by Nan Rossiter
Years ago, when their mom had stopped baking, Remy had taken it upon herself to carry on their birthday traditions. Birdie’s cake was Boston cream pie—hence the need for chocolate glaze; Sailor’s was devil’s food with a homemade orange frosting—the recipe for which was even older and written in her grandmother’s handwriting; Piper’s was German chocolate, the frosting for which—a homemade buttery coconut and pecan—was to die for! Remy would’ve gladly made her own cake too—angel food with fresh strawberries and whipped cream—but her sisters insisted on taking turns making it.
Remy added a teaspoon of vanilla and a dash of salt to the cocoa, and as she stirred, she thought about Easton’s cake—the yummiest cake of all. His had been a four-layer chocolate cake with a creamy chocolate mousse filling in between each layer and a luscious whipped cream frosting on top. Her mom had been making the cake the night they’d gone for a hike on the beach, but they’d never eaten it, and the carton of black raspberry ice cream had just sat in the freezer for months until, one day, she saw it in the garbage. Remy never knew what happened to the cake she’d been making that night and they’d never had it again—it was as if the recipe had been purposely forgotten. It had always been that way in her family—anything that reminded them of Easton was shut down or silenced. Remy had grown up feeling as if they weren’t even allowed to say his name. Often, she’d wondered if this was why she had such a hard time letting go of Jim’s memory. She’d loved Jim and her brother so much and she could never understand why God took them away.
Remy added a cup of sifted confectioner’s sugar and continued stirring. The recipe called for her to remove the pan from the heat, but over the years, she’d discovered that leaving it on low heat until the glaze was smooth and warm made it easier to pour.
She picked up the pan, turned to the waiting cake, already cut into layers that had been spread with creamy vanilla pudding, and poured the warm chocolate over the top, letting it drip down the sides. Then she licked the spatula and stood back admiringly. “It looks like a picture, Mom! You’d be proud!”
She heard the stove click, realized she’d left the burner on, and turned it off. It wasn’t the first time she’d forgotten to turn one of the burners off, and she often worried she’d leave one on and leave the house. She also worried that the pilot light would go out and she’d have a slow and potentially explosive leak. Maybe it really was time, like David suggested, that she thought about getting an electric stove.
She set the pan in the sink, filled it with hot sudsy water, and rummaged through her junk drawer, looking for candles. She took out three candles—one for the past, one for the present, and one for the future—and fit them into three little plastic holders. She and her sisters had decided long ago that they were getting too old to light a candle for each year.
She pushed the candles into the cake and set it back on the counter. Just then, Edison wandered in and Remy eyed him. “You stay off the counter, mister,” she said warningly as he swished through her legs.
Remy shook her head and pulled open the napkin drawer, looking for birthday napkins. She had napkins for nearly every occasion—from New Year’s Eve to Christmas, and from someone turning twenty-one to someone turning sixty, but she didn’t seem to have any plain birthday napkins—how could that be? She dug a little deeper and found a small stack of Over the Hill napkins, pulled them out, and wondered if Birdie would be offended—it didn’t take much! She sighed. The old girl really needed to get a sense of humor . . . and she needed to stop living in the past. Remy set the napkins next to the cake and looked at her to-do list to see what was left. She pulled out her old perk pot from under the counter—just in case someone wanted coffee—and untied her apron. All she had left was wrapping Birdie’s gift—a lovely book about an owl named Wesley that she’d found at the Birdwatcher’s General Store.
CHAPTER 24
“Are you ready?” Birdie called up the stairs.
“Almost,” David called back from behind the closed bathroom door.
Birdie sighed and walked back into the kitchen to refill her wine glass. Then she tucked the bottle behind the coffeemaker so David wouldn’t notice. Someday—if she outlived him—she’d be able to drink to her heart’s content and no one would be keeping track . . . unless she ended up in a nursing home. She took a sip and looked down at Bailey. “Need to go out, ol’ girl?” she asked and Bailey struggled to her feet. Birdie walked over to open the door, and as she followed her outside, she realized how much better her ankle felt. Thank goodness!
“Are we bringing Bailey?” David asked, coming out on the porch behind her and startling her.
“Do you want to?” she asked without turning around.
“Sure. We can take my car since it’s full of dog hair anyway.”
“Okay,” Birdie said, trying not to let him see her glass. “Will you please run back upstairs and grab my sweater?” she asked.
“It’s eighty degrees out. Do you really think you need a sweater?”
“It cools off when the sun goes down, and if we sit outside, I might need it.”
David sighed. “Which one?”
She started to say, “How about the one you just gave . . .” but then she remembered that her new sweater was still in its gift box on the kitchen table and she needed him to go upstairs. “On second thought, how about my pink sweater from Bean—it’s in my cedar chest.”
She listened to him clomp up the stairs and quickly gulped down the last of her wine. Then she went inside, rinsed her glass, and put it in the dish drainer. She picked up the bottle she’d bought to bring with them and the salad she’d made, and headed out to the car. “C’mon, Bay,” she called and the old Lab hurried over to David’s old Volvo wagon—which he affectionately called Tank—and waited, tail wagging. “Hold on,” she said, setting the bowl and the bottle in the trunk. She opened the back door and Bailey eyed the seat as if it were Mount Everest. “Go ahead. You can do it,” she said, but Bailey just gave her a forlorn look. “Okay, get your front up,” Birdie coaxed and Bailey pranced around and then gingerly set her front paws on the seat and looked back at her, waiting. Birdie lifted up her back legs—which immediately folded under her—and set her gently on the seat, but as soon as she got her footing, the old dog turned around and gave Birdie’s cheek a lick.
David chuckled as he came up behind her with the sweater under his arm. “Thanks, Mom,” he said in the voice he always used when he spoke on Bailey’s behalf.
“You’re welcome, sweetie,” Birdie replied, making sure Bailey’s tail was tucked in before she closed the door. Then, as she made her way around the car, she realized, in surprise, that the quick downing of her wine had given her a buzz. She got in, focused on buckling her seat belt, and opened her window.
David looked over. “All set?’
“Yes,” she answered, knowing full well not to talk too much.
David started the car and backed up. “Is everyone coming tonight?”
“I think so.”
“Elias?”
“I hope so,” she answered, glancing into the backseat and noticing Bailey had her nose pressed against the window. “Can you put the back window down?”
David pushed the rear window button and the old Lab stuck her head out, and with her jowls flapping, breathed in all the lovely scents of Cape Cod. “Oh, to be a dog,” Birdie mused. “Life would be so simple.”
“Maybe in your next life,” David said with a smile.
“Maybe.”
They passed the sign for the National Seashore and Birdie smiled. “Do you remember when you came to visit me at the Outermost House?”
David smiled. “It’s one of my favorite memories. I loved waking up next to you in that little house with the ocean breeze whispering through the windows and the summer sunlight streaming in. It was magical.”
“It was magical,” Birdie said softly, picturing David—her young, handsome David—lying naked next to her, lightly tracing his fingers across the curve
s of her body, and smiling his sweet, mischievous smile.
“What’s wrong?” he teased. “Should I stop?”
“No,” she murmured. “Don’t stop.”
He leaned forward and brushed a kiss across her lips, still running his fingers along her hips and thighs, circling ever closer. “Shall I stop now?” he asked softly.
“No,” she murmured.
And then he eased on top of her and hovered above her, fully aroused. “How about now?”
She looked down and grinned. “If you can,” she teased.
“I can.”
“No, you can’t.”
He raised his eyebrows and eased to her side with the same mischievous smile.
“No, no!” she said, laughing. “I didn’t mean it. . . .”
He frowned. “I thought you wanted me to stop.”
“I changed my mind,” she said, laughing.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes,” she said, pulling him back.
“If you insist. . . .”
David looked over. “A penny for your thoughts.”
“Ha! They’re worth more than a penny!” she said with a wistful smile.
CHAPTER 25
“They’re here!” Remy called, holding the door open for her sister and brother-in-law and Bailey, who was taking her sweet time sniffing every plant along the way, but upon seeing Remy, wiggled happily up the rest of the walk to greet her. “Hello there, ol’ pie,” Remy said, kneeling down. Bailey promptly licked her face and Remy kissed her on her sweet brow.
“Happy birthday, my dear,” she said, standing to give Birdie a hug.
“Thank you, Rem,” Birdie said, stepping through the door.
Sailor and Piper were inside, waiting, and when Chloe heard new voices, she trotted to the kitchen, carrying her new Zoe, but when she saw Bailey, she dropped her and went right over to greet her real friend.
Birdie’s three younger sisters all knew Birdie expected a fuss to be made on her birthday, so they each gave her a long hug and wished her a happy birthday.
“Did you see my Facebook post?” Sailor asked.
“No, I haven’t been on today,” Birdie said.
When Birdie used her computer, it was to correspond with colleagues, catch up on news, or log unusual bird sightings. She rarely visited her Facebook page—which she’d only set up at Sailor’s prodding, and had then been surprised by the number of people who wanted to be her “friend.” Birdie fully believed that as she’d journeyed through her life, she’d left a trail of people whom she’d summarily dismissed because they’d become too clingy, complained too much, were overly dramatic, manipulative, or with whom she didn’t agree; and ever since she and David had moved to the Cape, the circle of people with whom she spent time had narrowed dramatically, making her even more of a recluse. Sometimes, however, when she was bored, she scrolled, or as Sailor called it, trolled—the term used for viewing posts without commenting or liking—through her newsfeed and found out quite a bit about people—some of which she felt should really be kept private. She was haunted by the commandment, Thou shalt not judge. She knew she was judgmental. It was probably her biggest fault and she fully believed there was going to be a price to pay when she got to heaven. She could just see Saint Peter, waiting at the gate, checking his iPad, and looking up at her with raised eyebrows. She couldn’t seem to help it, though—the older she got, the less tolerant she became. Life was hard enough without having to deal with people who didn’t seem to have a clue. She didn’t know if it was because of all the things that had happened to her in life, but she just didn’t play well with others anymore, and she prayed she didn’t grow tired of David, too.
“I think you received quite a few birthday greetings,” Sailor continued. “You should look when you get home.”
“I will,” she said.
“I left one, too,” Piper said cheerily.
“You know I didn’t,” Remy said, laughing as she took the salad bowl from her sister’s arms. She was a Facebook holdout.
“You’re the only smart one,” Birdie said.
“So, what’s the birthday girl drinking tonight?” Sailor asked. “We’re having frozen margaritas,” she said, pointing to a blender on the counter.
Birdie eyed the lime green mixture warily. “I think I’d better stick to my usual.”
Sailor nodded and turned to David.
“I’ll have a margarita,” he said with a smile.
“Salt or no salt?” Piper asked, gesturing to a plate of flavored sea salt on the counter.
“Salt,” he confirmed.
Piper ran a lime around the rim of a margarita glass, swirled it in the salt, poured the frosty mixture into the glass, and handed it to him.
Meanwhile, Sailor opened the bottle of wine Birdie had brought in, poured a generous amount into a big goblet, and handed it to her.
“Cheers!” Birdie said, holding up the glass.
“Never mind ‘cheers’,” David said, holding up his, too. “It’s happiest of birthdays to our dear Birdie!”
“And many happy returns!” Remy said with a smile.
“Hear, hear!” Sailor and Piper said in unison.
Birdie sighed peacefully—she was never more content than when she had brimming stemware in her hand. It was the ultimate comfort food ... or drink, as the case might be. She held the stem between her fingers, recalling an article she’d recently read explaining that the only time you should hold the bowl of a glass was when the wine had been served too cold, because the warmth of your hand would take away the chill.
“Look at that cake!” Birdie exclaimed, eyeing the Boston cream pie on the counter. “Remy, you’ve outdone yourself!”
Remy nodded and watched as her sister also eyed the “Over the Hill” napkins.
“Cute,” she said wryly. “Very cute.”
Remy chuckled. “It’s all I had ... unless you want ‘Fifty’ or ‘Sixty’ ...”
“Either of those would have been better,” Birdie said with a laugh. She still couldn’t believe she was closing in on “Seventy”!
“Shall we go out on the deck?” Remy asked and then eyed David. “I hope you’ll do the honors,” she added, holding up the grilling spatula.
“I’d be happy to,” David said.
They went outside and sat down around a glass table covered with snacks—chunks of sweet pineapple, cheese and crackers, shrimp cocktail, and Sailor’s famous layered dip. Piper leaned forward and scooped into the dip. “I love this dip, Sailor! Every time you make it, I mean to ask you for the recipe,” she said, popping the chip in her mouth.
“It’s easy,” Sailor said, nodding as she reached for a shrimp. “The bottom layer is half cream cheese, half sour cream. Then”—she paused to eat the shrimp and then kept talking—“you sprinkle it with taco seasoning, then chopped lettuce, chopped tomato, a small can of chopped black olives, a jar of salsa, and a bag of shredded Mexican cheese.”
“How much of the tomatoes and lettuce?” Remy asked, jotting it all down on a scrap of notebook paper.
“Just to cover.”
“It’s so good,” Piper said, taking another scoop.
Sailor nodded. “It doesn’t travel well, though. I’ve found it’s better to wait until I get where I’m going before adding the salsa and cheese, otherwise the salsa leaks everywhere.”
Remy nodded as she wrote down this tip, and Birdie, who was watching her sister, teased, “Are you going to a party, Remy?”
Remy looked up and blushed. “Well, no . . .” She knew her sisters knew that they were the extent of her social life. “But you never know, I might get invited to a party,” she added, sounding a little wounded.
“I was just teasing,” Birdie said.
“I know,” Remy said, although her sister’s words stung. “I am thinking of going to my class reunion, though, at the end of the month.”
“You are?!” Sailor and Piper looked up in surprise. Remy was the biggest homebody they knew, so
if she was planning to venture off-Cape it was big news.
“In Vermont?” Birdie asked.
Remy nodded. “I haven’t decided yet,” she added, just in case she changed her mind.
“You should go!” Sailor said.
“Yeah, it would be fun,” Piper added.
“Maybe,” Remy said. “I saw Dr. Sanders last week . . . because after you said he was retiring, I decided I better make an appointment, and Mary, his receptionist, said he’d just had a cancellation so I took it.”
“Did he tell you he was retiring?”
“He did,” Remy confirmed.
“Did you act surprised?” Birdie asked.
Remy nodded and David looked at Birdie with raised eyebrows.
“I didn’t tell anyone . . . else,” she said defensively.
Sailor reassured him, “Don’t worry, David. We’re taking all of our secrets to our graves. In fact, you’re lucky we let you come tonight.”
David chuckled, knowing all too well the impenetrable bond the four women—in whose presence he was blessed to be—shared.
“Anyway, we got to chatting, and I told him I was thinking of going to my reunion, and he said I should definitely go. He said he loves Vermont and looks for any excuse to go there . . . and so then . . . I jokingly told him he should be my escort.”
“You did not!” they all said in surprise.
“Well, I was only kidding, but he asked me when it was and then he checked his calendar and said if I decided to go, he’d love to take a drive up with me. Did you know he went to Dartmouth?”
“I did,” Birdie said, finding this turn of events—in light of John’s comments at her appointment—very interesting.
“Yes, I’ve seen his degree in the office,” Sailor added.
“Well, now you should definitely go,” Piper said. “You’d have a great time! It would be so much more fun to go with someone.”
“That reminds me,” Birdie said, looking at Piper. “How come you’re flying solo tonight? I thought Nat and Elias were coming.”
“They were,” Piper said, “and they said to tell you they are very sorry. But we rescued a beautiful old loggerhead this morning—she was all tangled up in buoy line and netting, and after we got her stabilized, Nat thought she should go to the aquarium, so he and Elias took her to Boston late this afternoon. They said they will make it up to you.”