Birthday Girls

by Jean Stone

  “Newbridge Cross Inn,” Bobby replied.

  She tried to forget that they had often gone there as a family, like the one special night when the boys were about six or seven and they’d gone on the sleigh ride, bumping along the snow-covered paths of the country, snuggled together under fur blankets. Newbridge Cross Inn. She wondered if Parker would remember.

  She had wondered for three days. Wondered and cried, as the reruns of their life together played a marathon film in her mind. Now, seated at the telephone nook in the kitchen, staring at the wall, Maddie waited for Parker to pick up the boys.

  “Dad said they have turkey with all the fixings,” Bobby was saying as the four fifteen-year-old footsteps clomped down the stairs. “Like potatoes and stuffing …”

  “And turnip,” Timmy cut in. “Puke.”

  They rounded the corner, nearly running into their mother.

  “You don’t have to go, dipshit,” Bobby chided. “Stay here with Mom and Grandma. It’ll be more fun without you, anyway.”

  “Mom …” Timmy whined.

  Maddie rubbed the back of her neck. The pattern of the new wallpaper grew fuzzy, then dissected itself into harsh double images. She closed her eyes.

  “Stop it,” she said. “Both of you.”

  “Sssh,” Bobby hushed. “Nobody make any noise. Mom’s going through her change.”

  She felt an urge to throw something, preferably something breakable and of great worth. She wanted to shout so what if I am! Maybe it wasn’t that at all; maybe it was simply the pressure of having two sons and an ex-husband who could be so insensitive that it was making her nuts. She opened her eyes again. The double images merged back into one—the clusters of beige grapes and pale pears were blurred, yet whole. She turned to the boys.

  “Timmy,” she said. “You are going with your father, and that’s final. You spent Thanksgiving here last year because Dad was out of the country. It’s only fair.” Despite trying to remain calm, her muscles tensed; the urge to throw something returned. She gripped the edge of the counter to ward off the hundred-times-magnified PMS response.

  “It wouldn’t be bad if that stupid hitch wasn’t going.”

  “Watch your mouth”

  “Well she is stupid, Mom.”

  “She’s our stepmother, dork,” Bobby said. “And I think she’s nice.”

  “Only because you’ve got the hots for her.”

  “Stop it!” Maddie screamed.

  Timmy pivoted on his heel and left the room in a pout.

  “Sometimes I hate it that he’s my brother.” Bobby spat out his words with venom.

  Maddie wanted to tell him not to talk like that, but her head hurt and her heart hurt and she just didn’t have the strength.

  Then the doorbell rang.

  The table setting was worthy of Abigail’s finest television special There were no pumpkins or gourds or other predictable accouterments for Abigail Hardy: only burnished crockery; matte-finish brass urns adorned with grape ivy; and chunky, spiced apple candles, burning warmly, staggered across the wide mantle and down the center of the long, walnut-inlaid table. The only pure color in the room was the bittersweet. She had decided the name alone made today’s gathering most interesting, although black dahlias might have been more appropriate.

  Between the mellow leek soup and the tiny creamed onions, Abigail decided to make her announcement. She raised an antique, French cut-crystal goblet, one of a set of twenty-four, passed down for four generations—four generations of Hardy women, four generations who had pleased everyone, if not themselves.

  From the far end of the table she glanced at Edmund, who had remained distant these past few days. This evening, however, he seemed to be hiding his feelings.

  She looked around at her guests.

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” she said with a small grin.

  “Here, here,” studly young Grady responded with a white-toothed smile and raised his glass in return. “With compliments to our extraordinary hostess.” Gigolo, Abigail thought, would be an appropriate label for him.

  L.C. Howard, who blessedly had come alone, raised his glass with a chuckle.

  Harriet Lindley followed suit, her many gold bangles clinking down her fleshy forearm as she held up her glass.

  Sondra’s wineglass remained in its place on the hand-crocheted tablecloth. Abigail wanted to suggest that just because her stepdaughter was pregnant did not mean she could not raise her water glass in a Thanksgiving toast.

  Instead of speaking, however, she looked over to her Benedict Arnold assistant, and purposely maintained her smile. Despite the somber mood that accompanied his arrival, Larry had the hypocritical nerve now to raise his glass high in the air. Perhaps he had decided not to insult Abigail in her own home. He’d rather steal her stepdaughter and ruin her business behind her supposedly unsuspecting back.

  Yet Larry did not look back at his boss, but kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if studying the basswood carvings in earnest, as if he’d never seen them, as if it were his first time in this room. Little did he know that Abigail relished his passivity, that she knew it was because she’d put him off about her Rupert’s decision. He had no idea, after all, that she had telephoned the magnate yesterday.

  All in all, it was an interesting table.

  “I’d like to take this opportunity to say how grateful I am that you are all here today, and that I hope you all know how important friends are to Edmund and me.”

  Within the deep fireplace, perfectly dried apple logs simmered and crackled. Within her soul, Abigail felt oddly detached—as if she were merely staging another television special, as if those who graced the traditional Hardy table were studio extras hired for scale.

  “Here, here,” Grady said again, then frowned into his glass. “Or I should say, ‘there, there,’ as my wine seems to have disappeared.”

  Larry cast him a look that said he wanted to kill. But Louisa, ever-present within earshot of the dining room, was instantly by his side, refilling his glass.

  “Wonderful woman,” Grady said and took a hearty sip. “Abigail, you must give Larry the name of your service.”

  Everyone laughed a hollow, isn’t-he-cute laugh—everyone, including Louisa, for everyone knew that Louisa was part of the family, as important to Windsor-on-Hudson as the crystal itself. She’d even been befriended by Harriet Lindley years ago and was a frequent fill-in at her bridge parties when Harriet needed a fourth—a fourth pair of ears, that was, to listen to her latest and greatest tidbits of gossip.

  “I do have an announcement to make,” Abigail said when the laughter diminished. “And it does concern Larry.”

  Larry brushed the thin hair from his forehead but did not have the courage to look at his hostess. She suspected that beneath the table he was clutching Grady’s firm thigh.

  “The Rupert’s deal is done,” she said, her eyes fixed on her assistant whether he liked it or not. “I signed the papers yesterday afternoon.” She raised her glass again. “Congratulations, Larry. Now, among your other eternal duties, you are also the official Hardy Enterprises Managing Consultant for Rupert’s Department Stores.” She did not add that he shouldn’t spend his 15 percent any too soon.

  He raised his eyes to hers. A light film of tears began to cover them. “Abigail,” he said, “I was convinced …”

  “What? That I changed my mind? With all that money at stake? With your future at stake?” It wasn’t easy trying not to sound smug.

  Then she turned to her stepdaughter. “And Sondra, if you’d like, you may have the position of Marketing Director. I thought you’d enjoy more of a challenge.” There, Abigail thought, now the two of them can go hang themselves or each other from the damn yuppie gallows of greed.

  Sondra shot a quick glance at Larry, then looked back to Abigail.

  “Here, here!” Grady exclaimed, and everyone laughed again. “To Abigail Hardy Home Collections, or whatever the hell it’s called!”

  The laughter rose again
. This time it sounded genuine, even from Edmund. This time the room seemed filled with warmth and love. And for one brief, very brief moment, Abigail felt a small twinge of remorse. She glanced around at the mismatched family, the too-often-taken-for-granted friends, and wondered if anyone’s Thanksgiving table really was what it seemed. Then she wondered what the holiday would be like for her next year, and if she would be alone. Quietly she returned her goblet to its place and sat down.

  “Well,” L.C. Howard pronounced, “I, for one, am having a perfectly delightful day.”

  “You, for one,” Harriet Lindley chided, “have had too much wine, and are absolutely despondent because no women accompanied you.”

  “Harriet! That’s not true! Any lady—no matter her age—would pale to the trio of lovelies around this table.”

  Edmund brightened. “L.C. is really only merry because I’ve told him I located another Gauguin.”

  “Gauguin!” Grady exclaimed. “Brilliance in reds and yellows! He would have loved the bittersweet, Abigail.”

  “Ah,” L.C. added, “his was a life of bittersweet. The selfless martyr who banished himself from his wife and five children, all for the sake of his art, for the sake of his soul.”

  The silver teaspoon with one tiny pearl onion was halfway to Abigail’s mouth. She quietly placed it in the gold-rimmed sauce dish, reached for her goblet, and took a long sip of wine.

  Just then—thank God—the door chime sounded.

  Abigail clutched the stem of her glass, waiting for Harold to return with news of who was at the door. She hoped it would be someone—something—to distract her, to allow her to excuse herself from the table. A crisis with the servants, perhaps. Or a young woman come to fetch L.C.

  “Excuse me,” Howard said softly to Abigail, “there’s a woman to see you, ma’am. Miss Kensington.”

  Abigail jumped up. Her linen napkin slid to the floor. “Kris?” she cried, then forgot to excuse herself and raced to the foyer.

  Kris was beautifully dressed in a coral cashmere mini-dress, with a short ermine coat grazing her shoulders. Her dark eyes spoke volumes as she chewed on her lower lip.

  Without a word she reached out for Abigail, who stepped into her arms. “I just couldn’t pass up Thanksgiving at Abigail’s,” she said into her shoulder. “And besides,” she added with a small crack in her voice, “the frigging rabbit just wouldn’t die.”

  They insisted that Kris sit down and have dinner. For the past several years she’d spent holidays with Devon and his family when she was in town; this year, however, she decided against it. The all-American family—the family that could have been hers—was not going to help her spirits rebound from the L.A. disaster. The disaster that, after a week and a half of hoping, had culminated when she awoke early this morning to find her period flooding the bed, staining the sheets with the bloody remnants of a dead dream.

  Her first reaction had been to return to New York and isolate herself in her penthouse until her next book idea was firmly in place and the damn holiday was over. Then she could take off on a research trip and leave the entire mess behind.

  But somewhere over the Mississippi, Kris thought about Abigail and her plea for Kris to hurry home. Self-centered or not, Abigail had tried to be supportive of Kris. The least Kris could do in return was not desert Abigail the way Maddie had deserted her.

  Introductions were made: the boy next to Abigail’s “able assistant” had read all her books and seen all the films. Kris acknowledged his praises with what she hoped was aplomb, though she’d have been more comfortable if a fan had not been among them. She was not in the mood for being on stage; she was not in the mood for being her celebrity self.

  “You see, Harriet?” said the elderly, bushy-browed man who’d been introduced as “L.C.” “The pretty ones find me wherever I am.”

  The matronly Harriet guffawed, her five-strand pearl choker jiggling among the many folds of her neck. “I’ll be certain to announce that at my next club meeting.”

  Edmund set another chair between Larry and Abigail; Louisa quickly appeared with a place setting.

  Kris waved off the first two courses that she’d already missed. “Don’t want to ruin my girlish figure,” she said, and ignored the stuttering wink from the man called L.C.

  When all were resettled Louisa appeared again, this time bearing an enormous turkey on what must have been an heirloom silver platter.

  “Before you came in we were talking about Abigail’s new venture,” Larry commented.

  Kris glanced at Abigail, who wore an expression that was a cross between fright and flight. “Oh really?” Kris asked. “Something new on the horizon?”

  Clearing her throat, Abigail quickly—too quickly—replied: “I’ve signed a deal with Rupert’s Department Stores to handle the licensing for a line of kitchen things.”

  Her staccato answer hung in the air.

  Kris grinned. “How interesting. What kind of kitchen things?” She watched her friend line up the silverware with her plate, though it already looked perfectly straight to Kris.

  “Dinnerware. Linens. That sort of thing.” Her eyes studied the table, not meeting Kris’s.

  Larry laughed. “You make it sound so mundane! Honestly, Kris, wait until you see. Exclusive designs expressly with the Abigail Hardy name. They’re going to reinvent every woman’s concept of what today’s kitchen should be.”

  “Hey,” Sondra said, “the marketing is my department, remember?”

  “Well, well,” Kris said, trying to cover her sarcasm with surprise and trying not to laugh out loud. “Sounds like quite an undertaking.”

  From beneath the table Kris felt a sharp kick against her ankle. “I’m sure Kris didn’t come all the way from Los Angeles to listen to business,” Abigail said.

  “L.A.?” Grady, the fan, asked as his eyebrows shot up. “My very favorite, to-die-for place. Did you see anyone famous?”

  “No one more famous than our hostess.”

  Abigail cleared her throat again and slid forward to the edge of her seat. “How long can you stay, Kris? The weekend?”

  Something, Kris knew, was up. Something was definitely up. “Perhaps I will,” she replied, passing her plate down to Edmund to be served. “I just happen to have my bags in the rental car.”

  More than anything Maddie had wanted to slip into her long, comfortable skirt today—the one with the shapeless, draping vest. But it was really too big for her now, and anyway she wanted to show off the “new” her when Parker brought the boys home tonight. It didn’t even matter if Sharlene was with him; Maddie knew she would make an impression on Parker, and hopefully make him think twice about what he had lost.

  Maybe he’d even wonder if Maddie were seeing another man. Abigail had said it could only work in her favor; that there was nothing more enticing to a man than to have someone else trying to take over his turf.

  Maddie flinched at the thought and wondered how enticed Parker would be if he learned that his “rival” was only twenty-eight, that she was too chicken to call Cody, and that she was still too much in love with her ex-husband to ever consider sleeping with anyone else anyway. Anyhow.

  She glanced at her watch. Six-thirty. They had left at two o’clock, so she shouldn’t have long to wait.

  “You certainly look festive tonight,” Sophie said as Maddie came into the kitchen, dressed in an apple-green satin shirt and black velvet stirrup pants, which Abigail had said helped her legs look longer and her thighs thinner.

  “Postmenopausal zest,” Maddie retorted, and helped herself to a glass of raspberry-flavored sparkling water. She glanced around the room: Sophie had set the table, which, because it was tucked into the corner, didn’t look as lonely as Thanksgiving for two might appear. The dining room would have been unbearable, not to mention impossible, for two years ago they had converted it into a computer/media room for the twins, and the old table and china closet had been relegated to the garage where they had remained ever since.


  Sophie sighed and opened the oven door. The aroma of roasting turkey drifted from within. “Don’t be so afraid of the menopause, Madeline. It’s part of life.”

  Maddie tried not to bristle at the way her mother said “the” menopause, as though it were a noun, an object, a thing, instead of merely a disease of dysfunction, like arthritis, or lupus, or … dementia.

  “Besides,” Sophie continued, “you still get your period.”

  Maddie shrugged. “On and off, Mother. And don’t tell me I’m not menopausal. The other day I forgot my last name.”

  “You must distract yourself.” Her mother tightened the apron around her incredibly unfleshy middle and slipped on oven mitts. “Let it happen naturally and you’ll breeze through it The way I did.”

  There was no need to remind Sophie that she’d been an uncharacteristic bitch on wheels for six years, from age forty-eight to fifty-four.

  “Now help me flip the bird,” Sophie said with a chuckle.

  Maddie would have laughed, too, but it was a remark Sophie made every year. She was the only person Maddie knew who cooked a turkey upside down—“to seal in the juices,” Sophie insisted—and whether or not she was aware of the inference of her remark, Maddie had never decided.

  “I really wish you hadn’t gone to all this trouble for just the two of us,” Maddie said, reaching for two potholders from the counter. “Thanksgiving is just another day.” She leaned into the oven to hold the roasting pan. Then, suddenly, everything blurred out of focus. Whether it was from the heat, the steam, or the menopause she hadn’t even begun, suddenly her head grew light; the oven, the turkey, everything swirled before her.

  Maddie grabbed for the counter.

  The potholder slipped from her hand.

  The last thing she remembered as she dropped to the floor was the searing pain as the flesh of her palm grazed the hot oven door.

  “Maddie? can you hear me?”

  A pungent smell knifed through the masculine voice.