by Brea Viragh
She still had a few of the old recipes. The only thing she lacked was the motivation. Maybe she should give them a try.
“You might be right,” she hedged. “Mrs. Nunez, my surrogate mom? She takes it upon herself to cook for me sometimes. Me and half the neighborhood. She’s always sending over plates of freshly made tamales.” Olympia felt her mouth water. “But this doesn’t mean I have time to get Renee ready and spend a night with your parents. That seems a little weird. Don’t you think?”
“I’ll make a deal with you, then, since I know you hate having people do something for you without giving something in return.” Harlan stood and dragged her to her feet with him. “One mother’s cooking for another. We invite Mrs. Nunez over here next week. You come with me tonight. It’s a simple deal, one you don’t have to read into.”
Olympia found herself ready to agree. Then stopped. How easy it was to get into the we routine again. We’ll do this and we’ll do that and we like ice cream with our apple pie. She needed to remember the other half of her we died years ago. No matter how exciting the fantasy of Harlan stepping into those shoes might be—when entertained in the darkest parts of the night—she wasn’t in a position to indulge it. Or him. He was too different, and she was too busy.
“Why don’t we ask Renee what she wants to do? Although I have a lot of stuff to take care of here.” She gestured to the computer on her coffee table and the twenty emails she had yet to respond to that needed answers.
Then again, what kind of mom did she want Renee to see her being? The kind who didn’t make time for engaging activities? The kind who indulged in microwaved tamales instead of trying to cook on her own? The kind who didn’t want to have an adventure or push her boundaries?
Olympia swallowed. The kind of mom who hired a male nanny to make soup for them because she was too busy to do it herself.
“Never mind,” she said, interrupting Harlan before he had a chance to turn away and call for the baby. “We’ll come.”
His face split open in a smile. “You’re serious? You’ll come?”
In answer to his enthusiasm, Olympia kept her reaction to a minimum. “Sure.” She smoothed a hand down the front of her shirt to deal with any wrinkles. “Why not? It will be a good experience for Renee and you don’t have to cook.”
“Great. I already told Mom you were coming.”
She paused as his words sank in. “You what?”
A half hour later, they were bundled in Harlan’s car and driving the twenty minutes he said it would take to reach his family home.
“Now you’re sure you didn’t want me to drive?” Olympia checked for the thousandth time. “I mean, if you’re tired—”
“I’m positive. Thank you for trusting me enough with the both of you.” He spared a smile for Renee in the rearview mirror. She sang and bobbed her head in time with the tunes on the radio.
“It’s not trust. It’s exhaustion. I’m not fighting as much as I normally would be.”
“Either way, I’m grateful. You are going to love my family. And they are going to love you.”
“How many of your old clients have you taken over for dinner?” she wanted to know.
“A few. Most of them were a bit freaked out by how loud we are, I’ll be honest. My mother is Italian and we can get a little...rambunctious sometimes. I’m giving you fair warning.”
She knotted her hands on her lap and tried not to think about the mountain of work waiting for her at home. She’d had several artists pull out of the show at the last minute, stating scheduling complications, and Ashleigh—gleefully—told her they didn’t have enough people on the waitlist to fill the empty spots. It was one of the many what-can-go-wrong-will-go-wrong mishaps she’d had to deal with that week. Including but not limited to a broken sprinkler system, Carl’s sheetrock project going over budget, workers who didn’t want to come in to work on time, and a missing painting. One no one could seem to tell her where it had been placed.
The last thing she needed to do was take a few hours to go to Harlan’s parents’ house.
Then they pulled in the driveway.
She shot him a brave smile when he braked to a halt. Her stomach decided to do a half flip with a twist at the end. “I’m ready.”
“Funny. You saying that tells me you are definitely not ready. I promise you’ll enjoy yourself. You won’t have to do a thing tonight, just let us take care of everything. And there’s a pool in the backyard—”
“No.” Olympia bent to remove Renee from her car seat. Her stomach did a second half gainer at the thought of leaving her four-year-old anywhere near water. Renee clutched at her, still singing. “Whatever it is you’re going to say, don’t say it. I do not want her going anywhere near the pool. I don’t even know if she knows how to swim.”
Which was why she refused to leave Renee alone even in the bathtub.
Harlan gestured toward the front door. “I will be happy to change your mind. Have I told you how lovely you look tonight?”
“Your compliments do nothing to sway me, mister. You can keep them to yourself.”
She didn’t get a chance to reprimand him further. Her arm wrapped around Renee and the baby balanced on her hip, she plastered a smile on her face when the door opened.
“You’re late.” A dark-haired woman Olympia could only assume was Harlan’s mother stood with her hands on either side of the door frame, one eyebrow raised, and more attitude in human form than physically possible. A loose braid hung down past her chest, standing out against her golden complexion.
Instead of looking chastised, Harlan stepped forward to loop his arms over her shoulders. “Didn’t you know?” he said as he lifted her off her feet. “Whenever I arrive is the right time. That’s the way it’s always been.”
She slapped at his back to be put down, her gaze falling on Olympia. “You brought a girlfriend?”
“Client,” Olympia and Harlan said at the same time. The scrutinizing glance his mother shot her sent a flash of color rising to her cheeks. She refused to give in to any kind of awkwardness or embarrassment. She could handle Carl on his worst days. Which meant she was primed for this kind of outing. Despite noticing the sweat on her palms.
“Olympia Trumbald,” she said by way of introduction, “and this is Renee.”
“Evelyn.” The squat beauty holding the spoon, Olympia now saw, took them both in with a quick and calculating head to toe sweep before stepping aside. “Well, come on in. This one might not think he’s late, but the meatloaf is done and everyone is starving waiting for him. You know how your father gets when his dinner is late. He is mad at you.”
Harlan gestured for Olympia to follow him, not in the least bothered by his mother’s smack talk. “He’ll be fine. It will give him a little break from filling up so quickly and making himself sick.”
The second they stepped through the door into the interior of the home, they were met with a blast of sound. It was similar to a crowded restaurant, she thought. A very crowded restaurant, one where everyone was yelling over each other to be heard.
Evelyn shot her a curious look when she tried to slip into the dining room unannounced, as though hoping no one would notice her presence.
Not quite.
The conversation didn’t exactly halt when the group saw a new face. More like the volume went down a few notches. The scrutiny she’d seen on Evelyn’s face was a shared trait, apparently.
“Hello.” Olympia went for polite if reserved, wondering again why she’d agreed to come.
There were too many names to remember. Too many faces to try to keep straight and too many relationships and backstories and hugs. So. Many. Hugs.
She lost sight of Renee almost instantly, the child swept away into the eager and caring arms of Harlan’s sisters, Beatrix and Diane. They looked similar enough that she wondered if she’d have a hard time keeping them straight. Both were dressed in black blouses with cutouts on the sleeves and little silver embellishments near the shoulders, th
eir sandy-colored hair pulled behind their ears in matching loose buns.
Unconsciously, her attention pulled in a thousand directions at once, Olympia reached out to take Harlan’s hand, her life preserver in an unfamiliar sea. He laced his fingers through hers and continued through the introductions. There were siblings and cousins, his father—a thin and slightly balding man with a small beer belly and a permanent impish smile—and even a few neighbors thrown in for good measure. Maybe she should have brought Mama Nunez over after all. What was one more person in an already packed house?
Olympia tried to count heads and found she came up with a different number each time.
It was party madness. It was more people packed into one room than sardines in a can.
She took a seat at the head of the table and was instantly presented with a glass of wine and a plate heaped with more food than she’d eaten in the last three weeks combined. Glancing over at Harlan for confirmation, he shrugged and mouthed for her to just go with it. None of the others were intimidated by the portions or the people. For them, this was normal. For her, it was a different game entirely. She was used to being alone or at most a small family gathering where there were two to four people around a table.
“Mr. Anderson,” Olympia said during a lull. Which, she’d come to find out, was a rarity in this family. “How long have you been interested in collecting decoys?” She gestured with her fork to the impressive display of brightly painted wooden mallards in the nearby cupboard.
“Thank you for noticing! All my life.” Reginald—AKA Reggie, AKA Pop—let his fist fall to the table with an excited bang, his woolly-worm eyebrows waggling in excitement. “It was my father who got me into the mallards. We used to go duck hunting together. Real family bonding.”
“No one wants to hear about your ducks.” Evelyn brought a steaming heap of corn from the kitchen and set it down in the middle of the table, jerking her hands out of the way moments before the horde lunged for a share. “They’re the bane of my existence.”
“Well, she did ask,” he replied grandly.
“Daddy is a bit of a hoarder, you could say,” Beatrix offered, looking pleased with herself. A miniature version of Evelyn without the spoon. “You think the mallards are bad? You should see the garage. It’s the one little area Mom lets him hoard to his heart’s content. There aren’t any available spaces anymore. There are stacks of old newspapers, glass bottles...”
Evelyn sent her oldest daughter a stern look before taking a seat at the opposite end of the table. “You don’t need to air our dirty laundry right away, Bea. Let her get comfortable first before you bombard her with information. Now.” She laced her hands in front of her and trained that stern look on Olympia. “We’ve been expecting you for a few weeks, Oly. It’s taken you a long time to show.”
“It’s Olympia,” she corrected, squirming under the attention.
“Harlan has been telling us all about his new client and how she’s been putting him through the wringer.” She leaned closer. “Have you been hard on my boy?”
Olympia swallowed the bite of meatloaf, hoping to goodness she wouldn’t choke on it, as she considered her answer. “No harder than he deserves, ma’am.”
Harlan stared at her, his face frozen in disbelief. Then his lips twitched and before she knew what was happening, his head was tipped back and he was howling with laughter. The rest of the room took it as their cue and joined in, snorting and giggling. At her. Even Evelyn was laughing, wiping her eyes.
“You are a bad man,” Olympia grumbled to cover up her awkwardness, pulling her napkin off her lap to wipe her mouth.
He grinned. “It’s why you like me so much.”
A lesser person might have seen it as an insult when everyone in the room was having a laugh at her expense. Luckily, Olympia considered herself made of stronger stuff.
“Harlan tells me you work for an art gallery.” One of the aunts, whose name might be Hildie or Tildie, she couldn’t remember which, fixed her with a look. “What exactly do you do there?”
“I’m the coordinator. One step below owner and one step above glorified go-fer.”
“How do you manage it all?”
She saw Hildie—or maybe it was Millie?—point her crooked nose toward Renee. “What? Juggling a toddler and a job?” Olympia asked.
“You know what you need to do? You need to cut down on your working hours. Take a more direct approach to child rearing. Children benefit from having a strong maternal figure.”
“Yes, I’m sure they do, and I am doing my best.”
How had it turned into a conversation where she felt the need to defend herself?
“Don’t pay any attention,” Harlan interrupted, shooting a smile in her direction. “Aunt Philly has a definite opinion on how things should be done. And she will tell you whether you want to hear it or not.”
Philly held her hands up on either side of her head like flapping wrinkled ears. “I’m just trying to help,” she said in defense.
Uncomfortable, Olympia turned her attention back to Bea and Diane, who were making nearly identical funny faces at Renee. Conversation flowed around her, be it a good-natured squabble or a humorous retelling of a familiar anecdote. All foreign to her.
She twiddled her fingers on her lap and wished for her cell phone. Something to do with her hands to hide from the attention and regain some equilibrium. This was a far cry from the solitude of the last few years. She missed it!
“These mashed potatoes are delicious. So creamy.” Reggie raised a fork to his mouth, eyes closed, savoring the flavor.
“How is it, working with my brother?” Diane asked Olympia. She leaned closer. “Has he tried to put any moves on you yet?”
“Did you use half-and-half in the potatoes, dear?”
“You’re exactly his type, you know,” Beatrix added.
“She’s not my type,” Harlan argued, unsuccessfully.
“He always goes for short brunettes with dark eyes,” Diane continued.
Reggie still had his eyes closed, his fork now empty for wagging in the air. “Very creamy indeed.”
There were too many conversations going on at once. Her attention divided in a thousand directions, Olympia glanced between Diane, Beatrix, Reggie, and Harlan, trying to find a direction.
Diane took a dainty sip of her wine. “If he hasn’t put the moves on you yet, I’m sure he will.”
“He loves brunettes,” Bea asserted with a gleaming grin.
“I don’t really feel comfortable talking about this—” Olympia tried to interject.
Harlan’s older brother Gil clapped a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “He’s a good catch. He’s tall.”
“You know who else was tall...” Aunt Philly began. “My Herbert. And John Wayne. He was very tall. I met him once, you know.”
Olympia needed an escape. Quick. The hem of her shirt was starting to fray from tugging on it and she was pretty sure she’d broken into a sweat. Glancing over, she saw the baby in an old-fashioned wooden high chair, elbow deep in corn and mashed potatoes.
“I’m going to go take Renee to wash her hands,” she stated suddenly, pushing out of her chair. “When I come back I expect the smiles to be wiped off your faces.”
The demand, as expected, had everyone bursting into another round of uproarious laughter. She and the little girl found the powder room quickly and Olympia helped Renee up to the sink for the soap. Her reflection in the oval mirror caught her eye and for a moment she stopped. Captured by what she saw there.
The woman staring back at her had hair tousled around her face in carefree waves. Her eyes were a warm chestnut-brown, a little tired, but exuberant and cheerful. Her mouth was curved in a natural smile she hadn’t seen there in a long time.
Renee announced the completion of her chore by splashing water into her face. Instead of scolding, the immediate reaction she wanted to reach for, Olympia chuckled.
When they returned from the powder room, Reggie was in
the middle of a story, his hands flapping around his head and his words flying out faster than his lips could form them. “She was gonna leave me at Coney Island! Tried to get rid of me, sending me off on some kind of wild goose chase for a certain flavor of sno-cone she said she had to have. But I was no fool. I knew the real reason she wanted me gone was so she could flirt with the funnel cake vendor near the Ferris wheel, by God. Now don’t deny it,” he insisted when Evelyn waved away his assumption. “I knew you were sweet on Biff. Anyway, much to her surprise, I found the damn near impossible to find sno-cone flavor and got back before she had a chance to leave with her shyster.”
Evelyn tsked. “He wasn’t a shyster, dear, he was an old friend from school.”
“He was a shyster, and a damn good one too. Used to buy oil second-hand from the french fries kiosk just to save money on his funnel cakes. And he kept separate shakers of powdered sugar, one for the public that had plain flour mixed with the sugar, and another one without the flour mixed in and that’s the one he used to dust Evie’s funnel cake. He sold fake sugar to the public while he was trying to take my Evie away from me by courting her with extra powdered sugar!” Reggie got to his feet in an emphatic finish to his words.
“Reggie, enough!” Evelyn didn’t need to raise her voice. She slapped him across the wrist with the same spoon she’d used to serve the gravy. “Sit back down and finish your dinner. No one wants to hear those old stories again, especially when you can’t remember what actually happened. I never asked you for a sno-cone, but you insisted I had to try this new flavor you’d discovered, and off you went.”
“Oh now Evie, wait just a minute, that’s not—”
Bea bent low toward Olympia so she wouldn’t be overheard. “You know what else Dad collects?” Her smile was wide and a little crazy around the edges. “Hats. All kinds of hats in styles you’ve never even heard of. He goes to thrift stores and buys every one he can find. He must have hundreds. It’s ridiculous.”
The two adults continued to bicker good-naturedly. Olympia turned frantic eyes to Harlan, expecting him to save her from the rapidly rising voices in the room.