“You know Dad. Gloomy Gus.”
“This will be good for him. Christmas with kids all around—harder to be unhappy. He needs to get out more.” I looked around the room. It was tidy enough. “Okay, everyone! Who wants sticky buns and scrambled eggs?” I asked over my shoulder, heading to the kitchen.
It was a rhetorical question. Sticky buns and scrambled eggs were a tradition for Christmas morning, just like chocolate chip pancakes and sausage for the boys on their birthday. But the boys responded anyway.
“I do! I do!”
The preparation of our Christmas breakfast was under way, and once again the air swirled with the fragrance of butter, sugar, and cinnamon. I also fried a pound of bacon, thinking the salty meat would be a good counterpoint to the sugary pastry. As usual, the smell of bacon sizzling in the skillet inspired Rufus to sit close to me on his hopeful haunches and whimper. I slipped him a strip.
“Merry Christmas, my sweet baby,” I said.
It disappeared in a flash, so I gave him another one.
He’s seventeen, I said to myself. So he’ll only live to be twenty instead of twenty-one.
In truth, Rufus had already far exceeded the expected life span of his breed, and we believed it was because he had it so good. He never imposed himself in an obnoxious way, but he let his feelings be known with a nudge and a glance at the cookie jar or by pointing his nose toward the back door, indicating his need to commune with nature. And he showed his affection for the family in a number of ways. He would amble over to where I was sitting and quietly place his head on my lap, looking at me with those loving eyes of his. Adam was the one who’d brought him home as a puppy, but I was the one who held his heart. And the bacon.
After breakfast the boys wanted to take their remote-control cars out for a spin, so Adam and the boys put on jackets and went out into the yard. Our property had a very long but narrow tarmac road that began at the street and wound its way to our driveway, continued to the barn and then ended at the boat dock. It was a good long run for remote-control cars, which would probably be the favorite toy of the year.
“I’ll check on our animals, then I’ll show them how the cars work,” Adam said and planted a noisy kiss on my cheek.
“I’ll be right here for the foreseeable future,” I said, thinking that maybe Santa should’ve brought three cars.
That was how Christmas morning always was. I would be on my feet in the kitchen for hours. This is what women do all over the world when they celebrate holidays. I had heard rumors about men who could cook, but I had never known one. At least not outside the realm of professionals. Adam didn’t even like to use the grill. I had been made to believe that southern men liked to invent their own dry rubs, smear them all over meat, then stand around the hot coals with a buddy, watching, talking football, basting whatever they were cooking over and over, and drinking beer. Not Adam. He could mix cocktails and pour coffee, but that was about it.
I sighed hard. By the end of the day my lower back would be killing me and my feet would be throbbing, but making wonderful holiday meals was one of the ways I expressed my love for my family. I checked the pork roast that had been resting in a special brine in the cooler overnight. It was time to remove it, rinse it, and pat it dry. I did, then laid it on a bed of paper towels in the roasting pan so it could come to room temperature.
I set the table for five with our holiday china, red water glasses, our best flatware, and a centerpiece of red poinsettias. It looked really beautiful, I thought. Simple but beautiful. My father-in-law, Ted, would love it. Who didn’t love Christmas?
Dinner that day would be served buffet style from the kitchen breakfast bar, as our dining room sideboard was occupied by the Holy Family, angels, and the Magi. Never mind the camels, cows, and sheep. It was too crowded to be of any other use. For me, Christmas Eve seemed to be the more serious occasion anyway, maybe because it involved church and all the anticipation of what surprises were in store for us all. Christmas Day, on the other hand, unfolded as a bighearted family day, a time to have a great meal and enjoy one another’s company, to be with our children, and maybe to stop in on neighbors to deliver cookies or some holiday kitchen gift. While I stood scraping carrots, our isolation crossed my mind. There were so few neighbors with whom I could have a cup of coffee or share a bit of gossip. But there was no point in dwelling on something I could not change. Still, I was lonely most days. Adam would have been disappointed if he knew. Now that the boys were in school all day, I had time for my cookbook, but even that wasn’t exactly an intellectual challenge. But if I hadn’t had that project and Adam’s bookkeeping, I would have completely lost my marbles. It was true that JJ’s wife, Tasha, could get on your nerves, but a short visit with them might be nice. I missed my brother. And I had harbored other dreams, but they seemed impossible to me now. I’d always wanted to return to Greece and study Greek cuisine, including cheeses and oils. But that would never happen. I shelved that idea and concentrated on smaller goals.
I watched Adam and the boys playing with the cars through the window over the sink. The goats were running the field from behind their fence and one peacock was rattling his train like mad. The boys were racing the cars, laughing and chasing each other.
I remembered my own Christmases in Massachusetts then, especially the last one when my mother was still alive. I was just eleven and my mother was dying quickly from some terrible disease no one would discuss. There was snow all over the ground and everyone was profoundly sad but putting on a brave face to hide their feelings from my mother. JJ and I somehow knew that this was the last Christmas we would have together with her.
I thought, kids know things. No one has to tell them. They just know.
It was true. Despite my young age then and the fact that I wasn’t the least bit interested in things that were otherworldly, I could sense death in every corner of the house, most especially in my mother’s bedroom.
My grandmother, my mother’s mother, had come all the way from the island of Corfu in Greece to visit in early December, flying on a plane for the first time in her life, suitcases filled with gifts from every relative and neighbor. We called her Yiayia. Yiayia’s arrival was as spectacular as it was unusual. She was going to stay for as long as she was needed, which in my mind would be forever. My brother and I whispered to each other that the reason for the long visit was because our mother’s end was near. And our grandmother wanted to make the holiday as pleasant as possible for us, given the dire situation. It never occurred to us that Yiayia had come to stay because her own daughter was dying.
Her heart must have been absolutely broken, I thought then.
I leaned on the side of the sink and thought if anything ever happened to my children I wouldn’t be able to go on.
But Yiayia was able to shoulder on because she was strong and determined, a whirlwind who took over the kitchen and made karidopita, baklava, and Christopsomo (traditional Christmas bread) decorated with a cross. She showed me how to make other Greek dishes like moussaka, and she sang Greek songs, which made us love her all the more. Especially that Christmas. We had never needed tenderness as badly as we did then, and our grandmother had delivered it so sweetly.
I began to feel melancholy then. I missed my mother and my Yiayia. I had Yiayia’s hands. When I was very young I visited Greece every summer with my mother and JJ, and Yiayia was always beside herself with happiness to have us with her. It seemed that her whole village came by to say hello, bringing us little treats, Greek coloring books and candies. In quiet moments, my grandmother would take my tiny hand and trace it with the tip of her finger, showing the similarities in the curvature of our fingernails. And she did the same with JJ’s nose as he stood sideways looking in a mirror. She thought her grandchildren were a marvel, as if she had never known another little boy and girl besides us.
I wondered what my mother and grandmother would think if they could see me now, with my handsome husband and my beautiful boys. What would they think of my home and h
ow I had just set my Christmas table? Well, they wouldn’t be too happy about our not attending a Greek Orthodox church, but I had overdosed on organized religion somewhere along the line and opted out of the rules and regulations of my mother’s faith.
And I still couldn’t speak a word of Greek. When I was young I knew many Greek children’s songs, but I could not remember a phrase from any of them. If I had been the kind of woman who went into therapy, I might have realized that the distance I had taken with my brother and father and all things Greek had everything to do with my losing my mother so young and my grandmother soon after, both of whom I adored. We never went to Greece again after we buried my mother and then Yiayia. It hurt too much to be reminded of them. And when I finally left Boston and went to business school, there was no Greek presence on campus besides sororities and fraternities, which was anything but the Greek life I knew. It was easy to leave my origins behind because I had wanted to assimilate completely. I wanted to belong to something new that didn’t hurt.
Life’s messy, I thought, and sprinkled olive oil and celery seeds on the carrots.
Soon, the standing crown roast of pork was done and the pies were ready to bake. Mashed potatoes were whipped into thick ribbons of creamy silk. The casserole of sausage dressing was steaming, the cranberry mold jiggled, peas and carrots were mixed together and scooped into a covered bowl. I stuffed the roast with dressing and took pictures.
Promptly at three we heard a car door open and close. Adam’s father had arrived. The boys were building a Lego castle and pirate ship in the middle of the family room floor. They jumped up as though yanked upright by some unseen hand and raced each other to the door, skating across the waxed floors in their socks, trying to trip each other.
I turned from the roast, which was resting under a tent of foil on the counter, and looked out into the foyer. Ted, my father-in-law, whose arms were filled with wrapped presents, was not alone. He was with a woman, a very large woman, who had to be at least ten years older than him, if not twenty. She was towering over a grinning Ted, wearing a black mink coat to the ground, high heels that could produce altitude sickness, and enough makeup to scare the hell out of Estée Lauder. Somehow, weirdly, it all worked on her just fine. But the boys had never seen the likes of such a glamazon, so they looked at each other and dropped their jaws dramatically.
“Holy crap!” Max said.
“Double crap!” Luke said.
Adam quickly covered Max’s mouth with his hand while extending his other one to his father to take the packages.
“Dad! Merry Christmas!” Adam said. “Hi!” he said to the aged-out exotic dancer from a gentleman’s club somewhere in the sticks. “I’m Adam.”
“Hey! Merry Christmas, y’all!” she said in a smoky voice that suggested a lifetime of dedication to tobacco products.
I quickly added another setting to the table.
“Are you a movie star?” Luke asked with eyes as large as dinner plates.
“No, darling,” said the guest politely. “But I seem like one, don’t I?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Luke said, completely entranced.
Things were suddenly confusing due to the dizzying effect of the guest’s red dress trimmed in red sequins. Adam, who appeared to be temporarily catatonic, could no doubt see himself reflected in the heavy gloss of her ginormous red lips.
I knew I had to swing into action and transform this very startling moment into just another day at the Stanley house, or else old Hot Lips was going to feel very bad about crashing with Pop. But all I could think, in 100 percent agreement with my boys, was holy whopping shit! For what it was worth, it was obvious to me that Pop was in high spirits and that Pop’s guest had not grown the hair she was wearing.
What the hell, Ted? I thought. What the hell are you up to?
“Y’all? Say hello to Miss Clarabeth!” Ted said, grinning from ear to ear like a schoolboy.
Hellooooo, Miss Clarabeth! Adam and I thought simultaneously, looking at each other, hardly able to maintain a straight face.
“Hello!” I said, adding, “Merry Christmas!”
Clarabeth said, “Thank you! Merry Christmas to y’all too! I love your wreath! It’s fabulous! Gump’s?”
Gump’s? In San Francisco? Was she kidding?
“No, just me and my hot glue gun,” I said. Do I look like a millionaire to you? I thought.
“Somebody’s gifted!” she said and winked at me. “And thank you so much for having me!”
“We’re delighted to have you,” I said and meant it. “You boys move and let Pop and Miss Clarabeth get in the door!” Just act normally, I told myself.
“Pop? Do you have a present for me?” Max asked.
“Of course we do! Here you go!” Ted handed a large shopping bag to Max and said, “There’s one in there for Luke.”
We? What does that mean? Are Ted and this woman a we? Ted and Clarabeth stepped across the threshold and I noticed the new white convertible Jaguar parked in the driveway. Nice, I thought, and closed the door. I caught Ted’s eye.
“Christmas gift,” he whispered.
“From you?” I whispered back, having a hard time imagining Ted buying someone a car. He was notoriously cheap.
“No,” he said. “To me.”
Great God in heaven, I thought. Was my father-in-law this large woman’s boy toy?
Adam was nervously pouring everyone a glass of champagne to sip while we exchanged gifts. Ted gave Adam a beautiful cashmere cardigan from Ben Silver. “A sweater!” Adam said and held up the sweater for everyone to see. Adam’s sweaters now totaled eight.
“I helped him pick it out,” Clarabeth said.
“Oh! Well! I don’t think I own anything this nice,” Adam said. “Thank you!”
“Oh, my!” I said as I pulled off the wrapping paper to find a Vitamix from Williams Sonoma. “I’ve always wanted one of these! Thank you, Ted!”
“Well, good! I had Adam search through all your appliances and whatnot to see if you had one.”
“She has a lot of kitchen equipment,” Adam said, as though Clarabeth would be fascinated to learn that.
“Wonderful!” Clarabeth said.
Well, at least she’s polite, I thought. “I am delighted to have it! I’m so sorry I don’t have a package for you, Clarabeth, but to be honest . . .”
“Teddy didn’t tell you I was coming?” Clarabeth said, pleasantly. “Well, it’s a gift enough just to be here with you all! I didn’t want to intrude, but he insisted that I come with him. And you know, Adam, your father can be very persuasive when he wants something.”
“You don’t have to tell me that!” Adam said with a nervous laugh.
“Yep. I reckon so!” Ted said.
“Wow,” said Luke.
Ted announced that he had been keeping company with Clarabeth for quite a while. In fact, he had been living on her plantation on the Ashley River for the past five months.
Shock was all over Adam’s face. “How did I not know this, Dad? You’ve been holding out on me! All the time we spend at work together and you never told me a thing!”
Dad still came to work a few days a week for a few hours.
“Well, you know it now,” Ted said. “I think I’m gonna have seconds!”
“I’ll get it for you,” I said, already on my feet.
“Thanks,” Ted said and handed me his plate.
“This roast was absolutely delicious, Eliza!” Clarabeth said. “In fact, everything was delicious.”
“Yes. It’s wonderful, Eliza. Thank you for another fabulous meal!” Adam said, trying to recover. He raised his glass of red wine. “To Eliza!”
“To Mom!” the boys said.
“To Eliza!” the others said.
“Thank you,” I said with a slight curtsy. “Thank you!”
I put Ted’s plate before him and resumed my seat. Clarabeth, who swore she never drank any alcohol, was on her third glass of wine and had become very chatty.
“So,
after Arthur died—poor Arthur was my third husband—and left me the plantation, I have to admit, things started falling apart. It’s a big old house to run and I just needed a man’s help. There was just no way around it. I mean, I can’t be climbing up ladders to fix gutters. Not at my age.”
I had a vision of Clarabeth, dressed up like Rosie the Riveter, climbing up an extension ladder wearing a tool belt and a schmatte tied around her wig.
“Not at any age,” Ted said, smiling at Clarabeth.
“Are you on the Ashley? How many acres do you have?” I asked.
“Yes. Well, in its day there were probably two thousand or more. Now there’s just around twenty-five. But that’s still a lot of grass to cut.”
“I’ll say,” Adam said. “Dad? Are you cutting grass?”
“No, I manage the guy who cuts the grass. Do we have coffee?”
“I’ll get you a cup.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh. Of course you do. Somehow, I couldn’t see you pushing a mower. So, how did you two meet?”
“Well, Clarabeth advertised in the Post and Courier for a caretaker. And you know how I like to be handy, fixing things that need fixing and whatnot.”
“What are you telling me, Dad?”
“I’m giving you my two weeks’ notice, unless you need me, of course.”
“Are you kidding?” Adam was incredulous.
“No, son. I got a better job. Do you blame me?”
Oh, my God, I thought.
chapter 7
eliza
wild dunes, 1995
It was at least a hundred degrees in the shade when we turned into the parking lot of our condo at Wild Dunes. I had Luke in my SUV riding shotgun and Max was riding with Adam. Together we formed a small convoy, the boys making faces at each other as we occasionally passed each other on the highway, glazing the passenger window with their spit. We were returning for another vacation because the boys had begged and because Adam’s father and benefactress had petitioned us with surprising fervency to join us. They wanted time with the twins. Family time. This was something new for us—to have Ted more involved with the boys and Clarabeth taking the role of an ad hoc grandmother. But the boys loved the attention and no one seemed to be the worse for it. In fact, over time we had all come to love Clarabeth. I had no objection to her affection or to the idea of them joining us at Wild Dunes, but there were unspoken boundaries that had to be honored. This new togetherness business still had the earmarks of potential trouble. And sure enough, Adam bore the brunt of a badly conceived idea.
Same Beach, Next Year Page 6