I wasn't running fever in the morning when I woke up, and I felt a lot better. Of course, I'd slept an hour and a half later than I'd planned, but somehow it was impossible to get out of bed in any hurry. I was sure Phillip wouldn't be up yet. Sure enough, when I went into the kitchen in my fuzzy slippers and bathrobe, he was nowhere in sight. I made some coffee and put out some coffee cake I'd gotten the day before. It was pretty close to time to put in the turkey, so I preheated the oven before I sat down with my breakfast. It was a beautiful day, sunny, and the temperature was expected to reach the sixties, though it was about forty outside at the moment.
I sat gazing dreamily out the window into my backyard, ignoring a magazine lying by my mug on the table. A list of things I had to do was there, too, and not one item crossed off. I found it hard to care. I finished the coffee and a piece of the coffee cake. As a matter of habit, I went to pour my second cup. But I just didn't want it today. Maybe this was the way my body was trying to get my mind to agree to get up and work. Actually, I needed to go to the bathroom anyway, so I figured I might as well get dressed.
In a matter of minutes, I was in my nice suede pants and orange sweater, my tortoise-rimmed glasses on to coordinate, all made up and ready - and with lots of messy kitchen work to do. I was just going to have a backward day. Normally, I wouldn't have put on my good clothes until the kitchen had been cleaned right before my guests' arrival. But I couldn't bring myself to care about my impracticality.
I scooted up my sleeves, found the apron that provided the most coverage, and turned on the Macy's parade to watch while I worked. I like that about my kitchen and den area; and that was another change from my former life, when I'd had no desire whatsoever for anyone to watch me while I was cooking, and I'd been glad my kitchen was just a kitchen. Now, I just didn't care. My kitchen/den/informal dining area seemed just great. I enjoyed glancing at the parade while I worked, and I enjoyed the sun coming in through the big windows on either side of the fireplace. Cooking took me away from Poppy's death and the mess and chaos surrounding it. Two hours flew by before I knew it. I glanced at the clock with some surprise.
Time to take stock.
Pies ready. Cranberry sauce ready. Dressing ready, prepared with canned chicken stock just so I'd save myself last-minute rushing. I'd gotten the turkey greased and into the baking bag, and now I slid the big pan into the warm oven. Robin would bring the English peas, which just required heating with some butter, and the rolls, which only had to brown - so nothing to do on that front. He'd have the wine, and he would open that. I got out the corkscrew and the wineglasses. Only the sweet potato casserole needed some more fixing.
The sugar was already mixed in, and I tasted to make sure I'd added enough. I'd finished adding the spices and eggs when Phillip at last emerged from the guest bathroom, shiny and dressed. He poured himself a huge glass of juice and cut a piece of coffee cake. He gave me a sleepy smile and settled on a stool at the breakfast bar to watch the parade. After a minute, he flipped open the TV Guide and started looking at the football listings.
Once Phillip had finished breakfast, I asked him to help me with the big tablecloth for the nicer table in the dining room. I set the table slowly, trying to make it look correct... but not ridiculously so. This was not an imposing formal occasion. If I turned it into that, I'd have to go put on panty hose and a dress. Yuck.
Good silver, good china. (I'd be doing dishes all day.) I kept checking the table. Salt, pepper. I got out the gravy boat. Glasses for Ice tea. Sugar. Dish for lemon wedges. Serving spoons. The smaller turkey platter.
I'd be cleaning up at midnight.
Suddenly, my energy seemed to leak out through my fingertips, as though my night's sleep had simply evaporated. I pulled out a chair and sat down with an ungraceful thud.
Could the prospect of meeting Robin's mother really be that frightening? Martin's mother and father had been long dead when we'd become engaged, and I'd already known his sister Barby. Arthur had been my only other halfway-serious suitor. I'd known Mindy and Coll Smith, Arthur's folks, since I was little, at least by sight. So, though I was thirty-six, this was my first "meet the parent" situation.
I rose and pushed the chair back into place, though I hardly felt better. I went back into the den and unwisely sat in my favorite old chair, close to Phillip, who was watching some sports show. In about thirty seconds, I actually dozed off. Phillip woke me up at quarter to one.
"You want to go put some lipstick on or something?" he asked a little anxiously. "It's almost time for them to be here. The timer for the turkey breast went off thirty minutes ago, and the little red thing was sticking up out of the turkey, so I got it out of the oven. I put the sweet potatoes in. Was that okay?"
"More than okay," I assured him. "You saved my life, brother."
He looked justifiably pleased with himself. Groggy with sleep, I had to absolutely push myself into the kitchen. I put ice in the glasses, a stick of margarine on a butter dish to pass around with the rolls - oh my God, the rolls! I told myself sternly to calm down. Robin was bringing them; they'd only take a few minutes. The rolls could go in after I'd gotten the sweet potatoes out. The dressing was baking in the other oven. (Following my mother's tradition, I always baked it separately.) All I had to do was make the gravy. But first, a look in my bedroom mirror was in order.
Phillip had been optimistic when he suggested I needed only lipstick. But I looked all right after brushing my hair, cleaning my glasses, and slapping on a little fresh makeup. Back in the kitchen, I buzzed around doing tiny things. I asked Phillip if he'd give some attention to his own hair, and with a dark glance, he retired to the bathroom to look in the mirror.
"And it better be perfectly picked up in there!" I called through the door.
"Yes, Mom!" he yelled back.
I stuck my tongue out, since he couldn't see me. Mom indeed.
And then the doorbell rang.
As I went to the front door, I said a little prayer, which basically went: "Don't let me do anything really stupid."
Robin's mother was really tall. That was my first impression. And she was smiling. That was my second.
Corinne Crusoe was as elegant as ... well, as my mother. All I could think was, Damn. Her thick, perfectly white hair was pulled back into an elegant roll. Mrs. Crusoe wore subtle makeup, discreet gold jewelry, and a gorgeous pantsuit of some heavy, smooth blue knit that hung like a designer dress. It matched her eyes to a tee.
"Roe, this is my mother," Robin said, since you have to state the obvious some times. "Mother, this is my..." Robin and I stared at each other, stymied, for a long second. "This is Aurora."
"Please come in," I said, floundering for my composure in the face of such elegance. You'd think I'd be used to it, but no.
Mrs. Crusoe was careful not to stare around too obviously, but I knew she hadn't missed a detail of me, or the house. Phillip, thank God, had come out of the bathroom and was looking very creditable.
"My brother, Phillip," I said proudly, and he beamed at me. "Phillip, this is Robin's mother, Mrs. Crusoe."
"Please call me Corinne," she said smoothly, nodding at both of us.
Phillip stood a little straighten I wasn't about to tell him he was too young to call an older lady by her first name, not in front of the older lady.
"Corinne, can I pour you a glass of wine?" Phillip said with perfect composure, and I glowed.
"That would be lovely."
"We have ..." and Phillip faltered.
I inspected the bottles Robin was carrying. "Robin's brought a zinfandel and a shiraz," I said. "Or, if you prefer, we have some vodka and orange juice."
"No, the zinfandel, thanks."
We got that all settled, then sat in the small formal living room after I'd put the peas on. Corinne was a past mistress of small talk, and we set about getting to know one another through the accumulation of little facts - or, more accurately, tiny indicators of those facts. Corinne, I learned, was well-off, a widow who had no intention of remarrying. She was very involved with her grandchildren by her two daughters, and she was active in her church (Episcopal).
Corinne learned I was also a widow, also financially secure, still working, had two live parents, and was a steady church attendant.
Corinne learned that Phillip normally lived in California. He was here on a visit, I told her, not mentioning his method of arrival. And I hoped Phillip wouldn't, either, but if he did, so be it.
I excused myself to make the gravy and heat the rolls, and Corinne promptly asked if she could help in any way.
"If you don't mind, I'll borrow Robin, to help me with the turkey," I said. "We'll be in the kitchen. Would you like to come offer advice?"
"I'll be glad to come," Corinne said, standing gracefully with her barely touched glass of zinfandel. "But I'll just observe silently."
I laughed and led the way. We've been formal long enough, I thought. True to her word, Corinne offered almost no observations on how she prepared Thanksgiving herself, which I thought was just wonderful and amazing.
After the usual flurry of getting everything on the table, and getting everyone to sit and relax, the meal went very well. Robin carved the turkey with enthusiasm and a total lack of expertise, Corinne seemed to enjoy her food, and Phillip had seconds of everything. Robin kept casting little glances at me that I couldn't interpret.
"What are you doing tomorrow?" he asked later, when we were all sitting, replete and sleepy, our forks laid down for good.
"Oh." My contented feeling almost vanished. "I have to straighten up Poppy's house tomorrow." Robin looked surprised. I hated to explain about the Wynns in front of Corinne.
"Who's going to help you?"
"I don't know. If Melinda can get a baby-sitter, I'm sure she will." Even more than I, Melinda would not want die whole town to know what had happened, though I was sure that sooner or later the news would travel.
"I could help you," he offered.
"That's so nice of you." I was genuinely touched. Robin was no slob, but picking up and cleaning were hardly his favorite activities, and he had a houseguest. "But I expect we can handle it. If we need anything too strenuous done, I'll give you a call."
"Is there anything I can do?" Corinne asked, out of courtesy.
"Oh, no, thank you," I said quickly. "I'm sure Robin told you that my sister-in-law was killed a few days ago. As if that wasn't awful enough, someone came into her house and ransacked it. My brother-in-law just shouldn't be faced with dealing with a mess, in addition to everything else."
We all laid out some platitudes about how dreadful the world was nowadays, and no one was safe, even in a small town like Lawrenceton, where people used to leave their doors unlocked year-round. I certainly didn't remember such a time myself, but my mother had assured me that was so.
My company all helped carry the food and dirty dishes into the kitchen, and to my embarrassment and gratitude, Corinne and Robin insisted on doing the dishes. My good china couldn't go in the dishwasher, so this was a bigger task than usual. Phillip and Corinne dried while Robin washed, and I put away all the leftovers. My pants felt a little tight around the waist, and though that wasn't unusual after a large meal, I realized that they'd felt a little snug when I'd put them on that morning. Even my bra felt tight. I decided tomorrow would certainly be early enough to worry about weight gain, but tomorrow I'd definitely need to cut back.
We decided to stay in the less formal den, cozier and more comfortable and right by the kitchen. Of course, a football game was on, and Phillip and Robin talked sports while Corinne and I discussed Thanksgiving customs, Christmas shopping, how long I'd lived in my present house, Corinne's grandchildren. Maybe she wouldn't mind so much, me not being able to have any, since she already had some. The minute the thought crossed my mind, I was sorry.
I was about to ruin my own day, and I slammed a mental door on that subject and turned to more pleasant ones.
"My mother and her husband are coming to share a glass of wine in a short while," I said. "I hope that you'll stay and meet them."
"Oh, that would be wonderful," Corinne said instantly. She seemed positively delighted at the prospect.
With Corinne, Phillip, and Robin settled down in front of the television, I excused myself. When I emerged from the bathroom off my bedroom, Robin was standing there waiting. Without saying a word, he kissed me. At first, it was a sweet sort of kiss, a 'You just met my mom and she likes you' kind of kiss, but abruptly it turned into a hormonal lip lock, that had more to do with ripping off underwear than Mom. In about one minute flat, we were ready to land on the bed.
"Whoa," I gasped, pulling my lips away from his.
His mouth followed mine, and for a second we dallied with resuming the pleasurable activity, but sanity prevailed. My brother and Robin's mom were in the next room, and the television volume wasn't that loud.
"Can I come over tonight?" he whispered.
"Your mom!"
"She won't miss me for a couple of hours."
"But she'll know, and that makes me feel creepy. I know she knows anyway, but still..."
"I'll think of a very good excuse. Remember, I'm a professional writer."
"Okay," I said, giving in without a further thought.
"By the way," the professional writer said, "your brother is a normal teenager who's just gotten lucky very recently and was safe about it."
"That's all I want to know," I said, making a stop sign by holding my hand up, palm facing him. "No gory details. Brothers and sisters don't need to know too much."
Robin decided we should kiss again. It was even harder to pull apart this time, and I was still feeling a little dazed by lust as we went back into the den, where Corinne was catnapping in an ever-so-ladylike way, and Phillip was talking on the phone again.
"Can I go?" he whispered. "Josh and Joss have finished eating, and his mom says it's okay. They live about two blocks over, so I can walk. He's got a Play Station Two and some games I haven't tried yet."
I glanced at my watch. I wondered whether my mother would be relieved or disappointed to miss seeing him, then decided that relieved would more fit the bill today, and gave Phillip my blessing, along with an injunction to be home in two hours, or I'd be calling the Finstermeyers.
Phillip waved good-bye to Robin, grabbed his jacket, and was gone before I could count to fifteen. Robin and I settled on the love seat and I leaned my head against his shoulder. Our hands were twined together. It was nice and warm, and I was full. I joined Corinne in dreamland for a few minutes, and then I heard my mother's distinctive knock on the door. I couldn't believe I'd missed all the worrying about the "Aida meets Corinne" scenario, and I couldn't believe I'd fallen asleep twice in one day.
Corinne was sitting up straight, her eyes fixed on the television, so she was already alert. Good. She'd need it.
My mother was dressed in a discreet plaid skirt and a red blouse, with some gorgeous red pumps on. John was wearing a dress shirt and a tweed jacket but no tie. He looked very bluff and hearty, which was not John at all, but it made a good first impression.
The introductions went well, though Mother raised her eyebrows at me for having my company in the den instead of in the formal living room. Tough, Mom. We'd migrated naturally.
"Bryan called you at our house today," Mother said to me directly during a lull in the chitchat. "He seemed to assume you'd be at our house. I told him you'd been cooking your own Thanksgiving dinners for a while now."
Okay. Mother wanted Robin to know other men found me attractive, she wanted me to know she didn't mind me not having Thanksgiving with them, and she wanted Corinne to know that she respected my independence.
Mission accomplished, Mom.
"I'll call him back tomorrow. Today's a holiday," I said instantly, stating that my relationship with Bryan Pascoe was Business with a capital B. But in the next instant, I found myself wondering if he'd discovered something about the Wynns.
The visit went well, on the whole. John was not too talkative, seeming abstracted most of the time, but I was sure Corinne would understand. John had wonderful manners and was always able to think of something pleasant to say, so I knew he would improve on Corinne's acquaintance. Robin had an excellent rapport with my mother; the thought crossed my mind that he was better with her than my late husband, Martin, had ever been. Martin and Mother had always been so conscious they were close to the same age - in fact, if Martin had married Mother instead of me, it wouldn't have raised many eyebrows at all.
I tried not to compare other men to Martin, but sometimes ideas popped into my head whether I wanted them to or not.
I opened my mouth to interrogate my mother about Poppy's parents - if she remembered any specific scandal about Marvin Wynn - but I realized just in time that there was no way she'd discuss that in front of Corinne Crusoe.
"Where's the boy?" Mother asked as Corinne and Robin were telling John a long golfing story about Robin's late father.
"He's gone over to Josh's house," I explained. "You know, the Finstermeyers. Josh and his twin sister, Joss, took Phillip around the other day, to the movies and so on."
"Well, that's nice," Mother said unconvincingly. "What do you think of the boy? How long is he going to stay?"
"Dad and Betty Jo want him to come back after Thanksgiving," I said, suddenly aware that I hadn't talked to them in two days - or had it been longer? Surely they ought to have made some travel plans for Phillip by now. But how on earth would they get airline reservations this late? Weren't the airports full on the weekend after Thanksgiving? "Maybe he can stay longer," I added hastily, so Mother would never think I was tired of Phillip. I didn't exactly want to get rid of him. I loved my brother, though I realized I didn't know him that well. My problem was the extent of my responsibility. If Phillip were to stay for a while, I would have to be a little stricter; I couldn't be an indulgent big sister if he was going to be with me for weeks.
Right after my mother and John gathered their coats and left (after drinking two cups of coffee apiece, instead of wine, and each having a piece of pumpkin pie), Phillip called and asked if he could spend the night at Josh's.
What I wanted to say was, Yes, if you can keep your hands off Joss! Don't even think about laying a finger on her in her own house! What I actually said was, "Why don't you let me talk to Josh's mom, Phillip? Staying would probably be okay."
Beth Finstermeyer put my mind at ease by letting me know casually that her daughter was off spending the night with her best friend, so the boys could have the run of the house. And she laughed after she said that, so I knew the boys would no more "have the run of the house" than I would swallow a goldfish.
After I hung up, I could tell that Corinne was ready to go back to Robin's apartment and put her feet up. I urged them to take some pie with them, told them my brother was going to be away for the night but that he had surely enjoyed meeting Corinne, and fetched their jackets from the guest bedroom.
Robin's eyes had lighted up when he'd heard Phillip was going to be gone, and he dropped a chaste kiss on my cheek when he was saying good-bye, even as he was whispering, "See you later."
When the door closed behind them and I was finally alone, the relief was enormous. It was five o'clock, and no one wanted anything of me. The dusk was closing in outside, and I wandered around my house, pulling curtains to and picking up the odd crumpled napkin or used glass. I got out the carpet sweeper and ran it over the area rug, then swept the tiled floor that ran down the hall and into the kitchen and den.
There, that was it. All I was going to do today.
Thanksgiving was over.
I had a turkey sandwich while I watched reruns from a million years ago of a show I'd been too young to catch the first time around. I read a little, having a hard time truly engaging my mind in the convolutions of the book, a complicated psychological mystery. In another hour, I was yawning.
A discreet knock at the front door came just in time. It was followed by the sound of a key turning. I'd originally given Robin a key in case he wanted to work in my office while I was gone. A lot of his reference books were on the shelves that lined the office walls, because his apartment just didn't have room for all his books.
"Are you sleepy?" Robin asked, kneeling by my chair.
"I could probably be roused."
"Your brother really at the Fin-whatevers for the night?"
"Uh-huh."
"Oh... goody."
It was one of those encounters where each person seemed to want something different. I was looking for a slow, sweet session, undemanding but satisfying. Robin was feeling more fiery and acrobatic. It took a while to get in sync, but when we did, the climax was the most intense I'd ever experienced. I lay in the dark of my bedroom with Robin's long arms wrapped around me, and I felt content and safe and loved. Though I'd been drowsy before, when I felt Robin relax into sleep, my eyes were open to the darkness.
I thought about Robin and how I felt about him. I thought about how Bryan Pascoe's interest in me didn't spark any feeling in me at all, except mild discomfort. I thought of how amazing it was that I was alive and well, able to experience lying here in the arms of a tall, thin man named Robin Crusoe, whose wild red hair was even now tangling with mine on the pillow. I had this, this wonderful moment, while Poppy, a woman vibrating with life, had had it all taken away.
What had happened to Poppy along her way? What had made her so two-faced? The loving, besotted mother, the well-dressed matron and dutiful wife had also been a promiscuous and sly female. The intelligent college graduate had deliberately wed a man she knew would not be faithful to her - probably in the sure expectation that she would not be faithful to him, either. Or had John David and Poppy married in the belief they'd cleave only to each other? They must have known, even then, that faithfulness was an ideal rather than a reality, given their natures.
Maybe blind optimism could carry you further than you ever meant to go.
I turned to look at Robin's sleeping face. I lay on my side, propped up on one elbow. The night-light in the bathroom provided a faint glow, just enough to see the disheveled head and beaky nose. When I tried to imagine his head lying on someone else's pillow, it hurt deep inside me. And then I felt the surge of anger, the backlash of that pain, just at his imagined infidelity.
Had it been that kind of anger that had motivated the hand that had stabbed Poppy over and over? But the evidence of the search through Poppy's closet and the odd activities of her parents added another layer of complexity to the question of Poppy's death.
"Robin, wake up," I said. I folded his hand in mine.
"What? You okay?"
"Promise me something."
"What?"
"Promise me you'll never cheat on me while we're together. If we break up, okay, anything then. But while we're ... a couple ... no one else."
I sounded more like seventeen than thirty-six, but I was dead serious.
"Had you thought I might?" he asked with some difficulty. "I mean, have you seen me looking at anyone? You know Janie isn't anyone I'd ever really date. She's just a goofy girl." He clearly didn't want to have to go over the Janie Spellman ground again.
"I know," I said hastily. "That was just a ... momentary craziness. I'm not saying I've seen you look at anyone specific. No. But I just want to hear you say it."
"I have no intention of going to bed with anyone but you," Robin said clearly. "I think it's completely obvious that I love you."
Well. I should wake Robin up more often.
I bent and nuzzled his neck. "I love you, too," I said, the words coming more easily than I had thought they would.
"I was hoping," he mumbled. "Now, can I go back to sleep? Talk tomorrow?"
"Sure," I said, reversing again so my back was snuggled up to his front. "Sure."
