“You’re only four months younger. And remember, Sandy is two years older than Bill. Look how happy they are.”
Mom was not dropping her hopes that Cisney would wheedle her way into his heart. Why hadn’t Cisney switched that annoying pearl ring back to her right hand? Was she purposely making it hard for him…making bird napkins and playing the good sport among a room full of actuaries?
He raised the breadbasket piled high with snowflake rolls. “We’d better get these babies back to the family.”
Mom gave him her you-know-your-mother-is-right look and marched past him into the dining room.
Didn’t he have enough on his plate with Option A and B interviews in the next two days without Mom pushing him toward Cisney? An escape on the family pontoon was looking good for Option C.
Back in the dining room, Uncle Bill’s and Cisney’s heads angled toward each other. Always quiet, Uncle Bill now spoke animatedly, while Cisney appeared riveted on his every word. What was she? Some kind of magician?
After he eased into his chair, Aunt Sandy interrupted Uncle Bill with a question.
Cisney turned to Nick and leaned close. “I can’t eat another bite,” she whispered. “Take those rolls off my plate. They make me look like a pig, and when I don’t eat them, I’ll look like a wasteful guest.”
“You could use an extra pound or two.”
She hadn’t served herself any cranberry sauce when it went around the table. Was she watching calories, or did she dislike cranberry sauce?
He lifted one of her rolls. “They’re great with cranberry sauce spread on them.” He broke the roll and smeared a clump of cranberry sauce on one half.
She looked relieved that he’d taken the roll from her plate, until he held the portion dripping with the red sauce to her mouth.
Cisney met his gaze with a glare. When he didn’t budge his hand, she rolled her eyes and took a small bite. Cranberry sauce slid off the roll and down her chin.
Grandpa, the only one not engaged in conversation, witnessed Nick’s act and raised his eyebrows.
Mom turned to Nick and caught the tail end of the scene.
Wiping cranberry sauce from her chin with her napkin, Cisney looked at Mom. “Mmm. Good.”
Beaming, Mom turned back to Dad.
Nick brought his lips to the Cisney’s ear. “Just so you know, I told Mom we’re not engaged.”
As soon as he whispered the words, he regretted them. He’d failed to remain the adult. He’d let her get under his skin—again. He shouldn’t have taken out on her his dislike of letting Mom down.
Cisney picked up the remaining roll on her bread plate and broke it in two. “Where I’m from…” She piled on a quarter-inch of butter to one half, and then slopped on a spoonful of sweet potato casserole. “We like sweet potato and butter on our rolls.” She put it against his mouth, transferring orange mush onto his lips.
He might never want to see a snowflake roll again. A quick glance around the table showed that only Grandpa had witnessed Cisney’s counterattack, and Grandpa, the old goat, nodded, his lips trembling, to stifle a chuckle.
Nick grimaced and took a bite of the loaded roll. “OK. We’re even,” he said, cringing at the heavy butter and sweet potato combination.
“Cisney,” Nancy said, “will you show me how to fold the bird of paradise?”
Fran and Fannie chimed in, begging for a lesson.
Mom, Aunt Sandy, and Grandma Thelma cleared one end of the table to make room for folding napkins.
Nick gritted his teeth. Another opportunity for Cisney to charm her way into his family.
****
Cisney surveyed the women’s birds of paradise. Not bad. Grandma Thelma had caught on quicker than expected, and despite her arthritic hands, had fashioned a decent blossom. The upswept points on Aunt Sandy’s flower sagged, but on the whole, her creation still looked like the exotic flower. Cisney enjoyed the laughter, the ribbing, and the cajoling among the women. Nick was right. She needed his family.
Tony poked his head inside the doorway. “It’s time.” He disappeared.
Fran and Fannie whipped their heads to face each other. “It’s time!” they said in unison.
Cisney glanced from one woman to another. “Time for what?”
Nancy, Fran, and Fannie scooted their chairs away from the table.
“Come on,” Nancy said. “You’ll see.”
The young women led her down the hallway to the mudroom, where they opened a door opposite the outside door. She followed them down a narrow staircase. Would she have to do something embarrassing they could only do in a dark basement, like bob for apples?
At the bottom of the stairs, Fran opened another door and they filed inside.
The space was huge. Cisney sucked in a breath. The carpet and furnishings were done in browns, tans, and caramel. A door near the stairs opened into a full bath covered in travertine tiles from floor to ceiling. In an alcove next to the bathroom, twin beds rested on a tan shag carpet. Clothes slung over the beds, the side chairs, and even the lamps, verified Fran and Fannie roomed here.
Further into the basement, they entered a media area, where leather chairs arranged in a half circle faced a large-screen TV over a stone fireplace. Strategically placed wall sconces warmed the area.
They crossed an honest-to-goodness dance floor to the brightly lit end of the basement. A Ping-Pong table stood on a honey-colored terrazzo floor.
Tony and Nick slapped a ball back and forth, until Tony undercut the ball and it zipped sideways off the table on Nick’s side.
Tony’s eyes brightened when his gaze picked Cisney out of the approaching women. “I’ll team up with Cisney,” he said.
That was fast. Tony had no idea whether she could find the right end of a paddle.
“OK,” Nancy said. “It’s you and me, bro.”
Fannie passed Fran a paddle. “Why do Fran and I always have to be partners?”
“Because apart, you’re klutzes,” Tony said, “but together you manage to keep the ball on the table more often than not.”
“Ha, ha,” Fannie said.
Fran whacked Tony’s arm with a paddle, and he yelped.
Lesson to remember: Don’t cross the quiet twin.
Tony grabbed Fran’s head in the crook of his arm and rubbed his knuckles gently over the top of her head.
“Fannie, you can be my partner.” Nick said. “This is a friendly competition. It doesn’t make any difference who plays with whom.”
Fannie rolled her eyes. “Right. Like over the years, you’ve never fist-bumped your partner silly or thrown yourself into the victory dance.” She linked arms with Fran. “Never mind. Remembering how you do the victory dance, I think I’ll stick with Fran.”
Nick gave Fannie an I’m-hurt look.
Cisney could have worked with Nick for ten years and never seen this side of him.
“OK. So we’re set,” Tony said. “Team captains step forward for Rock-Paper-Scissors. If two people have the same sign, the third goes first, and the remaining two go again. But if all are different or the same, we’ll go again.”
“Whoa,” Nancy said. “We could be here all night playing Rock-Paper-Scissors. I have a better idea.” She broke off straws from a broom she produced from the utility closet. She extended the evened-up straws in her fist to each team until the straws were gone. “Nick has the short straw, so Cisney and Tony play Fran and Fannie first.”
Fannie addressed Cisney. “Winners have to do the victory dance. That’s the best part of this event.”
This event? Did that mean there’d be more activities? Maybe a laundry tub with ice-cold water and bobbing apples lurked in a cement addition, after all.
Tony handed Cisney a paddle. “Partners alternate hitting the ball. Do you need a warm-up?”
“I don’t think it would make a difference.”
The two teams faced off while Nancy and Nick sat on bar chairs lining the wall near the table. Perspiration threatened to soak
Cisney’s underarms as she hunched over the table, her paddle at the ready.
Fannie served. Cisney returned the ball and it landed mid-table on their opponent’s side. Fran returned it and Tony put away the point.
Tony never missed a shot. All she had to do was bounce the ball to the other side of the table, and Tony made the point on the return shot.
At twenty-one to three, Tony clapped his paddle on the table and raised his fists. “Winners!” He high-fived Cisney.
She laughed, exhilarated by the intensity of the game. Tony had encouraged her when she’d missed shots and had cheered her on when she’d made them. She’d sensed Nick’s steady gaze on her during the game. Why did his interest seem to contribute to her elation? Something to ask herself later.
The match with Fannie and Fran was probably child’s play. Her challenge-weighing gut was seldom wrong. The brother-sister team would be brutal. Now that she’d seen the competitive side of Tony, she’d put every ounce of sweat into the match and say goodbye to wearing her coral-colored silk blouse again.
But Fannie had mentioned a victory dance. Knocking her knees together like a running back after scoring a touchdown would have her begging for bobbing apples. OK. Preference shift. She’d be fine with losing, watching Nick execute silly victory moves, and saving the silk.
And yet…was she really the kind of girl who would let Tony down?
Tony collected sodas from the refrigerator under the built-in bookcases and handed them around. Cisney drew long on her soda. Just one more thought; then she’d stop analyzing. Was her heart beating like crazy because she cared less about letting Tony down and more about impressing Nick? Hmm.
“OK,” Tony said, “let’s find out who will control the victory dance this year.”
The men placed their shots strategically and took advantage of the women’s lobs to smash the ball, while the women concentrated on returning the plastic orb and getting out of the way of the men’s next shots.
Nancy proved to hold the same skill level as Cisney. So, that was why Tony chanced tapping her as his partner.
Nick served to her with the same force that Tony served to Nancy, which was half the warp speed the men served to each other. She returned the ball and Nancy whiffed the shot as it nicked the edge of the table.
“All right!” Tony patted her on the back.
Nick wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “Nineteen to eighteen.” He served.
Nancy connected with Cisney’s return, and the ball landed on Cisney’s corner. Tony lunged and made contact. The ball rose high.
Nick smashed the ball. On the bounce, it hit Cisney’s paddle by accident and skimmed back over the net. She crouched to get out of Tony’s way.
Nancy returned the ball to Cisney’s quadrant.
Tony dove for the ball and then executed erratic footwork to avoid toppling Cisney as the ball hit the floor.
Cisney removed her hands from protecting her head and straightened. “Wow. That was close.”
“We can come back.” Tony hunched over and twirled his paddle like a tennis pro spun his racquet.
She’d meant he’d come close to killing her, not making the point. Sacrificing her silk blouse for the cause was one thing, but her life? Men.
Nick cupped the ball in his hand and blew on it. Here was not the mild man who sat in her office side chair and remained motionless while he thought forever. He pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes. Oh, boy.
She squinted, focusing on the ball.
He served to her in his usual easy-going speed and she hit the ball off the table. She dropped her arms to her side. She’d let Nick intimidate her. Nancy and Nick performed fist bumps with both fists.
Tony put his arm around Cisney and hugged her sideways. “There’s always next year, partner.”
Sweet Tony bore the loss well. At least she was saved from doing the victory dance. Ready for a soda, a chair, and the show, she pulled her phone from her pocket. A photo of Nick performing the victory dance might come in handy at work.
Fran dismounted her bar stool and extended her hand toward Tony, snapping her fingers. He retrieved a CD from the counter over the refrigerator and gave it to her.
Fannie backed toward the staircase while her sister put the CD in the player. “For the victory dance, Cisney, the runners-up get to pick the dance and the music, and the winners have to be their partners. It’s the reward for us losers, who get to watch their performance.”
What? She had to perform some crazy dance with Nick? What kind of victory dance was that? “I don’t see how this constitutes a reward for the winners.”
Tony handed her a soda and popped the top of his. “Just be thankful you don’t have to do the chicken dance Nancy chose last year for Nick and Allison.”
Cisney chortled. She couldn’t help it. She’d have paid good money to witness Nick flapping his elbows.
“What’s the dance this year, Tony?” Nancy asked.
“You and Nick have to roll up your pant legs and dance the polka with us.” Tony turned to Cisney. “That part—rolling up pants—we don’t have to do.”
“Do you need a lesson, Nick?” Nancy asked, laughing.
Nick rolled up his pant legs. “No, I think I can handle the polka.”
Surprise, surprise. Nick LeCrone had well-shaped legs. After today, it would be hard to have a blasé financial discussion with Nick without thinking of this moment.
Nick straightened, grabbed her hand, and pulled her to the dance floor. This hand-grasping thing was becoming a habit. A dangerous habit, according to the flutters ping-ponging in the fleshy keeper of her emotions.
Clamping her hand in his and stretching out her right arm, he planted his other hand against her back. She giggled—the nervous kind. Did she remember how to polka?
Nancy finished rolling up her pants and accepted Tony’s hand.
When Fran started the music, Nick launched Cisney forward. They stomped around the room to the vigorous Vejvoda’s “Beer Barrel Polka.” She laughed so hard she had to trust Nick to keep them from plowing into Nancy and Tony.
As Nick whirled her on the last refrain, a blur of faces whipped into her quickly changing field of vision. She wrenched her head past Nick’s shoulder. That scamp, Fannie. The twin had lured the family down to witness the victory dance.
The music stopped and Nick removed his guiding hand from her back and spun her out so that their outer arms were extended in a theatrical finish. They both gasped for breaths. Applause sounded from the gallery, except from Ellie. Her hands were clasped under her chin, her ear-to-ear smile a speed bump for her tears. A hundred to one, it wasn’t their dancing expertise that had elicited her strong emotions.
Nick dropped her hand as if she had cooties. She stumbled to catch herself as he bent to roll down his pant legs. He must have spotted Ellie. OK, so he wouldn’t want his mother to get any ideas about their relationship, but with her own heart already shot full of holes, his abruptness spelled rejection. Even Grandpa had blinked in surprise at Nick’s briskness, proving she hadn’t overreacted.
Lord, please. I need your strength. Lead me not into rejection.
7
Nick stood before his bedroom mirror and buttoned on a clean shirt. He could strangle Fannie. They never invited the older generations to witness the victory dance. Mom’s tear-stained face had left no doubt she thought he’d one day add Cisney to the family. But Mom had missed Cisney’s coolness toward him on the trip up the basement stairs. Before he could make amends for dropping her hand as if she had the flu, she’d excused herself to take a call.
They needed to talk. If he was honest with her, maybe she’d…she’d what? Stop being herself? At least he could explain how Mom was collecting gems to support her cockamamie idea that he and Cisney belonged together. Hopefully, Cisney didn’t have similar ridiculous ideas about their relationship. That would top off the weekend.
Tony entered, stripping off his shirt. “Fannie says we have to leave in tw
enty minutes. Grandma Thelma, Mom, and Aunt Ellie are working like crazy in the kitchen to have everything ready for the Holiday Blast. Should I head upstairs and let Cisney know?”
“No. I think she’s on the phone with her parents. I’ll go up in a minute.”
Tony went into the bathroom.
Nick combed his hair. How should he approach Cisney? Why was he constantly feeling guilty when he’d done nothing wrong? Well, except for dropping Cisney’s hand. But why wouldn’t he act that way, when he had no control over false engagements, everyone loving Cisney, and Mom’s tears? At least, Dad seemed to understand boundaries. Why couldn’t they all be like Dad?
Was he rationalizing? What was the real reason he’d reacted so rashly with Cisney? So unlike himself. Even shocked Grandpa.
Nick sat on the bed. First off, the family’s expectations were pressuring him. But he probably added to the problem, disliking that Cisney’s laughter during the polka threatened his resolve to swear off relationships. He sighed. Better get upstairs and grovel.
While he climbed the stairs to Cisney’s room, no concrete way to smooth things over formed in his mind. He knocked gently.
She opened the door an inch, her head bowed against the low ceiling. Was the terrycloth material he glimpsed a towel, or a bathrobe?
He leaned a hand against the wall and bent over so she could see him better. “We leave for the traditional Holiday Blast and movie in fifteen minutes. I know how you like family traditions, so…”
She stared at him as if he were a door-to-door salesman. He held his ground and gave her what he hoped was a contrite expression.
She returned a weak smile. “I think I’ll pass.”
“Was that your parents who called?”
“Yes. We didn’t talk long. It’s after midnight in Germany.”
“Can we talk?”
“I thought we were.”
She was going to make this hard. “I mean, can you put on some clothes and either come out here, or let me in?”
“I’m decent.” She drew the door open and stood aside for him to enter.
Her yellow terrycloth bathrobe nearly reached the floor.
Calculated Risk Page 8