“Tell me about London.” I tossed the request to the group, since I had a nagging sensation everyone at the table was in the know—except me.
“It’s the capital city of Britain. Many famous authors have lived there, including Charles Dickens. You, being a Brit lit teacher, may have heard of him,” Mom said over the salted rim of her red-striped margarita glass.
I plunged a tortilla chip into the queso dip, snapping it in half, and leveled a stony gaze at my mother.
Out of the corner of my eye, I observed Kat and Barbara exchange a worried, although slightly amused, look.
“And the queen of England lives there.” Mom’s cell cheeped, and she glanced at it and then typed away.
I turned back to Barbara and Kat. “Why do I have the feeling I’m the only one who’s out in the cold?”
Kat placed a hand on my fist. “We were going to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“About the show. My international debut.”
“That’s wonderful.” I grinned, but it turned into a grimace. “Why keep that a secret?”
“Like I said, you never asked.”
I locked eyes on her and released an exasperated sigh. “Just admit you intentionally kept key information from me.”
She crinkled her face and stuck out her tongue.
I waved for her to spill all of it.
“Okay, you win. It’s not just a show,” Kat explained.
To keep from saying something stupid, I crammed a chip smothered with queso into my mouth before licking my gooey fingers.
“Cori, do you remember Anselm who visited two springs ago?” Aunt Barbara leaned her elbows on the table.
“Your old friend who helped you open your studio years ago?”
She nodded. “Each summer, he invites a couple of artists to work with him in his prestigious London studio for a few months.”
“Months.” My mouth fell open, and a half-chewed chip tumbled onto my lap.
Kat shook her head and handed me a napkin.
I wiped the queso smear from my chin and tried steadying my breathing. “You’re going to London for months? Without me?” I asked Kat.
The three of them stared wide-eyed. Twice in one day for Mom. Surely this was a record.
I tossed my hands in the air in the universal what gives motion.
“I figured she would react this way,” Mom said to Kat and my aunt, as if I wasn’t sitting at the table in the midst of a fit.
My aunt nodded solemnly.
Kat inclined her head, waiting for my next reaction—or overreaction.
I puffed my cheeks and then slowly let out a cleansing breath, or at least tried to.
“Did anyone think to include me in the conversations when deciding if Kat should leave me for eight weeks?”
“It’s more like ten.” Barbara smiled to take the edge off; it didn’t work.
I ground my teeth and shook my head. “No way.”
“Who do you think you are? Kat’s keeper?” Mom crossed her arms over her Lilly Pulitzer silk floral shirt and cardigan, which didn’t suit the weather or the festive season.
I swiveled my head to Kat. “Why are you leaving me?”
Kat smiled and placed a hand on my cheek. “Who said anything about leaving you?”
“Uh, I have a teaching job, remember?”
“Oh, that.” Mom waved a hand in the air. “You’ll be on sabbatical. The summer semester is so slow anyway. What do you usually have? A handful of students? A dozen at most?”
“Sabbatical? How is that possible when I didn’t request one?” For the past three summers, the university had pleaded with me to teach one course.
The three of them smiled like I was a foolish, petulant child. I hated when they did that, because it reinforced that I was, indeed, acting like a fool.
“Really. Why do you always forget I know everyone in the English department at Adams?” The self-satisfied glint in Mom’s eyes galled me.
“So my employers at Adams know I’m taking the summer off even before I do. Did anyone consider I might want to be involved in the discussion?”
“We thought it would be a nice surprise. You keep saying you want time to focus solely on writing. When this opportunity came up, we”—Kat circled her finger to include my mom and aunt—“thought this was an excellent opportunity for both of us. If we didn’t get the ball rolling, you’d never take time off. Your Puritan ethic is too engrained. And the university wants you to guest lecture a couple of times. A tradeoff, so to speak.”
“Puritan ethic, pffffft!” I accidentally sprayed the table with spit. She was right, of course, but at that moment I had no desire to admit it. I never did. It was the stubborn Puritan in me. My mind whirred. Lectures in London. An entire summer to write where Dickens lived. The idea wasn’t half-baked. Hold on, Cori. Don’t let them off the hook. Not yet.
“We’ll be staying in Notting Hill, in case you’re wondering,” Kat continued, ignoring my childishness. Her shit-eating grin was quite becoming. How did she do it?
“Notting Hill? As in the Hugh Grant film?” I tried to curtail the excitement in my voice, but I couldn’t banish all traces of enthusiasm.
“Yes,” Kat said with a Genie-like bounce of her head as if granting me a wish—the wish of a lifetime.
We’d watched Notting Hill early on in our relationship, and I couldn’t stop talking about it. Not the actual story, but how much I would love to live there in that neighborhood with the private garden.
“Seriously, we’re going to stay there for ten weeks?” I blinked.
“Yes,” Kat said.
I leaned back in my seat. “I can’t believe this.”
“Believe it, baby. We’re going to London!” Kat kissed my cheek.
“And we plan on visiting.” Mom foolishly waved to herself and Barbara, showing her excitement.
“Hey, don’t try to burst my bubble.” I scowled at my mom. She didn’t mind, and soon a smile nibbled at the corners of my mouth.
“You think you’re so funny.” Mom snapped her fingers, and the bored waitress pounced instantly. “Four more.” Mom gestured to our empty glasses.
“Of course.”
“London? Really?” I rubbed the top of my head in complete disbelief. This news was huge. It’d take me hours, no days, to process everything. Right now, though, all that mattered was the smile on Kat’s face. A genuine and excited smile. A year ago, I promised myself I would do absolutely everything to help Kat heal. If that meant living in London for a summer, hell, why not? I’d travel to Hades if need be.
Chapter Seven
On the night of Sam’s party we donned our mandatory Christmas sweaters. Kat’s was a tight red number with a slutty woman in a red bikini and Santa hat twirling on a stripper’s pole. I had on a blue sweater with white snowflakes. When we’d gone shopping the day before, I refused all sweaters that had any red or green. Holiday colors always reminded me of our loss the year before, although I’d never admitted it. At least the flakes were large and semi-obnoxious.
At thirty-five minutes after eight, I knocked on Lucy’s downtown apartment door.
The door swung open and Sam materialized. “Welcome!” The party had started at eight, but it was clear from her flushed cheeks and silly grin that Sam had been in her cups for most of the day. Her sweater had “Jingle Bells” on it and two red fuzzy balls where her nipples would be underneath. “Love the sweater, Kat.” She screwed up her face when she looked at mine. “I guess I should have expected this from you.” She rotated a finger in front of my plain sweater.
Christmas music and various snippets of animated conversation from inside filtered into the hallway. “Hey, if it isn’t up to muster, I can head home.” I feigned turning around, still grasping the bottle of Dom.
Sam grabbed one of my arms, and Kat latched onto the other. “Nice try,” Sam said. “But you’re coming in, and you’re going to have fun.”
Lucy appeared in a red sweater with a Christmas tree on it. The lights were actually blinking. Even Lucy had put more effort into her costume than I had.
I shielded my eyes. “Luce, is that you? The lights. I can only see the lights.”
She smiled as I thrust the bottle into her arms. “Happy Holidays.”
Sam shook her head, jostling her blonde locks. She nabbed a Sam Adams Old Fezziwig Ale from the ice bucket on the table and shoved it into my hands. “Maybe this will help you lighten up.” Without asking Kat, Sam poured her a glass of red wine.
Kat sipped it. “Ah, I needed this. Listening to Cori bitch all day would try Mrs. Claus’s patience.”
“I’m not so sure she was patient. I mean, she kicked Santa out every Christmas Eve to travel the world. Not to mention he probably had to spend 364 days a year prepping for the big night.”
Lucy’s face curved up as if a lightbulb had gone on over her head. “Maybe she knew the secret to a happy marriage: never seeing your spouse.”
“I know the secret to a happy marriage.” Harold wore a green sweater with a Gingerbread Man on it and “Eat Me” scrawled in cursive writing. In his left hand, he clutched a Smirnoff Ice Watermelon Mimosa bottle, and I was sure Sam had purchased the drinks solely for Harold. He drank straight from the bottle, probably to try to up the machismo factor. I thought it best not to remark on the pink color.
“Do share this secret,” Kat purred, pawing the front of his sweater.
“Have a spare.” He laughed.
“So the throuple thing is working for you?” I asked.
“Like a charm,” he slurred.
I swilled my beer.
Sam rolled her eyes.
“Where are they then?” I scanned the partygoers.
Harold squinted, following my eyes. “Who?”
“Your harem, of course.”
He paled. “Oh, them. They couldn’t come tonight,” Harold mumbled, before taking the tiniest sip from his bottle, not that he needed to swig; alcohol fumes got him drunk.
I started to ask why, but Kat nudged the back of my leg with her foot, shutting me up. More than likely, the girls wanted alone time. Was it sexy alone time? Was that allowed in throuples?
“That’s a shame. There’s always next time. So where’s the food?” I greedily rubbed my mitts together.
“In the kitchen. There’s way too much, so please eat more than you should. My diet starts on January second, and all leftovers have to be gone by then.” Sam shooed me toward the kitchen, Kat hot on my heels.
There was a short line at the makeshift buffet. The man in front of me wore a naughty elf sweater. He turned, checked out Kat’s sweater, and tendered his hand with a look that suggested he was doing Kat a favor. “I’m Rick.”
Kat shook it. “Kat.” She jerked her head in my direction. “This is my wife, Cori.”
Rick’s smile fell briefly, but then he narrowed his eyes. “Oh, I think you were at Mulligan’s when the Pats kicked Tennessee’s ass.” He elevated his hand for a high five, and I happily obliged, already forgiving his leer not because I liked him but because I had grown accustomed to people’s reactions to Kat. He followed up with, “Bring on the Super Bowl.”
“Here, here. If I remember correctly, you were dressed as a Santa that day. Now you’re an elf. Extremely versatile.” I smiled.
He put his arms out, dancing a little jig. “I like to go with the flow. Never saw so many Christmas sweaters in one place. It’s a riot.” He pointed to a woman in line who was wearing a sweater with the Grinch’s hands reaching around like he was fondling her breasts.
“Reminds me of the scene in Bridget Jones’s Diary,” I said.
Rick cocked his head the way men did when a chick-flick was mentioned. “Never saw it.”
Kat grabbed three disposable plates and separated them with a manicured nail. She handed me a green one and kept a red for herself. The third she handed to Rick, who dipped his head in appreciation. He made eye contact with a woman who had just entered the room. Her Christmas sweater was actually a dress—a very short dress, although I was fairly certain that hadn’t been the designer’s intention. “I’ll see ya on the flipside. Go Pats.” He clamped a hand on my shoulder and then went in for the kill.
Kat smiled good-bye and then rolled her eyes when it was safe. “I’ve never trusted a man whose name rhymes with dick.”
I laughed. “Wiener, my dear.” I pointed to a bowl of barbequed little smokies. “You know I can’t have them, but I’d love to slip you one.”
“Just one.”
“Honey, you can have as many wieners as you want. Just as long as you go home with me.”
I loaded up my plate with peppers stuffed with cream cheese, baked olives with feta, mini crostini with cheese and artichokes, avocado tarts, and fig and blue cheese skewers.
Kat motioned with her head that we should make our way to the window in the main room.
“I’m seeing a trend.” Kat surveyed my plate as she speared a little smokie with a toothpick.
“It seems most vegetarian dishes must have some variation of cheese.” I winked. “Not that I’m complaining. I’ll just go for a longer run tomorrow.”
“You’ve almost completed a year. Gone for a run every day since you started.”
“349 days straight.”
“You going to run in New Orleans, then?” Harold joined us by the window overlooking Boston Harbor, stroking his chin, which slipped into his neck. A speckling of hair sprouted on his jawline. Was that a result of the throuple? Now he could actually grow a smattering of facial hair?
“Wouldn’t miss the chance of running along the Mississippi River.”
“You should write a book—like the one by Haruki Murakami,” he said.
“What I Talk About When I Talk About Running,” Kat supplied the title.
“Yes, that one.” Harold stole an olive from my plate.
“But I’m not training for a marathon like he was. I’m just running. And he started running after selling his jazz bar. I started after—”
There was an awkward silence. I’d always been a runner, but since my middle-of-the-night run weeks after Charlotte’s death I hadn’t missed a day. Sometimes I went more than once, unable to sit inside in the dark like Kat. I had to keep moving. To do something. Because the night Kat and Charlotte needed me, I hadn’t been there to do anything.
“Look at the view.” Harold waved to the window. Down below were Faneuil Hall and the Custom House Tower. Beyond the buildings, lights shimmered on the water.
“It looks like a tiny Christmas village.” Kat handed her plate to Harold and cinched an arm around my shoulder. Harold immediately pilfered two little smokies, keeping his gaze on the twinkling lights outside the window.
“You okay?” Kat whispered in my ear.
“Yeah. I’m sorry.” I swabbed a tear from my eye.
“Nothing to be sorry about. Never apologize for missing Lottie.”
I bent my neck to rest my chin on the top of her head.
“What are you three doing huddled by the window?” Sam asked. When she laid her eyes on mine, her smile froze. “Can I get anyone anything else to drink?”
Kat and I nodded.
Harold swished his mostly full bottle. “I’m good.”
Sam dashed off and a commotion at the front door caught our attention. Slowly, I turned to see a man and woman enter. Their Christmas sweaters were mundane, like mine. The bundle in the woman’s arms was causing the stir. She beamed as she bounced a baby on her hip.
Kat zoomed in on the child.
“I hope you don’t mind, the sitter had to cancel at the last minute,” the woman said with such a triumphant smile I doubted she ever scheduled a sitter. Who could blame her? I wouldn’t want to be without my child, either.
We’d attended a few parties at Lucy’s, and not once had anyone brought a child. Yes, some of the guests were parents, b
ut with Sam as cohost the booze would be flowing as freely as the Charles River, so it wasn’t wise to bring a baby. The invitation had included a warning: “The raunchier the sweater the better. This isn’t your parents’ Christmas soiree, folks.”
“Not at all.” Sam approached and put her arms out for the bundle of joy, who was happy to be passed around like a football. Almost every woman in the room swarmed Sam and the baby.
“How old?” asked one.
“Ten months. She was our Valentine’s Day gift last year.” The mother tugged her daughter’s shoeless foot.
My heart clenched, and I thought I was going to vomit.
More questions were followed with lots of oohs and aahs. The only two women not part of the group were the two of us. Harold studied Kat’s unmoving face, which bore a terrified smile. It reminded me of a bad actress in a horror flick, who just couldn’t nail the scared emotion and ended up looking like a befuddled Cruella Deville.
I steadied my breathing. “Do you want to go?”
Kat shook her head, the peculiar smile still in place.
“Would you like to go back to the kitchen? Refill our plates?” Both of our plates were full, but I didn’t know what else to suggest. The bathroom was another possibility.
Again, she shook her head. The pained smile had eased, but not enough for my liking. For the past few months, Kat had been the strongest of the two of us, but right now she was crumbling inside.
“Look at that!” Harold gesticulated out the window. “I just love fireworks.” He clapped his hands together, trying to gain Kat’s attention. It was a valiant effort, if only it had worked.
The gaggle of women worked their way over to the window. A woman in a naughty Mrs. Claus sweater now held the child. “Look at the pretty lights.”
The toddler cooed and clapped her hands in that cute, soundless baby way that pulled the heartstrings of even the most hard-hearted Grinch.
I’d never heard Charlotte coo.
The inside of my nose started to burn, a surefire sign I was about to lose my shit and bawl in front of a bunch of strangers dressed in ridiculous Christmas sweaters.
Confessions From the Dark Page 7