Sarah extended a hand to Tiffany’s brother. “I’m Sarah, and this is my wife, Lizzie.” Sarah rarely introduced me as her wife, but in Peter’s presence, she loved to needle my uptight, homophobic brother a smidgen. It meant the world to me that she did. Hopefully, our twins wouldn’t despise each other.
“Where are my manners?” Peter puffed out his chest. “This is Christopher.” He waved to me. “And this is my sister, Elizabeth.”
I reached for Christopher’s proffered hand. “Nice to meet you, Christopher.”
“Kit, please. All my friends call me Kit.” His smile was genuine, not calculating like Tiffany’s, and there was a hint of mischief in his eyes. Plus, he didn’t try to pulverize my hand, a pleasant surprise. Tiffany had the grip of a python. Right when you thought she was done torturing you, she squeezed harder.
“By all means, call me Lizzie.” I glared at Peter for the umpteenth time after making this announcement, hoping it would finally sink in that I hated my formal name: Elizabeth. His eyes wandered over the entryway of our home, sizing up the staircase to the immediate right, the red and gold oriental rug on the original hardwood floor, an antique table with a Tiffany lamp dating back to the early 1900s, a pair of Chippendale chairs, and the arch with crown molding that led to the rooms on the main floor.
Typically, I didn’t notice people’s reactions to our home, but I took great pride watching Peter soak it all in. His expression showed neither approval nor disapproval, and I took that as a positive sign. If he found any fault, no matter how insignificant, he’d rub my nose in it. One of the first criticisms I remember from childhood was him saying, “You can’t do anything right. You even have two dimples in your right cheek and one in your left.”
After I took their coats, Sarah clapped her hands together. “Let’s have a drink in the library.” She led the way, while I hung their jackets in the hall closet, treating Peter’s Burberry jacket rougher than necessary. There was sibling rivalry, and then there was Peter and I. All-out sibling war. Maybe I could encourage Hank to spray my brother’s jacket. He’d never had an accident in the house, but there was always hope. Maybe I could google How to encourage your cat to ruin your cocky brother’s jacket. Sarah might be proud of me, searching on my phone like a normal, twenty-first-century person. The thought brought a smile to my face, and I did a quick Internet search. Dang. All the articles on the first page were about getting your cat to stop spraying. I didn’t have time to concoct the perfect search terms. I let out a sigh and joined the party in the library.
“Wow! Lizzie, have you read all of these books?” Tiffany waved to the leather bound tomes that filled the floor-to-ceiling shelves.
“Not yet, but a good portion.”
“What’s with all the Swastikas?” Kit directed the question to Sarah, for some reason, pointing toward the shelves mostly hidden from view near my desk or under the bay windows, where Sarah insisted I store my research books. It was dusk—my favorite time of day—so the drapes hadn’t been completely drawn, letting a violet light wash the room.
Sarah tittered. “When we started dating, the first time I strolled into Lizzie’s apartment I almost made a run for it.” She stood behind me and placed a hand on each of my shoulders. “Lizzie is an historian, and her specialty is the Nazis—of all things.” She tightened her grip, letting me know she wasn’t judging. At least I think that was what she meant by the caress. Quite possibly, she meant, Don’t launch into a history lecture.
“Would anyone like a drink?” I clasped my hands together and bowed slightly like a waiter. “Peter, we have Blanton’s.”
He actually smiled and nodded as he took a seat on the couch on the far side of the room. Gesturing to the Oriental rug under the couches and coffee table and then the one under my desk, he said, “Do you have a problem with moths?”
Sarah sloped her head to the left. “Excuse me?”
“Moths—eating your sweaters. A buddy of mine says that all the moths infiltrating the US come from the Middle Easterners who bring their rugs into the country to sell them. I noticed you had another rug in the foyer.” He tugged the sleeve of his cashmere cardigan as if warding off evil Middle Eastern insects.
I was in mid-pour of his drink, and the mental lapse made me spill the ninety-dollar liquid all over the top of the bar. I mopped up the mess with a cloth, contemplating whether I could wring the towel out into Peter’s glass without anyone noticing; that would be much easier to accomplish than training Hank to spray his jacket.
“An interesting theory.” Sarah’s voice was flat—it was the tone she often used when I said something foolish but she lacked the energy or desire to start an argument.
Kit raked his overly manicured goatee and sought out his sister, who was still wandering the room, taking in everything. Noticing that Tiffany was either ignoring Peter or hadn’t heard him, Kit flashed me a guilty smile. Did he feel like he had to apologize for Peter? If he started that now, he’d never stop.
“What can I get you, Kit?” I waved to the bottles on the bar.
He moseyed over and put a hand on his hip, accentuating his thin waist as he studied the selection. “Oooh, I love grappa.”
“Grappa it is.” I retrieved an hourglass flute of the Italian brandy from the cabinet below the bar top. “Tie-Fannie, what about you?”
She was admiring the view of our tree-lined street out the window and didn’t bother turning around. “Wine, please.”
“Red or white?”
“Bartender’s choice.” She smiled coquettishly over her shoulder.
Sarah and I exchanged glances. Mine tried to convey: This is why I don’t like having family over.
Peter was an arrogant ass, and apparently a racist one, and his wife was an airhead. I placed all the drinks on a silver tray, including ice water with a slice of lemon for Sarah, and carried it to the coffee table. Once sitting opposite Peter, I reached for my Coke on ice.
“Still can’t stomach a real drink, Elizabeth?” Peter glommed onto his cut-crystal tumbler and swirled the honey-colored drink.
“It doesn’t seem fair to have a drink when my pregnant wife can’t.”
Sarah parked on the armrest of the couch and draped her hand over my shoulder. “Ever since Lizzie found out we’re pregnant, she’s been more responsible than I thought imaginable. She’s mapped out all the routes to the hospital and has actually done several dry runs at different times of day.”
“Aw, that’s sweet.” Kit sat in the wingback chair off to the side, crossing his legs. He had the skinniest ankles I’d ever seen. He was shorter than Peter by at least five inches, and I bet he weighed well under one hundred and fifty pounds. “I hear you’re having twins.”
“That’s right. A boy and girl.”
“Will you have more?” Tiffany took a seat next to Peter, sweeping her wineglass up to her lips like a parched sailor.
“Not sure, really. Time will tell how difficult twins are.” Sarah smiled and massaged her belly. “So far so good, but soon we’ll be up to our eyeballs in diapers, bottles, and long nights.”
“At least Elizabeth doesn’t work.” Peter leaned forward and placed a slice of chorizo on a wheat cracker.
“Then you’ll be a stay-at-home mom?” Kit speared an olive with a toothpick from the array of snacks Sarah had set out while I was on the bourbon and chocolate run.
“Not quite. I’m working on my third book… Well, I’m in the early stages.” I motioned to the stack of books on my desk, many with dog-eared pages and countless slips of paper sticking out. I had banned Sarah from stashing this particular pile, since it consisted of the sources I was knee-deep in at the moment. I had a process, and I didn’t want to disrupt it for anyone, least of all Peter and a ditzy blonde who insisted on being called Tie-Fannie.
“How hard can reading and writing be?” Peter’s haughty smile didn’t go unnoticed. “A couple of hours a day for what… a month?” My brother’s vacant expression mad
e it clear he thought that was all it took to research and write historical nonfiction. Was he that clueless, or did he think only people in the finance business understood hard work and dedication?
“Then you two have more in common than I thought.” Tiffany grinned, the points of her pearly whites seeming to sharpen before my eyes. “With all your golfing and whatnot, you can’t tell me you’ve put in a full day at the office since your cushy promotion.”
I zeroed in on her annunciation of “whatnot.” I’d learned from Maddie, years ago, that my older brother was a philanderer. I’d assumed Tiffany knew that about Peter before they married, but for some reason she either accepted it or thought she could change him. Now, I was guessing he hadn’t altered his ways and that Tiffany wasn’t going to let him get away with it, not entirely. Did she get some perverse joy of making jibes about his cheating to let him know she was on to him? Or was it to embarrass him in front of others?
Peter cast a withering glare at his wife, who smiled innocently before fixing another cracker with port-wine cheese.
“What about you, Kit? When’s the big day?” Sarah turned her back on the crackling tension between the couple opposite us.
“What?” Kit mumbled around a mouthful of chorizo.
“Your wedding, of course.”
“Oh, that. We haven’t set a date yet.”
Kit and Tiffany had a habit of stressing insignificant words, which modified the entire tone of the conversation. Did the whole family speak in code? And if that was their code, even I, the usually socially tone deaf one in a group, had already cracked it.
“Our family wants a June wedding, but Kit, here, is being difficult.” Tiffany swished her wineglass, almost dumping the burgundy liquid onto her pale amethyst dress.
“I’m not being difficult. Mom and Dad were married in June. I don’t think we should share their month; that’s all.” He shrugged as if it was no big deal.
I wasn’t an expert in people, not living ones anyway, but his reasoning stank of a man trying to stall getting hitched. Interesting. Tiffany had been dead-set on getting her claws into Peter, but Kit came across as a man who didn’t want to relinquish his independence. I was starting to like him, even if there were a few curly chest hairs poking out of his mint-green gingham poplin shirt. His sleeves were rolled up, and from the thickness of his arm hair and evidence of chest hair, I gathered he was quite hirsute.
“There are thirty days in June. Surely you can pick a date that doesn’t step on anyone’s toes.” Peter relaxed into the couch cushions, both arms spread along the back of the sofa. “You don’t want to let a woman like Courtney slip away, Christopher. Beautiful, successful, and well-bred.”
“Kit,” Kit and I simultaneously corrected him.
Peter smiled, like he used to do when we were kids and he thought I was being a pussy. But there were grown-ups present, which prevented him from calling me names. Peter had always hated any sign of weakness. Years ago, I thought it was because he didn’t have any weaknesses. Now, I suspected my brother was one of the most fearful men I’d ever encountered. That stoked conflicting and vacillating emotions in me, ranging from satisfaction to pity.
Tiffany’s brother acknowledged my support with a slight dip of his head. The room grew silent, and four out of five of us looked to the drinks in our hands as if we were praying a safe conversation would magically start.
“Who’s this?” Tiffany swiped a frame off a side table.
“Hank,” I replied. “Our cat.”
“You have a pet?” Tiffany’s face exhibited confusion. “That’s odd.”
Sarah crumpled her forehead. “How so?”
Tiffany’s eyes briefly landed on her husband. “Peter would never entertain getting a pet.”
“Waste of money if you ask me. How much are the vet bills? And for what? A nuisance that becomes an obligation.”
“Does that mean you don’t really want children?” Kit shifted in his seat, crossing his other leg and draping his hands primly in his lap. “That obligation lasts a lifetime, and I imagine the cost is at least quadruple that of pet bills.”
“Of course I want children.” Peter scoffed. “Every man should want a family. Even these two are starting a family.” He waved to Sarah and me.
“Even these two,” Kit reiterated. “What do you mean? Lesbians?”
Peter’s face flushed. My mother loved to pronounce the word as les-bi-an to get a rise out of me, but Peter usually tried to be subtler. Not that a deriding even these two was all that better. He sipped his Blanton’s, refusing to explain himself. How odd that Peter had married a woman who spoke in condescending code and never outright verbalized what was on her mind.
From the angry crinkles around Kit’s eyes, Peter didn’t have to explain.
Sarah placed a hand on my thigh, turning to me with a tight smile. I returned my own version.
“I don’t want kids.” Kit pinned his eyes on Peter, expectantly.
“I’m not surprised.” He glared at Kit.
I had to admit the only manly thing about Kit was his hairiness; not that Peter exuded masculinity either.
Tiffany levered herself off the couch, drifted into my line of sight like a ghost, and interjected, “I want to see the nursery.” She faked excitement by clasping her hands together, childlike.
The tension between the three of them sizzled. Maybe I wasn’t the only one with an effed-up family.
Peter didn’t roll his eyes, but I sensed that if Sarah, Tiffany, and I hadn’t been watching his reaction like a hawk, he would have. The only disapproval he allowed himself to show was the thinning of his bloodless lips to the point where they almost disappeared into his mouth.
I noticed Kit’s eyes glistened with curiosity as the five of us tromped upstairs to the nursery.
When inside, Sarah waved her hand. “Welcome to the zoo.”
Everything depicted zoo animals in bright colors; however, none of them were associated with the female or male sex. The decals and pictures on the walls. Stuffed animals. Quilts. Mobiles over each crib. There was even a six-foot stuffed giraffe in the corner, next to a wooden rocking chair.
Sarah rubbed my back as the group took everything in. My fascination with zoos had started late in life. Months ago, after learning that my mother was dying from colon cancer, Maddie had taken me to the zoo to snap me out of my funk. It was the first time I’d ever been. Not the first time since I was a kid; the first time ever.
The visit proved two things. One: my family was bizarre. While most families did family things on occasion, ours never even went to the zoo, which was less than thirty minutes from my childhood home. Two: zoo animals, whether a decal, stuffed animal, or the real thing, made me smile.
Tiffany twirled around. “Oh my God.” Another handclap. “This is adorable, in all caps.” She snapped her fingers and continued to wheel about on four-inch heels, causing my heart to flutter as I envisioned her crashing into one of the cribs and having to put together another one. Assembling baby furniture was the true test of any relationship. Sarah was dead set against paying someone to do it—not even Maddie, our interior designer. “Isn’t this adorable?” She turned to Kit and Peter, waiting with her fake smile.
Kit’s smile comforted me.
Peter grabbed a stuffed otter from the dresser. “It’s something, all right.”
“We can’t take all the credit. Our designer pulled it all together for us.” Sarah pinned Peter with a friendly but not too friendly stare.
He didn’t take the Maddie bait, lowering his eyes to the plush carpet.
“Hello!” someone hollered from downstairs.
Sarah kinked an inquisitive eyebrow at me. I gave a quick shake of the head to let her know I certainly hadn’t invited Maddie over, not today, of all days.
Maddie’s heels clicked on the polished floors in the hallway leading toward the kitchen. “Anyone home? Lizzie? Sarah?”
“Be right down
, Maddie,” Sarah shouted.
Peter’s face went up in flames, and he twisted the otter with both hands almost de-stuffing the poor thing.
Tiffany’s face contorted with malicious delight. “Is that the Maddie? Your ex-fiancée?” Her smile was many things, but certainly not supportive or kind.
Peter squared his shoulders and plunked the otter back in place, not saying a word.
“Maddie’s a close friend of ours,” Sarah explained to Kit, not mentioning Maddie had ditched Peter at the altar.
My brother’s face continued to change colors. Right now, he was working on a deep shade of eggplant—heart-attack color.
Sarah joined her hands together like a tour host. “Shall we go back downstairs? Have another drink before dinner?” Her smile suggested she’d rather gouge out her own eyes. I wanted to remind her this was what happened when she answered Tiffany’s phone calls: uncomfortable family situations.
Tiffany sprinted out of the nursery like a child hurtling toward a Christmas tree to open presents. Did she see this as a golden opportunity to make Peter suffer? Tiffany was the kind of woman who loved to make others suffer—just like my mother.
Peter nodded bravely, to no one in particular, and I wondered whether he was psyching himself up to see his ex—the one who’d humiliated him in front of all his friends and business associates.
Kit’s crinkled forehead was the only natural emotion on display in the room. He tweaked my arm. “Ah, Lizzie. What’s this?” He pointed to a plastic white container standing next to the changing table.
Torn about helping Sarah handle the Maddie situation or outright ignoring our unexpected guest, I opted to stay behind. “It’s a Diaper Genie.”
Kit stepped back half a step. “Oh. That’s the downside to kids and dogs—cleaning up their shit.”
“Never had a dog,” I said, not mentioning I wasn’t too keen on changing diapers either, even though Sarah had made it perfectly clear I’d be doing my fair share.
Kit rolled back onto his heels, threading his arms over his chest. “I’m more of a cat man, myself.”
A Family Woman Page 6