by Nella Tyler
Mom linked her arm with mine. She smelled like her flowery Chanel No. 5 this morning, which I loved, even if I never wore it myself. It was her signature smell and had been for as long as I could remember. Catching the scent of it always conjured fond memories of growing up.
“I’m in the mood for something unhealthy for breakfast,” she said as we walked out of the church behind another chattering trio of parishioners, a wicked smile on her lips. She was dressed all in soft, cream-colored fabric and looked like an angel, all except for that devilish grin. “What do you say?”
I hadn’t eaten since the previous afternoon, and my stomach was painfully empty. “You read my mind.”
We drove to Danbury’s premier local brunch spot. The parking lot was packed, but we managed to find a space close to the entrance when someone else got into their car and pulled out right in front of us. After church was the worst time to come to this restaurant, but Mom knew the owners here—she knew just about everyone worth knowing in both Danbury and Manhattan—so we never had to wait no matter how busy they were. We just got seated at the next available table. It was pretty convenient, even if I did feel like a jerk jumping past the 20 families in line ahead of us.
On the way to our table, I noticed Banks a few tables away talking with his family. He noticed me a second after I saw him and waved, a smile lighting up his face. I waved back, grinning too. You couldn’t see Banks smiling and not smile back. It just wasn’t humanly possible.
It was a little surprising to see him here, because I so closely associated the restaurant with going to church. Despite the fact that BJ had been a lifelong churchgoer and extremely dedicated to his faith, I had never seen Banks attend a single service. I’d never talked to him about it and so had no idea how he felt about it. I’d seen Mr. and Ms. Wheaton at Sunday service quite often, but never him. It was strange, because church had been another reason BJ and I had bonded so quickly. Everything in our lives seemed to align. It was odd that he’d be such close friends with someone for so long that didn’t value something that was incredibly important in his life.
Mom and I went to our table and sat down. I didn’t realize until she gave me a funny look that I was still smiling. I wiped it off my face, but not quickly enough. After we’d ordered our mimosas, Mom turned on that wicked grin, one perfectly sculpted and penciled eyebrow cocked.
“What’s going on with you two?” she asked, tilting her head.
“What do you mean?” I knew exactly what she meant by the look on her face, but playing dumb sometimes worked to throw her off the trail. Not today, apparently.
“You know perfectly well what I mean. You and Banks. It looks like something’s happening there from the way he smiled at you and then how you smiled back. Even right now you can’t keep the dreamy look out of your eyes.” She seemed pretty amused about this, which made it easier for me to rearrange my face in a manner that was a lot less dreamy.
“Don’t be ridiculous. There’s nothing going on between Banks and me that’s any different from the friendship we’ve had for years. He was BJ’s best friend, for crying out loud.” I took a sip of my recently arrived mimosa, relishing the tart flavor, despite my annoyance at my mother’s presumptions. “And, anyway, I’m a newly widowed woman. It’s not really appropriate for me to be flirting with anyone, let alone getting into a relationship.”
“Newly widowed?” Mom’s eyebrow lifted a little higher, topping off an incredulous expression, her lips pursing briefly before she finished what it was she had to say. “It’s been more than a year, ma cherie. No one would blame you for getting on with your life. It’s the healthy thing to do.”
I sat back in my chair, not looking away from her for a second. “Is it, Mom? Because you’ve been a widow for almost three years and haven’t dated a single person. You won’t even give a man the time of day.”
That didn’t wipe the haughtily amused, knowing expression from her face, but it did keep her from continuing. We started talking about the service we’d just attended, steering clear of any mention of Banks, who was only a few tables over with his family. They must’ve only arrived right before we did, because they were just now ordering their meals. Mom and I didn’t even need to look at the menu. We had our favorite dishes that we stuck with and today was no different, Mom choosing the crepes and me choosing the western omelet with home fries.
“Did you decide on what you’re going to do for the holiday?” Mom asked as we waited for our meals to arrive. She was looking critically at her fingernails instead of at me, so she missed the way I flinched at the question.
“Not yet,” I said. “Brian is going to Judy’s.” I had no intention of mentioning that the Wheatons had offered me a place at their table for Thanksgiving. She might encourage me to go. “I’ll probably just end up at home alone. Which is fine.” It wasn’t, but there was a lot about my life that wasn’t fine right now. I had learned to deal with it.
“I can make arrangements at the steakhouse. They adore me there. And, honestly, not many will be there given the holiday. They’ll be happy to have another patron.”
I shrugged noncommittally. I wasn’t excited about spending the holiday alone at the house I used to share with my husband, but I was even less excited about going to the steakhouse. It was too much work pretending to enjoy the regular things. To be honest, I didn’t really give a shit about Thanksgiving this year. I’d gone over to Brian Sr.’s last year because we’d needed each other. It was nice and safe and we were able to share stories about BJ and cry without feeling like we needed to hide it. We hadn’t even cooked any of the regular food, choosing to warm up a frozen pumpkin pie that we split with a bottle of wine.
We chatted about our lives and what had gone on in the few days since we’d seen each other. Mom was independent to a crazy degree and before BJ passed, I could go all week without seeing her until we showed up at church, though she always called and texted to stay updated on what was new with me. But since last year, we’d seen each other several times a week. It was nice, albeit suffocating to have her more involved in my life than she’d been since I was a teenager.
We kept up this light conversation as our meals arrived and we slowly demolished them. I loved this place. There was no better restaurant serving brunch in Danbury. After we finished and paid—Mom picking up the check as usual—we stood from the table and made for the door.
Banks and his family were still talking at their table, though their plates had already been cleared. I tried not to make eye contact, but it was impossible to continue walking when he waved at us and called me by name. I had no choice but to go over there. Ignoring him would only make Mom question me ruthlessly once we got out to the car. I wasn’t in the mood for that today. For some reason, I was oddly exhausted all of a sudden and it wasn’t even 1 o’clock.
Mom took me by the arm and just about dragged me over the Wheatons’ table.
We all went through the niceties of greeting each other and talking about how wonderful the restaurant was and how great it was to see one another again. And then Banks got to the reason he’d waved us over here.
“Have you decided what you’re doing for the holiday?” he asked, wide gray eyes on mine, his face bright with expectation as my pulse raced at hearing the question.
I had no idea what came over me in that moment—it wasn’t sure if I was just too tired to keep fighting or if it was something in the way Banks was looking at me at that exact point in time—but I decided to just accept the damned invitation. It wasn’t like I had much of anything else going on. My only other option was to have dinner at a steakhouse with Mom as though it was any other day of the year besides Christmas.
“I decided I’d love to accept your generous invitation to eat Thanksgiving lunch with the Wheatons, if that’s still an option.” I smiled, but it felt as tired as I was.
Banks, already bright, looked even more upbeat at that moment, his eyes shining much more than usual. “That’s great!” he said at the same time his mother s
aid that of course the invitation still stood—his voice was a lot quieter than hers.
Mrs. Wheaton looked at Mom, the look in her blue eyes as amused as the one in her son’s. They looked a lot alike, actually, despite the difference in age and sex. He looked like his dad too in some ways, but more his mom.
“Maggie said you’ll be dining alone at a steakhouse?” she asked, scrunching her straight little nose at the idea, which she clearly didn’t find appealing.
Mom shrugged. “The best in town,” was all she replied.
“You should join us at the house,” Mrs. Wheaton said. “We’ll have plenty of food, and then you can spend the holiday with your daughter.”
Mom didn’t bother to tell them she was French and didn’t care about silly American holidays. She just smiled prettily, her green eyes gleaming.
“I would be pleased to join you. What time should we arrive?”
I looked over at her in shock at how easily she’d accepted the invitation as Mr. Wheaton went over the time line, going through a lot of unnecessary explanation before telling us we could arrive anytime between 11 and noon.
“Thank you so much,” I said, stepping back once. I was ready to go.
“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Wheaton said. “We’ll see you on Thursday afternoon. Banks, walk them out to their car like a gentleman.”
“I’d be happy to,” Banks replied, standing immediately. He came around the table to walk behind us out of the restaurant and into the parking lot. We walked over to the car and Banks went around to open the door for Mom.
“See you in a few days,” he said to me, smiling again.
I couldn’t help but smile too as I opened the passenger door. “See you soon.” I got in the car, purposely ignoring Mom’s pointed look. After a few seconds of me staring purposely forward, she started the car and backed out of the space.
Banks
Wednesday
Dad shot me an email first thing in the morning, letting me know that he and Mom were standing me up for lunch today, which was just as well. I had plenty of things to take care of here at the office. I’d let anyone traveling out of the area leave yesterday. It was only a skeleton crew in today—even Jane was traveling home to visit her family in sunny Florida, where she was looking forward to hanging out on the beach, of all places to be on Thanksgiving break—but I envisioned getting plenty of work done with hardly any distractions. Now that Mom and Dad had let me off the hook of meeting them at the same place, I could order lunch in, eat at my desk, and plow through the small mountain of tasks I wanted to complete before checking out for the holiday.
I ended up working a lot more efficiently that I expected. Many of the clients I needed to get in touch with had already left on their own holiday trips, so I received numerous out of office replies. I finished a few reports by the time my stomach started grumbling. I didn’t really have much more to do. I decided to order lunch anyway from the Italian place I loved and then leave for the extra long Thanksgiving weekend. Of course, I had plenty of things I could do at home.
After the food arrived, I sat down at my desk in front of the computer, navigating the internet while I shoveled steaming hot manicotti into my mouth. I had bread for sopping up the sauce as well, so I was about as close to heaven as I was going to get today. Ever since that kickass lasagna over at Maggie’s place, I’d been craving all kinds of sauce-laden, cheesy pasta dishes with plenty of crusty bread. If I couldn’t have her signature lasagna, this was a pretty damned good alternative.
I clicked on a page that had information about widows and widowers. There was some interesting discussions here about how long grieving periods lasted depending on the person and the situation, but there was nothing really conclusive. An author of one article said she’d grieved for three years before she felt like she was in a place where she’d healed enough to allow herself to begin dating again, while another author said he’d waited six months before moving on, though he’d faced considerable backlash from friends and family—the comments section below the article had been packed with more derision. Reading additional articles didn’t help, as there were just more conflicting stories. Most everyone tended to agree that a grieving period of more than one year was in order after losing a spouse. Except for the man who started dating again at six months—which even I thought was too soon—every other author and article suggested to wait until you felt comfortable getting back into dating. It might be two years. It might be five. It was disappointing to see that in print. Not that it meant Maggie had to wait that long, but getting an idea of what other folks did in the same situation was pretty depressing.
But that didn’t stop me from conducting a search on how normal it was to have deep, abiding feelings for your best friend’s widow. I tried a few different ways of searching for that kind of inquiry, but kept coming up with weird websites that completely missed the mark. I found myself frustrated and annoyed all over again by the lack of solid results. It looked like I was the only one feeling this way, which probably meant I was a complete asshole. I’d gone back to BJ’s grave a few times since the visit with Maggie just to talk to him and let him know what was going on. It didn’t feel right but, at the same time, it did. I didn’t know how to explain that it felt like I had his blessing because it always ended up sounding shitty and convenient.
I checked my personal email account and found yet another offer for the Series 60. That made an even half dozen since the fall classic car show. This one was the highest yet. I typed a reply thanking the collector but telling him I hadn’t made up my mind to sell at this point and would get in touch with him once I was ready to let go of the Caddy. I pressed send on the email, and only questioned my motives after it was too late to reconsider my reply. I had to admit that it felt like I was holding on to the Cadillac because of BJ. It was our last joint project and selling it would mean a true ending to our partnership. It was silly, but I just wasn’t ready to cast that last part of my best friend out of my life.
I finished the rest of my lunch and cleaned up the trash. Then I gathered all the files and documents I’d need over the weekend, loaded them into my briefcase, and left the office. It was nice getting out of here so early. I’d even have time to pick up a few things to bring to lunch tomorrow. Mom was over the moon to suddenly have two guests coming to dinner. Dad said she was having even more decorations put up at the house than usual. They were big on Christmas—they hosted the biggest and most exclusive party in Danbury—but didn’t usually do more than display a few gourds on the table inside the enormous double front doors and put a large centerpiece in the middle of the 12-seater table. But Mom was out to impress this year and didn’t intend to spare any expense. I was pleased to hear it. I wanted Maggie and her mother to have a good time.
The traffic on the way home was light. Most people had already left on vacation or were still stuck at work. I swung by the large liquor store that was about 10 minutes away from my condo to pick up a bottle of the nice white wine my mother liked, as well as the exact brand of red that Maggie had at her house the other day. I also grabbed a six-pack of beer from the cooler for myself, which I planned to start enjoying just as soon as I got home. I didn’t have a damned thing that really needed to get done tonight. I planned to celebrate that rarity by binge-watching some Netflix. I’d been trying to get through the same show for weeks. I might actually be able to finish it today. And relaxing would help me mentally prepare for being around Maggie all day tomorrow.
Alice was at the door waiting for me as soon as I unlocked it and pushed it open. She was a long-haired terrier mix I’d had for five years, scruffy and extremely excitable. Coming home to her always put a smile on my face.
“Hey, girl,” I said, leaning to put down the alcohol so I could give her a good scratch behind the ears while she enthusiastically licked my face. I picked up the alcohol again, left the wine on the counter for easy access in the morning—I told Mom and Dad I’d come over for family breakfast at 8—pulled a beer out
of the six-pack, and put the rest in the fridge. I grabbed a bag of chips and crashed on the couch. Alice jumped up to sit with me, barreling onto my lap and nearly flattening the chips.
“Calm down, girl!” I said, laughing. She jumped back and forth for a few seconds, trying hard to knock the beer out of my hands, before she finally calmed down. This happened every day. I usually just let her get it out so we could enjoy our evening together. I ran with her in the mornings. It was starting to get too cold for that, which would mean using the treadmill in the spare bedroom. She hated winter because of that, although we did go on long walks outside in the colder months—there was a nice dog park downstairs in the sprawling common area. She had booties for when there was too much ice and snow on the ground.
I got Netflix going and watched a few episodes of my show while I sipped my beer and munched on chips, occasionally giving Alice one or two. By the time I finished the season, night had fallen, but it was only a little past 8. I occurred to me suddenly that Maggie had never been to my parents’ house before. BJ had been tons of times and have even lived there for a little bit when Brian Sr. had to go out of town for a few weeks on a big contract his team had landed. But Maggie hadn’t even come over once, which wasn’t really strange since BJ had come over less and less after we graduated from high school and I went to college and eventually got my own place.
I grabbed a third beer but instead of starting the next show in my queue after sitting on the couch again, I picked up my cell and dialed Maggie’s number. She answered right away, like she’d been waiting for a call. Alice curled up next to me on the couch, her little black nose nearly touching her stub tail.
“Banks?” she asked. “Is everything alright?” I never called her this late.
“Everything’s good. I just realized that you’d never been to my parents’ house before, so I wanted to make sure you knew where you were going.”