“Aunt Violet?” Tristan asked, breaking the silence.
“Yes?”
“What’s a gag reflex?” I felt my nostrils flare as I shot daggers at the blue-streaked platinum blonde. She mouthed the word sorry and quickly tried to salvage the concept.
“It’s like when you had the flu last year and couldn’t eat mashed potatoes….” I monitored closely as she proceeded explaining with uncharacteristic maturity.
We slowly followed the winding concrete path getting closer and closer to the sounds of the bustling streets and blaring horns, and I felt him squeeze my hand tightly—and I felt reluctant. We loved Central Park in the summer. The broad oaks and sunshine so bright it practically yellowed the air. We would miss coming here soon because, much to his chagrin, we never came here after summer. But we enjoyed the day and didn’t think about falling leaves and dying trees or limbs long gone limp and my brokenhearted boy.
We soaked in the cocoon of green that hung overhead, and though every year held the promise of the mossy greens return, I’d learned that waiting was a waste of days. The seasons were about to change, although looking around now there wasn’t a clue. We lived in the moment, too busy to consider inevitabilities.
I turned my face to the sky and basked in the warmth, blissfully ambivalent fall was upon us.
Incandescently happy.
There was certainly something to be said for autumn, and we still enjoyed ourselves after summer. Madison Park is where we ran and played, spending year after year watching the flora and fauna transform; hues of green turned to rust, butterscotch turned to brandy, and cognac in to—
“Stop!” Tristan halted suddenly, breaking his grip from ours. We watched curiously as he crouched, scooping up something, before running to the edge of the sidewalk. We followed.
“What is that?” Violet asked, intrigued.
“It’s a cata-pillar,” he answered matter-of-factly. We watched wordlessly as he gently set it down in the grass.
“What a handsome young man,” I heard a female voice say. I looked up. A white-haired woman in a powder blue floral dress occupied a bench next to us. I could see her tan knee high hose peeking out and she reminded me of Mrs. Claus, though for all you knew she was a retired mercenary or an adult film star. That’s one of the quirks about the city. People are never what you expect.
“Thank you,” I answered. Tristan popped up from his crouch, and she studied his face with a pleasant expression.
“Is he yours?” Her questioning gaze shifted back and forth from Vi and me. In a city full of nannies and au pairs, that was the most common assumption. Two girls in their twenties on a leisurely stroll with a child had “hired help” written all over it. Some thought he was a sibling—some thought he was a little cousin—but as I smilingly smoothed out a mop of silky hair, the bottom line for all the false guesses was obvious.
Avoiding any real clarification, I simply nodded.
“He has your eyelashes,” she said finally. I heard Violet snort. I looked down at the thick lashes the color of bittersweet chocolate, and my heart swelled with pride.
“Yes; he does. And my ears, too.” Maybe I was reaching. His lobe did look a little like mine.
I thought I heard Violet mumble “not hardly” under her breath, but I dismissed it.
On the way out of the park, Violet insisted we visit the monument they had erected in her honor. As she rambled on about how they got the name wrong, Tristan and I smiled at each other knowingly. I had to explain previously that the cast statue of Alice in Wonderland was not, in fact, a monument to his Aunt Violet despite their resemblance and shared keenness for being drawn to rabbit holes. When he told her he knew it wasn’t her, presenting the evidence, she said they built it in advance because they knew she was coming.
I actually enjoyed stopping by the statue on our visits, although I’d never tell her that. The weathered tone of the sun-burnished metal reminded me of home. Of the moist tobacco leaves in jars of dip from the men at the mill, the worn dark caramel leather of boots that outlived expectations, and of the ceremonial snifter of bootleg bourbon that sat sentinel, waiting to welcome home the man that became a father to us both—the colors of home.
I wondered if she was reminded of this, too, and if her fondness for the fairy-tale character she fancied herself after wasn’t the reason she admired the statue at all. I smiled at the thought.
We took a cab on 59th and headed back home to the West Village. We both had apartment condos on Charles Street, but I had the better view of the Hudson—which annoyed her to no end. On the ride home, they took in the sights and I mentally went over my checklist for the night. Everyone came over on Sunday; it was ritual. We had a tight-knit group that always met at my house for dinner. Really, we were more than friends; we were a family. Usually the movie was of the animated persuasion, but we’d been branching out lately. I knew we were running behind because of our extended stay at the park, but the day had been special; the next day was his first day of kindergarten.
As we neared the towering glass building, Tristan shifted from his nestled position and I looked down to see him brush his long eyelashes a few times with the back of his fingers, and finally a satisfied smile played on his lips. I smiled, too.
Violet went to her unit to freshen up. I was struggling with the lock on my unit when the latch clicked and the door swung open. My surprise subsided as I caught a flash of gold and the extraordinarily elegant man before me who was holding a bouquet of wildflowers. Tristan ran inside and hugged his waist.
“What happened to your head?” he asked.
“August, you surprised me,” I said. “I was stung by a bee. Then I was assaulted by playground equipment.” He chuckled softly.
“It’s pretty swollen, Gabrielle. How long ago was this?” He assessed the damage while we stood in the entry.
“An hour, maybe.” I winced as a tender finger grazed my skin.
“You didn’t take the stinger out?” his blue eyes twinkled, and my own gaze flickered down to my walnut floors.
“No,” I said quietly. “We were having too much fun to leave.” I reached down and enthusiastically tickled Tristan.
“Come on.” He took my hand and led me to the bathroom. I sat on the countertop as he angled my chin towards the light while Tristan found a seat on the toilet lid, observing and asking questions of the procedure as we progressed. August patiently explained every detail, although Tristan was saddened when he learned the bee would die for losing his stinger.
After a few minutes of painful poking and prodding, he was done. I turned to my reflection in the mirror and gasped. “My gosh. It looks like I’ve grown a third eye.”
He chuckled. ”It’ll be fine. Lemon will help with the sting, and ice helps calm the swelling.”
“Thank you, August. You should have been a physician.”
“You sound like my father,” he mused. My eyes involuntarily darted to the boy sitting on the toilet who was busy mastering the tweezers.
August cleared his throat. “The others will be here shortly. Should we get ready?”
Chapter 2 - Secrets Are like Assholes
August and I went over our itinerary for the following weekend. I was joining him on a company retreat. I was his “plus one” last year, but it had been in the city. This year it was at a sprawling summerhouse resort in the Hamptons. I arranged for Tristan to stay with August’s younger sister, Jill. Although Jill loved Tristan like her own, the idea of leaving him for a whole weekend was hard. While we discussed it, I momentarily thought about backing out. That wasn’t fair to August, though. He was good to us, and if all he was asking was for me to accompany him for two days, I couldn’t say no. He was CFO of a prominent investment firm that was in the midst of a major transition. Keeping up appearances was crucial.
Tristan showed August the new cage for his pet lizard, Herman, while Violet flitted around my kitchen, needlessly opening and closing cabinet doors. I was making a grilled cheese for Tris
tan, who declined tonight’s offerings of lasagna. She finally stopped disorganizing my spice rack when there was a knock on the door. I craned my neck to see.
“Hi, hooker,” Violet said nonchalantly as she held the door for Jill.
Jill narrowed her eyes at Violet. Ordinarily best of friends, they’d been at odds for a few weeks. The private school required I list both a godfather and godmother on the paperwork. August got the title of the former years ago, which was a no-brainer, but I hadn’t chosen the latter yet. It was too difficult a decision, and they refused to split the title, causing years of sporadic dissent to bloom into all-out war. Jill ignored her and turned to me.
“Hi, Bree, I brought a cheesecake from Junior’s for dessert.” She gave Violet a smug look.
“Thank you, Jill,” I said graciously and raised a brow at Violet. She was going to have to up her game. Everyone knew Junior’s was the best in the city.
“Suck up,” Violet chirped.
“Suck it,” Jill chirped back, setting the dessert on the counter. Vi leered at it.
“Whoa, there, Vi,” I heard Ian’s gruff baritone as Violet had begun to close the door. “You really wanna throw out the guy that brought dinner?”
“Sorry, Ian, come on in,” Violet said, widening the door and stepping back for him to enter.
I smiled inwardly, realizing Ian had probably hid on the corner waiting for Jill to arrive so they’d share the elevator by happenstance. Wouldn’t be the first time. Ian was a burly Bostonian, we met a few years ago when we purchased our units in the building. He was a successful developer and, despite his roughneck reputation and intimidating frame; he had a heart of gold.
He wagged his auburn eyebrows at me when I caught him staring at Jill’s behind as she bent over carefully to remove the packaging off the cake. Just then Tristan came barreling in and received a round of hugs.
“Your hair’s getting dark, kid,” Ian pointed out as he ruffled his hand through it. Tristan scowled and patted it back down.
“He’s not a tow head anymore,” Jill mused. “What color would you call that?”
“I’d say buttered copper,” Violet added.
“He’ll be a brownie. I can tell,” Ian assured, then followed suit with Violet and swiped some cheese.
“Like mom?” Tristan asked as he leaped in the air to steal Ian’s cheese.
“Yep, little man, just like your momma” Ian grinned, extending his arm up over his head to hold away the prize.
The girls and I had quietly busied ourselves during the interaction, but Tristan buoyantly broke the silence.
“Hi, Jill,” he said smiling brightly. “I got this for you.” He gave a single wildflower he’d pulled from the vase on the table. I smirked up at Ian who was looking like he’d wished he’d thought of that.
“That is so sweet. Thank you, Tristan,” Jill cooed. With only a hint of uneasiness, she took the flower and smelled it.
“You’re welcome,” he said satisfactorily.
“What about me, buddy? Where’s my gift?” Ian asked teasingly.
“You don’t get one,” Tristan said plainly. “Flowers are for pretty girls.”
“Where’s my flower?” Violet asked and he shook his head exasperatedly.
“I can’t give you a flower, Auntie Violet.” We all snickered at Vi’s distressed face while he ran back into the living room.
“What the…” Ian trailed off as we all shook our heads.
“They grow up way too fast,” I commented. Jill was becoming the object of his romantic affection rather than partial maternal figure. He even called her “Jillian” now instead of “Aunt Jill”. Jill looked smug but frowned at the flower.
“Um, hello? There are bigger issues at hand here. I deserve a flower, too.” Violet persisted. “What makes Jill so special?”
“I hate to break it to ya girls, but that boy is a boob man,” Ian’s reply was met with three gasps.
“Ian!” I yelped and elbowed him lightly. I’d probably hurt my elbow on his bicep if I used any strength.
“I’m just calling it like I see it,” he said with a wink to Jill and she…blushed? Jill is not a blusher. Huh.
“I think he’s right, Bree,” Jill added conspiratorially, “I told you about that time he grabbed my boob.”
Violet and Ian laughed but I was not amused. “Jill, do not mischaracterize my son as some breast bandit. He was a year old. It was perfectly innocent.”
“I’m telling you, Bree, he knew what he was doing,” she continued, her eyes looked far away. “He tugged on my shirt and then he smirked. He smirked, for Christ’s sake! I’ve seen that look. He knew what he was doing.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I said with a chuckle.
“Yes, you’re ridiculous, Jill,” Violet mocked. “Maybe if you quit running around like a kindergarten Lolita with a purse full of suckers it wouldn’t be an issue.”
Ian’s laughter boomed. “She may have a point, Jilly, but for the record, I like the tops.”
Jill responded with the second demure blush of the evening and wordlessly exited the kitchen behind Ian. Violet and I gave each other puzzled looks as they disappeared.
“Jilly? Really? She hates nicknames,” Vi said.
“Maybe she likes who’s doing the nick-naming,” I replied.
We had dinner at the dining table without incident, but Violet refused dessert. She didn’t refrain from asking me how I was enjoying my slice of “Judas-flavored” cheesecake.
“It’s delicious, thanks,” I replied as I scooped up a forkful.
“There’s nothing like Junior’s,” Jill smirked. Vi rolled her eyes.
“We ran into Nadia in the lobby today,” Violet started carefully. “She had the baby with her.”
Jill raised her thin strawberry blonde brows, but her fork scraped her plate. “I guess there’s no accounting for taste in this building.”
“Don’t look at me,” Ian defended. “They bought a resale.”
“I didn’t think of that. It’ll probably impact my resale value having Euro-trash in the building,” Violet snickered.
“Be nice, Vi. She and Nathan have the right to live wherever they please,” August admonished. “Although, why he picked this building is puzzling.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Jill addressed us. “I’m over it.”
I eyed Jill, but she did finally seem at peace. She dated a successful banker named Nathan Hill for a few years, but the relationship was rocky. We never took to him. Jill seldom brought him around for that reason. About a year ago he impregnated a woman named Nadia, a striking Russian import—rumored to have been an escort. Unfortunately, Jill and Nathan were still dating at the time.
“Be thankful you didn’t end up Jill Hill. The poor baby is paying for their sins. Ugly as a dropped pie,” Violet tsked in what was meant as a comforting observation for Jill.
“Violet! Not nice,” I chastised as the others laughed, including my son. I had to admit internally, I didn’t think Nathan and Nadia’s DNA strands were meant to co-mingle based on the results.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t see that little goober today, too, Bree. That baby looks like the love child of Elmer Fudd and a fart.” Jill and Ian were in fits of laughter.
“Babies can’t be ugly, Violet. They are all cute in their way,” I said.
“That’s easy for you to say,” Jill added. “You ended up with Cutey McCuterson over here.” Tristan’s face lit up.
“August, some help here, please?” I implored, grinning. The last thing I wanted was for my son to start calling babies ugly.
“Gabrielle is right,” August said formally, straightening in his chair. “Babies are genetically designed to be cute. It’s a science. They are born appealing so mothers don’t abandon their own young.”
I went quiet and Violet discreetly took my hand under the table.
I hardly remember the rest of the conversation. After dinner, we piled on my white leather sectional sofa and watched our movie
(Bee Movie, ironically). Ian brought over a Bruce Lee flick, and although my son loves kung fu, it is standard for them to bicker over the selection. Although I’m the youngest of the adults, Violet and Ian sometimes made me feel like a mother of three.
At the evening’s end, August and Ian said goodnight, hustling to their respective homes, and I left the girls to change and tuck in an already sleeping boy.
“The boys are gone. Break out the wine,” Violet announced, as I rejoined them in the living room. To my surprise, Jill went into the kitchen without objection and returned with three glasses and the large barrel-shaped red wine vinegar bottle from the top cabinet. It actually contained a very nice cabernet sauvignon but in my mothering paranoia, I disguised it. The white wine vinegar bottle was vodka, but Violet only brought that out in a crisis.
“Are we celebrating?” I asked, watching Jill struggle to uncork the bottle before pouring.
“No, but if you girls wanna know how my date last night went, it’s gonna take a few drinks,” Violet explained.
Yikes. I said, “That bad, huh?”
“Worse than bad,” Violet said with a sigh.
Jill’s mind seemed to be elsewhere, but before I could ask what was wrong, we were quickly swept up in Violet’s tale. And it was legendary. He asked her out in line at the coffee shop after he’d been on a run. Apparently, he gave an excellent first impression in his jogging attire and was gainfully employed, but his night time persona was less appealing.
“It was terrible. And don’t get me started on his cologne. I mean, who still wears Old Spice?”
“A casting director I met once in Milwaukee. He had a pet sloth,” Jill offered, though we wished she hadn’t.
“Oh, Jill,” I shook my head. “Hey, I think Mitch had a bottle of that!” I added, referring to my father.
“Exactly,” Violet hissed with narrowed eyes. I snickered.
“Maybe be less picky and go for the cute barista. Good on paper isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be,” I suggested. Not that I had any wisdom about dating.
“Did you even hear the story I just told you?” Violet asked incredulously. “I have been more open-minded lately, and it’s gotten me nowhere. I even edited The List!”
In the Land of Milk and Honey Page 2