Virginia didn’t know what to say to that confession. It seemed the fat coo—Bren’s life was just as crazed as she might have guessed.
Bren tucked back into her food, stabbing at a green bean with her fork. “Anyway,” she said to her plate, “I needed a friend, so I took the job at the Kitchen Classroom, even though I’m not that great of a cook. And it worked. And I saw you at the cancer center giving away the things we gave you.”
This time Virginia nearly dropped her fork, and when she looked up, Bren was staring at her with wide eyes, a buttered roll perched between two fingers.
“Why were you there?”
I’m at the mall.
I bought Jamie a coat for Christmas.
Dogs die.
Suddenly Virginia felt very, very tired. Exhausted, and even though it was below freezing outside, the fact that her damned window was painted shut seemed like the biggest injustice of all of them. Chuy had been a great companion, but what made him great was the memory of human connection that came with him. What made him great was that she didn’t have to try to let anyone in, as long as she had him.
She didn’t want this anymore. She didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t want to be tired. And, most of all, she didn’t know who she was going to walk with, now that Chuy was gone.
The timer went off and Bren got up to snatch the cake out of the oven. She set it on the counter to cool off, then came back and dove into her potatoes again.
Virginia Mash also stuck her fork into her potatoes, but her heart was pounding too hard for her to actually bring the food to her mouth. Still, she kept her eyes planted firmly onto her plate. She had to do this.
“My daughter’s name was Jamie . . . ,” she began.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Nobody was more surprised to get the call than Bren was. It came midafternoon on the twenty-eighth, just as she and Gary were leaving the art supply store. It was snowing again. Meteorologists were calling this a record-breaking year already. Gary was calling it a perfect excuse to hole up in front of the fire and paint. He wanted Bren to pose for him. Nude. A thought that made her chuckle, while also tossing her heart right into her throat.
“Only if I can have some sort of blanket to wrap around my middle,” she’d said. “And if you Photoshop out the fat rolls.”
“Photoshop?” he’d said. “I’m not going to take your picture. I’m going to paint you live. Which means a lot of hours of staring at your naked body.”
That definitely didn’t help Bren feel any more comfortable at all.
But still, he was looking for a way to include her in his hobby, and she appreciated the gesture. Even if she didn’t want to be quite as involved as all that.
“Okay, but you have ten days to get it done. Then the kids will be here, and I’m thinking they don’t want to see anything like that.”
Kelsey and Kevin had called on Christmas Day. Bren and Gary both listened in—Bren on the kitchen phone and Gary on the bedroom line. The kids were both drunk, but in high spirits. Dean had gone to bed and Pavlina had gone back home. Turned out Mrs. Wild Night in Rome was about as wild about Christmas in Thailand as Kelsey was. And not at all wild about Kevin anymore, especially now that she found out that her American free spirit was indeed tied down to a family back in the States. And not a rich one on TV.
“Don’t worry, guys,” Kevin had said. “The marriage wasn’t ever legal. We never got a dichiarazione giurata, and we found out that the guy who did the ceremony wasn’t the mayor’s deputy after all, but just some drunk guy. Kind of figures, since we ran into him outside of San Calisto.” He chuckled ruefully into the phone. “We paid him eighty euros, though. Wish I had the money back.”
As for Kelsey, she sobbed over how beautiful it was to talk to her parents, how beautiful her brother was, how beautiful Christmas was, how beautiful the new year would be, all gathered together the way they were supposed to be.
“Mommy, Daddy, I’ve talked to Dean. After we get back from Missouri, he’s going to start looking for something new in the States. Can you imagine? Maybe we could be as close as California or even Chicago.”
A year ago, California and even Chicago would have seemed a million miles away to Bren. Too far. But now it seemed like a virtual skip down the road. She almost felt giddy over it.
She joyously rehashed every detail of the call to Gary—the split, the fake marriage, the job hunting—as they wandered the aisles of the art supply store, even though he’d heard every word of it himself. Gary at least pretended to listen as he dropped things into a shopping basket that Bren had hanging over her arm. It seemed like an awful lot of supplies for someone who didn’t know the first thing about painting.
The cashier rang them up and sent them on their way, and it was only seconds after they left the store that Bren’s phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Bren? It’s Paula.”
“Oh, hey, so good to hear from you. How was your Christmas?”
“It was good, a little quiet. Yours?”
Gary fussed with the trunk and Bren got into the car, taking her finger out of her opposite ear, which she’d been plugging so she could hear the call better. “My kids are coming home in a few days. That’s really all that matters.”
“You also paid a visit to our friend, didn’t you? Virginia Mash?”
Bren winced. She’d wondered what would happen after their lunch. They hadn’t exchanged phone numbers or made promises to get together again or shared a meaningful hug. They’d talked, they’d eaten cake, and Bren had done the dishes and then left. She was only half certain that the matter between her and Virginia Mash had been settled. Now she supposed half was optimistic.
“I did. I made her lunch on Christmas Day.”
“I knew it,” Paula said. “I just knew it.”
“I’m really sorry, Paula. Did I get you into some kind of trouble?”
She heard the clink of dishes in the background. “Just the opposite,” Paula said. “Happy New Year, Bren: you’ve got your job back. Virginia Mash left me a letter in my mail slot. No more restraining order, no more complaints, no more fines. It’s like she’s done a total turnaround.”
Gary got into the car and looked at Bren curiously. She gave him a thumbs-up and a big grin, and leaned her head back against the seat, all smiles.
“Happy New Year it is!” she said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Aunt Cathy and Joan were the first to arrive. As always. Aunt Cathy was wearing a pair of silver pants and a silver shirt. Sweat dripped from her temples and down the sides of her face.
“What on earth are you wearing?” Bren asked, laying out the ingredients for the chiacchiere she planned to make that evening.
Aunt Cathy looked herself up and down. “It’s my GoFit thermal sweat suit. Got a resolution this year. Need to drop a few pounds. Dear Lord, what are we making?”
“They’re fried pasta dough balls covered with honey and powdered sugar,” Bren said. “Good luck for the new year.”
“Good luck fitting your doughy ass into your jeans after eating that is more like it,” Aunt Cathy said. “Is there a diet version? I’m already a dough ball, thank you very much. And speaking of dough balls, here comes the big-haired one.”
“Catherine!” Joan scolded. “That’s not nice, and you know it.”
“I’m giving up political correctness for my second resolution,” Aunt Cathy replied.
Bren hustled to the door, holding out a basket of muffins for Tammy Lynn. “Welcome,” she said brightly, proffering the muffins. “Happy New Year!”
Tammy Lynn took two steps inside the door and wrapped Bren in a big hug, nearly toppling muffins out of the basket. “Happy New Year to you!” She palmed a muffin.
“You look so good,” Bren said.
“That’s because I have good news,” Tammy Lynn
said. “Janelle got a job. Starts Monday. In Lawrence. An hour in the car, and definitely too far to run. She will no longer have a clue what I put into my mouth and when. I’ll take two.” She reached into the basket and pulled out another muffin. “Hope you made plenty. El is taking the class with me. He’s outside parking the car. And, boy, does he love muffins.”
Not long after Tammy Lynn found her place at her old station, Lulu and Teresa arrived, this time bringing along a third woman, a tiny spitfire named Renata, whose hands had the telltale chapped redness of someone who cooked for a living.
“This one,” Lulu said, thumbing over her shoulder at Renata, “is even worse in the truck than Teresa.”
Teresa slapped at Lulu’s shoulder from behind. “Cállate, now. I have gotten better.” She brightened as she hugged Bren. “Worked a whole lunch shift myself.”
“Nobody came. Too cold outside,” Lulu said, rolling her eyes.
Behind them came Rebecca, who gave Bren a cursory hug, then took her place in the back of the room, wiggled her way up onto her stool, and pulled out a brand-new notebook. She’d ditched the brown for a demure pink palette. It brought out the blue in her eyes.
Bren stood at the door and regarded her class, thrilled that they had all returned. Maybe she hadn’t been so horrible after all.
She was just about to take her muffins back up front and start class when the door burst open again. A bundle of muscles wrapped in the tightest yoga pants she’d ever seen sauntered in. Surely any woman who looked like that had to be here by mistake.
“Is this the resolutions cooking class?” the woman asked.
“Yes, welcome!” Bren said, fumbling for her basket. She clumsily lurched toward the woman, looking a little too eager. “Muffin?”
The woman peered into the basket, seeming to study the treats for a long while. She wrinkled her nose as she looked back up at Bren. “Bran?”
“Blueberry cream cheese strudel,” Bren said proudly. Or what she was trying to pass off as proudly. She feared she had only achieved mildly self-conscious. And loud.
The woman seemed to really think it over before finally shrugging and taking a muffin.
“I’m Bren, by the way,” Bren said.
“Steff.” She took a tiny, birdlike bite of the muffin and rolled it around in her mouth before crinkling her nose. “I’m not accustomed to real sugar,” she said. “I usually sweeten with applesauce.”
“Oh,” said Bren. “I used sugar.”
Steff nodded slowly. “Did you know that half a cup of cranberries is only twenty-five calories? And they have blood-pressure-lowering properties. Maybe next time?”
Bren felt herself blush. “Maybe,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “We’re making fried dough balls tonight,” she added apologetically. “With sugar.”
“No worries,” Steff said. “I’ll work it off later. I own a gym. Maybe you’ve heard of it? Fit and Lean? It’s on the other side of the square, but it’s kind of tucked away. We’re a small operation.”
Bren had seen it, actually. Once, during the spring festival, she’d had to park in front of it and walk to the Hole Shebang. She’d made sure she’d devoured her entire doughnut before going back to her car, but had dropped a splotch of chocolate down the front of her shirt. She’d wanted to die of shame walking in front of the windows of a gym that way.
“Would you mind if next time I bring my own sweetener?” Steff asked.
“Of course not,” Bren said. “But I’m not sure if things will cook the same. I’ve never used . . .”
But she trailed off as the door opened again.
“Excuse me,” she said, hurrying over with the basket. But she stubbed her toe against the cabinet and lurched forward, and the last three muffins popped out of the basket and rolled across the floor. One bumped against the foot of the young woman coming in. She stooped to pick it up. “So sorry,” Bren said. “Muffin?” She laughed awkwardly, taking the muffin from the woman. “Just kidding. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” the young woman said. She took the muffin from Bren, blew on it, and took a bite. “Just a little dirt. Dirt is our friend. Full of minerals. Full of life.”
“I’m Bren.”
The girl smiled at her serenely. “Sonja, with a J.” She bit into the muffin. “But you can call me Bluebonnet.”
“Like the butter?” Bren asked, casting a worried glance toward Steff, who would probably never approve of butter.
The girl laughed, a tinkling sound. “No, no, like the flower. Flowers are full of color. Full of life.”
“Oh,” Bren said. She was much more comfortable calling this girl Sonja than Bluebonnet, but she wasn’t sure whether she was supposed to do what was comfortable for her or comfortable for the girl.
Finally, everyone was settled, and Bren was ready to get her new-year good-luck chiacchiere lesson going.
“What’s that smell?” Aunt Cathy said, tipping her nose up in the air.
Bren’s mother lifted her chin, sniffing. “I smell it, too.”
“Smells like cigarrillos,” Lulu said.
Renata mumbled something to Teresa, and Teresa said something back to her. “Burned hair,” Renata said, her mouth turned down.
It was the word burned that got Bren moving. “Oh, Christ, not already,” she whined. She raced to the stove, where her oil had been heating up. She’d forgotten that she’d dropped a few chiacchieres into it to test the temperature.
They now floated on top of the oil, smoking and reeking like three petrified turds.
Bren fished them out. Dammit, now her oil was going to taste off.
But her thoughts were quickly abandoned as she heard the thumps above her head. They all looked up, silently tracing the noises as they made their way across the room, and then turned to the telltale thump-creaks of someone coming down a flight of old stairs.
“Oh, shit,” Joan said.
“Joan!” Aunt Cathy chastised, but her grin showed that she was thrilled to finally get to be the one doing the reprimanding.
“Surely not,” Tammy Lynn said. “I thought she’d declared a truce.”
“That was before I burned something,” Bren said dejectedly. “I’m so sorry, you guys. I’ll go get Paula.”
But before she could leave her pedestal, the door flung open, and there stood Virginia Mash, her face etched deep with frown lines, her cane thrown out to the side to prop open the door.
“You burned something again,” she said. “I can barely breathe up there.”
Bren nervously glanced around the room, unsure what to do. Did she try to disarm the situation? She and Virginia Mash had had a nice lunch together, but it wasn’t like they were best friends now. Bren understood the woman a little better after hearing her story, but understanding and excusing were two different things. Tammy Lynn and the others would surely expect Bren to stand up for herself, after all they’d done and been through. And heaven only knew what the new people were thinking.
Eyeballs, the room was full of nothing but terrified, expectant eyeballs.
Virginia Mash thumped to Bren’s station. She peered at the work surface, which had chiacchieres in various stages of doneness, including the three chia-turds that Bren had just fished out of the oil. “Well, your oil’s too hot,” she said.
Bren hesitated. “Okay.”
“Pour it out and start over. And I’ll show you how to make a chocolate sauce to go with these that will blow your socks off.”
“What’s going on? Is this a prank? Am I in a movie?” Bren heard Aunt Cathy whisper. She heard her mom shush as a response.
“I’ll have to see if there’s chocolate in the pantry,” Bren said uneasily.
“If not, there’s some in my pantry upstairs. You can run up and get it. Now move over.”
So Bren moved and Virginia Mash struggled up the
single step onto the pedestal, hung her cane over the oven door handle, and rolled up her sleeves.
“Don’t just stand there; swap that oil,” she barked. Bren took off with the hot pan. “And the rest of you can go ahead and pour your oil into your pan while we wait.”
By the time Bren came back with a clean pan, Virginia Mash was elbow-deep in chiacchiere dough, and everyone was happily chatting and cooking. Even Rebecca, who stopped every few minutes to jot something in her notebook.
“I found some chocolate,” Bren said, setting a bag of semisweet chocolate chips on the counter. “What should I do next?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
They had turducken for Christmas in January.
Kevin had grown a beard. And not one of those scrubby-looking, patchy things boys grow; a man’s full beard. His eyes twinkled above it, his face tanned and healthy-looking. He was lean—he’d either missed some meals or gotten a ton of exercise, or both. His jeans hung on his hips, filthy and frayed, until Bren made him swap them out for a pair of his father’s sweatpants so she could wash them. She had half a mind to burn them. What if these were his Cozy Thong lovemaking jeans? She considered using salad tongs to transport them to the washing machine just to be safe.
Kelsey, on the other hand, had grown plump. Her hair was listless and scraggly, and she looked tired around the eyes. She clung to her mother so hard and for so long, Bren wondered if she might suffocate them both. When she pulled away, there were tears streaking down her face. “Oh, Mommy, I’ve missed you so much. You look so beautiful,” she’d cried. Bren had wiped her tears with the flats of her hands and led her into the kitchen for a cold drink. She heard Gary in the living room, small-talking with Dean. She could hear Kevin groan as he sank onto the couch, and then the flip of channels on the TV. He was right at home.
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