by Fiona West
“Everything okay in there?” her mother called.
Martina didn't answer. They obviously didn’t care if they couldn't even be bothered to leave the table to investigate broken glass. My, quite the pity party we're throwing here. Martina told herself to shove off, and she stumbled toward the kitchen sink to try to wash out her irritated eye; there must have been food still in his mouth, because there were definitely solids in her eye now. She felt a warm hand on her back between her shoulder blades.
“You all right?” Her mother's voice was low. “What happened?”
“Gus's bratty kid happened,” she hissed quietly over the sound of the running water, trying to glare fiercely, despite being one-eyed. “He spit in my freaking eye.”
“Oh dear.” Linda rubbed her back. “I'm sorry. I should've sat with them.”
“Why, so he can spit on you instead? I don't think the issue is us, Mom . . .”
“Shh, just . . .” She patted her shoulder nervously. “She's coming.”
“Why was George crying?” Augustina asked, her voice all sympathy for her son.
“Are you kidding me?” Martina muttered. When her mother didn't respond, Martina tossed her the kitchen towel and marched out of the room and up the stairs before she said or did something she'd regret. At the top of the stairs, on her way to the bathroom to find the eye wash cup, a flash of red out of the corner of her eye made her pause.
“George, you don't belong in Grandma and Papa's room. Get out here.”
A furious-faced six-year-old propelled himself at her, fists clenched. George pulled back to hit her, but Martina was faster. She put her hand over his fist and clenched her arm muscles to keep him in place.
“You hit me again, and I'm gonna hit you right back.”
The boy's eyes widened, then narrowed. “No, you won't. Grown-ups don't hit.”
She grimaced. “You're right. I won't. But I've told you every time I see you, you cannot hit me. And I'm angry that you keep doing it.”
George stared at her, apparently speechless at her attempt to communicate with him honestly.
“If you hit me, kick me, bite me, hurt me? There will be consequences you will not like. Do we understand each other?”
He nodded, and she released him.
“Moooooooom,” he wailed, tearing down the stairs, and Martina rolled her eyes. She should probably go talk to them, but she just couldn't right now. Martina closed the bathroom door and threw the lock. Rummaging through the first aid supplies proved fruitless; did her parents not have an eye wash cup? She could've sworn they did. Martina sat down hard on the fuzzy toilet lid. Her phone buzzed, and through her slightly blurred vision, she read the text.
Carter: Happy Thanksgiving.
Martina: Happy Thanksgiving to you, too.
Carter: Having fun with the family?
Martina: Sort of. You?
Carter: Not really.
She hesitated. Her favorite Thanksgiving was the one she'd spent with him. Well, she'd spent the afternoon with him, anyway. Her mom had insisted that she spend the morning and the meal with them (also at the kids table), but she'd been allowed to go to Crash's for dessert. Unlike her family, the Carpenters all parted ways before the leftovers were even cold, so dessert had meant hiding away with an entire pecan pie in the pool house, feeding each other bites and spraying each other with whipped cream. They watched Home Alone and kissed and quoted the iconic lines as they came and kissed some more. She touched her lips, just remembering . . . but she wasn't brave enough to ask if he still thought about it, too.
Martina: Your brothers ditch you already?
Carter: Chase didn't get his pass. Christopher called last night to say he wasn't coming.
Martina: So it's just you and your parents?
Carter: My Aunt Sylvia came, and she brought her boyfriend.
Carter: He hates Thanksgiving, because he's vegan. And he hates us, because no one told Mrs. Sánchez, so there's very little he can eat.
Carter: So all around, a crappy day.
Martina: At least you didn't get stuck at the kids' table . . .
Carter: oh no.
Martina: OH. YES.
Carter: Not cool.
Martina: Right? Their parents should be the ones dealing with their tantrums. But I'm single, so . . .
Carter: You should come over here. We don't have a kids' table. But we do have wine.
That was tempting, but her mother would be upset if she bailed now. A soft knock on the bathroom door. “Tini?” Of course they'd send her father up here to deal with her. God forbid that her sister have to deal with her face-to-face.
“I'll be out in a minute, Dad,” she said in Spanish.
Martina: Wish I could.
Martina flushed the toilet and ran the sink without washing her hands to make it less obvious that she'd just been hiding. She greeted him at the door with a bright smile. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Hector grimaced. “Let me see your eye, please.”
She stood still as he gently probed the skin around her eye, which she knew was red and puffy, clicking his tongue unhappily. “I'm sorry, Tini. Kids . . . they sometimes don't do what they should.”
“I know how kids are, Dad. But I hang out with Starla Miller's kids at the library, and they don't act like this. They're almost the same age as George and Daisy.”
He scowled. “You're right. I will lay down the law with them.”
Martina’s phone dinged, but she put it in her pocked without looking at it.
Carter: Or are you spending time with Dr. Trout today? I shouldn't have assumed.
“No, I didn't mean . . .” Sigh. “I just meant that we should be able to talk about things. Every time I start to try to talk to Gus, Mom shushes me. She can't handle the confrontation.”
“I will confront her. I will demand that she make her children be polite.”
“No, Dad,” she groaned, rubbing at her sore eye. “Just . . . never mind.” She gave his growing white beard a friendly rub. “Is this how it is now? You've decided you don't care if people think you look old?”
“I don't think I look old. Besides, at the farm, I thought I would play Santa Claus. Give the kids a thrill.”
“You'll be a wonderful Papá Noel.”
“Will you come help out this year?”
“I'll try. Maybe I could bring Carter and Willow to get their tree, but I think she usually uses a fake one.” Her father sniffed with disdain, and Martina smiled. “Don't be uppity, Dad. To each her own.”
“But is it flocked? Because that's a crime.”
“No, I don't think it's flocked,” she lied. “Come on, I need dessert.” If anyone noticed her swollen eye, no one mentioned it when they re-entered the kitchen. Martina ate her pecan pie and even tried a bite of the pumpkin chia pudding Francesca had made because it had yerba mate in it, even though she didn't care for pumpkin in general. No one could say she wasn't being a good sport when she played three group games, and no one complained when she claimed she had to go home to feed the cats at seven o’clock. It was only when she saw Carter's last text that she realized she hadn't so much as thought about Greg all day.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“THANK YOU, MRS. SÁNCHEZ. That was delicious.” Harrison wiped his mouth and got up from the table, a sign to everyone that dinner was over. Ignoring a scathing look from Aunt Sylvia’s very unhappy boyfriend, Harrison left the dining room, pulling out his phone as he went. His mom was distracted by her sister, still chatting with her, arm in arm as they went into the library. At least someone was enjoying this holiday.
Seizing the opportunity, Carter stalked after his father. “Hey.”
His father paused, then slowly turned. “Are you speaking to me?”
“We need to talk.”
“About?”
“About you calling the sheriff on my employee.”
“Employee,” Harrison mused, swirling the scotch still in his glass. “That’s an interesting choice of words.
” He turned and continued on his path to the study.
“She is an employee,” Carter insisted, storming after him. “I needed help. I told you that. I told you I couldn’t do all this by myself. It’s bad enough that you blow off Mom’s care and disappear for weeks at a time, but you cannot undermine the choices I was forced to make in your absence, too. Martina was absolutely the best person for the job.”
“Oh, I have no doubt she’s qualified. The question is whether she’s warming your bed again on the side.”
Carter barked out a humorless laugh. “Considering Mom was the nanny, you’re the last person on earth who should judge me if she was. But I’m not like you whatsoever, so our relationship is purely professional.”
Harrison’s gaze narrowed. “It didn’t look very professional, gathering her into your arms and fawning over her like a lovesick idiot because of a simple traffic stop.”
“Over a simple . . .” Carter repeated, dumbstruck. “God. You really don’t get it, do you? Do you really not fathom why what you did was wrong?”
“Keep your voice down, Crash. We have guests in the next room over.”
“Let them hear!” he snapped, but he did lower his volume. “Let them hear how you’ve abandoned your family since we stopped making you look good! Let them hear how you tried to use someone’s race against them!”
“Enough!” Harrison snarled. “I won’t be spoken to like this in my own home!”
“You’d have to live here for it to be your home!”
“I travel for work, to support this family’s fortune! I have a serious job, Carter, not some blow-off position for a joke of a company. If you’d stayed at TFPP, you’d understand—”
“This again?”
“Yes.” Harrison sat down behind his desk in the tall leather chair. “I need a successor. Christopher has his own life happening in New York, his own success. Chase is apparently incapable of success, so that leaves you. With some grooming, I’m sure you can meet the task.”
Carter put his palms on the desk and leaned forward menacingly. “Pets get groomed, Harrison. I’m not interested. And the next time you threaten to put Mom in a facility or call the sheriff on Martina, we’re done. 100% done. No more holidays, no charity events, no phone calls, nothing. Do you hear me?”
Harrison leaned forward, his hands interlocked. “I know I must seem cold and unfeeling to you, but I’m not. I’ve been young and wealthy, and I know how many people who I thought genuinely cared about me turned out to be leeches, your mother among them. I’m just trying to protect you, son.” Harrison leaned back, bouncing lightly in the chair. “And if you need help, then I can arrange to be around more.”
No, Carter wanted to whisper. No, go away. Go do whatever it is you do. Leave us alone. He gritted his teeth, realizing was going to have to play along for the moment. His father would get bored or restless here eventually. He’d leave again when he figured out that living with a wife who barely recognizes you and definitely doesn’t like you isn’t so great. Carter just didn’t know how long that would be.
“Great. Thanks.” Carter had already turned to go when he heard his father’s voice.
“I’d like to be hooked into the closed-feed video system, so I can help keep an eye on my wife.”
“Password’s ‘pinkhair,’” Carter muttered. “You can figure it out yourself.” He turned and left before his father could prolong their interaction further. This wasn’t over, that much he knew. It was only over for now.
CARTER STARED AT HIS last text to Martina again and sighed. No answer. He'd only invited her over because he was currently halfway to drunk on his own personal bottle of 2012 Adelsheim pinot noir in the pool house, watching Home Alone, alone. He wasn't brave enough or drunk enough to tell her that he'd kept listening for the slam of the front door all morning, wishing she'd walk through it. Even if she was just stopping by because she forgot something. Even if it wasn't about him at all. Just having her nearby, even for a few minutes, would've been . . . right. Better than being trapped here with all these people he was connected to by blood and shared space, but nothing more.
Carter hadn't turned the lights on in the pool house, and it startled him when his mother suddenly appeared in the doorway.
“There you are,” she smiled, wandering into the room. He paused the movie.
“I thought you were with Aunt Sylvia.”
“She went home. I didn't want to be alone.” Her new-found honesty was so refreshing. His mother had always acted like she didn't need anything, and it made him feel better (and worse) to think that she was just as needy as he was sometimes.
He patted the sofa next to him, and she eagerly sat down next to him. “What are we watching?”
“Home Alone.”
“Isn't that a little juvenile?” she asked, her nose wrinkling.
“Yes.” But so is pining for a woman who's not mine anymore, so . . . “It's a tradition.” She wouldn't know better. He started it over, hoping it would help her follow the plot better. He needn't have bothered; she was asleep before the movie mom noticed they'd left without her youngest son. Carter didn't bother with a glass and drank straight from the bottle. He turned on his side, watching his mom's peaceful face, the way her hands pillowed her head. Those hands used to be so capable; now it was like she'd been replaced by an actress who was trying to play her in a movie about her life; someone who was portraying her badly, who hadn't known her at all. He half-expected her to yell out “line!” sometimes, to some unseen script-holder.
“I miss you,” he whispered. “I miss you, and you haven't even gone anywhere yet.” He took another long drink, and Carter let his body slide down onto the couch. “I am thankful for you, Mom. Even when you're being difficult and can't remember the smallest thing. I'm thankful you're here. I'm thankful we're together.” Not caring if he woke her, he reached out and squeezed her hand, letting tears and sleep cover him together.
SOMEONE WAS RUBBING his back. Someone brushed the hair off his forehead, someone with soft fingers. Uh oh. He knew the feel of those fingers.
“Carter?” someone whispered, giving his shoulder a little shake. “Wake up.” He opened his eyes and what he'd feared became reality. Martina stood next to the couch, her face painted with concern. Looking around, he knew what she was seeing: the TV asking if he wanted to watch Home Alone 2 now, the empty wine bottles, him still wearing yesterday's clothes. He cursed inwardly, blushing furiously outwardly.
“I . . .”
What on earth could he hope to say about this? What could explain him re-enacting his favorite holiday memory of her? Beyond admitting his undying love, that is. His pounding head and sour stomach were not helping him come up with any kind of logical excuse.
“I guess I was feeling sentimental.”
Well, it wasn't the worst explanation.
Martina smiled. “We all do sometimes. I know it's been a hard time for you. Nothing wrong with wanting to think about happier times.” She gestured toward a still-sleeping Willow. “And it was nice of you to include your mom.”
“She crashed my private screening. At least I didn't have to share my wine.”
“Thanks for sticking to the rules. Though I know you gave her pie.”
“It was a holiday,” he said, blushing again. Get it together, Carpenter. He groped around for his phone, and Martina held it out to him. Carter took it gratefully. He was surprised it wasn’t dead, but alarmed to see there were only thirty minutes until he was supposed to be at work; it was a floating holiday, and he’d opted for more time off around Christmas.
“Shoot, I gotta get to work.”
“When?”
“Um, now.” He looked around frantically. For what? He had no idea. That’s how frazzled he was. After a moment, he felt her pushing him toward the bathroom.
“Here. Shower here, and I’ll bring you some clean clothes.”
“What?”
“Just go!” Martina hurried out of the room, and he stared after her. W
ell, it wasn’t the worst plan in the world, and he did hate being embarrassed twice in one day. He jumped in without waiting for the water to warm up, and it was better than coffee. In terms of waking him up, not in terms of comfort; that was severely lacking. He was toweling off when there was a quiet knock at the door. He wrapped the towel around his waist and opened the door.
Martina was holding out a pile of clothing, dutifully staring at her toes. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” He wanted to make a snarky comment . . . about her unusual shyness, about her blatant kindness, about the nicely-coordinated outfit she’d picked . . . but he came up blank. Because being cared for by her felt good. Was he jealous of Willow? That was a strange thought. He shut the door and got dressed, blasting out of the door, only to find a fried egg sandwich and coffee in a travel mug waiting for him.
He didn’t notice the text conversation he’d apparently had last night until he arrived at work.
Carter: Happy Turkey Day.
Christopher: Yeah, you too.
Carter: You with friends?
Christopher: Nah.
Carter: Girlfriend?
Christopher: I don’t do girlfriends, man.
Carter: Did you at least have pie?
Christopher: Of course. I’m not a monster.
Carter: What kind, though?
Christopher: Pumpkin. Made from scratch.
Carter: Bet it still wasn’t as good as Mrs. Sánchez’s.
Christopher: You know what? It wasn’t.
Carter: I invited my ex over. She didn’t come, though.
Christopher: Are you drunk? Go to bed.
Carter: Okay. Night.
Carter: Wait, are you coming home for Christmas?
Christopher: Maybe, bro. Go to sleep.
Carter groaned, wolfing down the last of the breakfast she’d left for him now that his stomach had settled down. Well, it could’ve been worse; he could’ve texted Martina and told her was still hopelessly, helplessly in love with her.