and we kissed over the remains of our dinner.
“Mmm. Steak sauce.” He licked his lips. “Wonder what else that would taste good on.”
“Don’t even think about it,” I warned.
James laughed and kissed me again, lingering though the position was awkward. “I’d have to lick it all off ….”
“That sounds like a very good way to get an infection,” I said crisply, and he let me go.
Together, we tossed the paper plates and put away leftovers. James found many excuses to rub and bump against me, always with a falsely innocent “Pardon me, excuse me,” that made me laugh and punch his arm. Finally he backed me against the sink and pinned me. His hands closed around my wrists, pressing my hands down to the countertop. His pelvis anchored mine.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hello.”