by Meg Donohue
“I have a little surprise for you,” she said to me.
Behind me stood Ogden Gertzwell. “Hi, Annie,” he said, kissing my cheek before turning toward Julia and Wes and congratulating them on their engagement. “Thanks for inviting me,” he said as Wes clapped him heartily on the back.
Julia hugged him. “We’re so glad you made it!”
I glanced at her, puzzled by her enthusiasm. When I looked back at Ogden, he seemed amused.
“She didn’t tell you she invited me, did she?” he asked.
“No,” I admitted.
He laughed. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not.”
Sure, I could have been annoyed with Julia for inviting Ogden. After all, wasn’t it bad enough that I had to attend a party with a crowd of people I didn’t know, people with whom I had nothing in common? Why add insult to injury by inviting a windbag like Ogden and then springing him on me like I should be grateful for the super fun surprise? So I could have been irritated. But I wasn’t. Or at least I was trying not to be. I was newly resolved to give Julia the benefit of the doubt, and step one in that process seemed to be allowing for the possibility that inviting Ogden Gertzwell to her party wasn’t just her way of torturing me.
“How’s the produce business, Ogden?” Wes asked. “Keeping you busy even through the holidays, I imagine?”
“Oh, always,” Ogden said. He seemed like he was about to go on, but he looked at me and appeared to change his mind. “But I’m off duty tonight. When someone manages to get me in a tux, I figure I owe it to them to take the night off from farm talk.”
“Fair enough,” Wes said, grinning.
As Ogden and Wes tended to what was clearly a blossoming bromance, Julia suddenly grew pale. I followed her gaze to where Lolly and Tad stood nearby. They seemed to be engaged in some sort of spat, their faces drawn and tense. It wasn’t at all like them to be so public with their emotions, and I felt that old anxious, tingling sensation in my legs as I watched them abruptly leave the room.
“I’m sorry, but will you excuse me?” Julia said, interrupting Wes’s enthusiastic description of the exotic Chinese vegetables he’d discovered on his latest business trip. “Oh, and Wes, I see Joan and Devon over there. Would you mind introducing them around? I don’t think they know anyone.”
“Of course,” Wes said. Within moments, Julia had delivered Wes to the lost-looking couple in the corner and then exited through the same door her parents had just used.
Left alone, Ogden and I were saved from awkward small talk by a pallid, mousy member of the waitstaff who approached with a tray of golden crostini slivers topped with soft cheese and some sort of dark fruit jam. I loaded several onto a napkin while Ogden took a step closer to the tray.
“Is that fig jam?” he asked the girl, peering at the hors d’oeuvres skeptically.
“Yes,” the girl said, smiling. A smattering of pimples was inexpertly coated with cover-up on her chin. “It’s delicious.”
“Hmm,” Ogden breathed. He lowered his large nose to the tray, his tan forehead creasing as he inhaled deeply. “Black mission or brown turkey?”
The girl glanced back and forth between Ogden and me, but by then my mouth was too full to intervene on her behalf. “Excuse me?” she asked.
“Well, they’re obviously not white kadota”—he sniffed—“so I’m guessing either black mission or brown turkey.”
“I think it’s Brie?” the girl murmured.
“No, no. I’m asking about the figs. Are they black mission? Most likely.”
I sighed. He’d obviously already forgotten his resolution to not discuss the farm.
“I’m really not sure. I’m sorry,” the girl said. She legitimately looked apologetic, and I felt a strong urge to pull her aside for a pep talk on how to deal with smug men. Unfortunately, I had a feeling Ogden wasn’t the only one of his ilk she was likely to encounter that night, odd duck that he was.
“That doesn’t look like Brie to me,” Ogden responded, clearly oblivious to the anxiety he was inducing in the girl. “It’s most likely goat’s cheese. Is it organic?”
I stared at Ogden. Was he serious? Organic? “Oh for chrissakes, Ogden,” I said, never mind my half-full mouth. “The figs are black mission and hail from a biodynamic farm in Central California where they were harvested on a partly cloudy morning by women wearing red merino wool gloves. The cheese comes from a three-year-old goat named Ethel who lives in Marin and subsists on a strictly organic diet. The wheat for the bread was harvested by friggin’ environmental PhD students interning at a cooperative farm in Kansas. And the sum of these fabulous crostini is even greater than the parts. It’s time to shit or get off the pot.”
The waitress coughed to cover a laugh. Ogden’s thick blond brows furrowed together. He has absolutely no idea how ridiculous he sounds when he talks like that, I thought, surprised. The realization chastened me a little. Ogden took a crostini from the tray and bit into it slowly, looking around the room as he chewed. The waitress nodded at me gratefully and made a quick escape.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I tried to mean it, but the apology just wouldn’t stick. “Okay, no I’m not. You were harassing that poor girl who is probably just trying to make a few bucks before going back to college! Not everyone knows the origin of every ingredient they’re serving.”
“Well, maybe they should! People who serve food have a responsibility to know what it is they’re pushing on people. I’m sure the St. Clairs would be mortified to know that their staff is so poorly educated.”
This comment, tossed off so flippantly, enraged me. “My mother was an integral part of the St. Clair staff for a very long time,” I snapped. Luckily, the music was loud enough that my raised voice didn’t turn any heads. “She never graduated high school, but she would have been smart enough to know that telling you that you’re a pretentious ass is just a waste of breath.”
Ogden’s mouth fell open. “Oh, Annie. I didn’t mean—”
“And,” I continued, cutting him off, “she knew more about the importance of good food than you ever will. She presented it with heart.”
Ogden shook his head. He reached out his big hands toward me for a moment before letting them fall awkwardly to his side. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I don’t know why I gave that girl such a hard time.” He sighed and looked down, his face softening. “I was probably trying to impress you.”
“What?”
“You’re a hard nut to crack, Annie. I talk too much when I’m with you. I swear, I’m not usually so loquacious.” He pulled at his sandy hair so that it stood askew off the top of his head and smiled at me ruefully. “I seem to leave every encounter I have with you with my own words ringing unattractively in my ears and the distinct taste of my own foot in my mouth.”
I studied him. This Ogden Gertzwell was full of surprises. “Well,” I said. “I’m sure of all feet, it’s safe to guess that yours were raised biodynamically. If that’s any consolation.”
He laughed, and the act seemed to relax him. His whole body was suddenly looser, his muscular shoulders less tense. “So that’s how you know Julia?” he asked. “Through your mother?”
“I guess you could say that. She was Julia’s nanny and also cooked a lot for the whole family. Her role sort of shifted over time as we grew up. We lived in the carriage house you walk through to enter the courtyard.”
“You grew up here? That sounds—complicated,” Ogden said. “No wonder it always felt like there was tension between you and Julia. If you don’t mind me saying it, you always seemed like an ill-matched pair. I could never figure out how you wound up in business together.”
“No, you’re right. Pairs don’t come much more ill-matched. We’ve hit our rough patches over the years. But things are better now, I think.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Sometimes,” he said slowly, “the t
hings that happen when we’re young are the hardest to let go of.”
“Exactly,” I said, eyeing him with new appreciation. “Frankly, I find that whole idea mortifying. Will we ever grow up and stop being stuck in childhood?”
“Probably not.” Ogden cocked his head, and I saw a little glint of mischief in his eyes. “But perhaps as a seller of cupcakes, that works to your advantage.”
“Oh God, you’re right!” I said, laughing. “I’m like a Freudian capitalist!”
He grinned. “Hey,” he said. “If I promise not to say another word about the food or the waitstaff, do you think we could pretend to start the evening over?”
“Deal.”
He looked surprised.
“What?” I laughed. “I’m trying to not be so hard on everyone. It’s just one of many New Year’s resolutions.”
“Ah,” he said, and snagged us a couple of champagne flutes from a passing tray. “It seems like I’d better start making a few myself.”
Chapter 24
Julia
After a quick search for my parents in the kitchen, I hurried up the stairs to the second floor. The sound of my mother’s agitated voice floated toward me from the direction of my father’s study.
“I just don’t understand, Tad!” she was saying when I entered the room. “I asked you to do one thing, just one thing in preparation for this event, and you didn’t do it?”
My father was sitting dejectedly in his office chair as my mother darted around him, opening and banging shut his desk drawers.
“What happened?” I asked.
My mother straightened, startled. She blinked a few times and made a quick, irritated adjustment of the dramatic cowl-neck collar on her black gown. “It’s nothing, darling. Everything’s fine. Go back downstairs and enjoy the party.”
I looked at my father. He seemed smaller than usual, sitting like that in his chair with my mother straight-backed and bristling with annoyance at his side. “Dad? Are you okay?”
He smiled, shrugging sheepishly. “Oh yes. Just dealing with a minor setback. I was tasked with supplying the cash for the staff tips tonight and I seem to have fallen short in my duties.”
My mother pursed her lips. One of her prime rules for party throwing was to have all staff tips divvied out in individual envelopes at the start of the night so as to avoid any last-minute snafus or drink-induced overpayments at the end of the evening. It was Lolly St. Clair Party Planning 101. My father knew these rules as well as anyone—as far as I could tell, his role as the preparty bank runner had been established decades ago.
“You forgot?” I asked.
“Absolutely not,” he said, a little louder than necessary. My mother and I exchanged a quick glance. “I went yesterday.”
“So the money is missing?”
“Misplaced,” he clarified. “I thought I put it in the top right drawer of my desk the way I always do. But it’s not there, or anywhere else in the office.”
I thought for a moment, watching my mother become more agitated by the second. “Did you check the jacket you wore to the bank? Maybe you left it in a pocket. Or the car?”
My father’s face brightened. With surprising grace for such a large man, he leaped out of his chair. “The car! Of course. I probably just forgot to bring it in. Hang on, girls, I’ll be back in a wink.”
Alone with my mother, I gave her a pointed stare. She straightened a bit taller. “It’s nothing, darling,” she said. “I know what you’re worrying about and I think it’s just ridiculous. On a special night like this!”
“Ridiculous to worry about Dad? Or ridiculous to worry about anything on the night of my engagement party?”
“Either one. Take your pick.”
“Mother,” I said, speaking quickly before my father returned. “Something isn’t right. You see it, too, don’t you? This isn’t like him. He isn’t himself.”
For just one moment, my mother’s steely gaze flickered. I saw then that, in her own way, she was worried, too. I heard my father’s heavy footsteps in the hall.
“Just promise me we’ll make him see a doctor next week,” I whispered. “Promise me now so I can enjoy the evening.”
My mother’s shoulders fell an inch before she gave a brisk nod. I felt my father standing beside me then.
“So much for the hope of having fathered the next Sherlock Holmes. The money isn’t in the car,” he announced. He had a hangdog look on his face, and I could tell the whole situation perplexed him. “Curtis is going to drive me down to the bank. We’ll be back before most of the fashionably late crowd arrives.”
“Drive like the wind,” my mother said, her tone nearly imperceptibly softer than it had been ten minutes earlier.
The party was in full swing by the time I made it back downstairs. When I entered the living room Wes immediately appeared beside me and pulled me out onto the dance floor. We spun over the gleaming marble floor, inhaling evergreen-scented air and the slight smokiness of the enormous wood-burning fire; it seemed both an ideal beginning and picture-perfect ending to an evening. I think, in the pit of my stomach, I knew then that I really would tell him everything that night, let the chips fall where they may. Ever since I’d told Annie about the miscarriage and my meetings with Jake, I’d felt the weight of keeping those secrets from Wes more strongly than ever. This year might end with my engagement party, I realized with a pang, but the next one has a reasonable chance of kicking off with me as a newly single woman.
When the band took a break, Wes and I slowed to a stop in the middle of the room and I looked up into his eyes, feeling my love for him beating its wide wings, frantic in my chest. That might have been our last dance. The thought terrified me. I held his hand in mine and resolved not to release it all evening.
“Took me a second to figure out what was going on there with Ogden and Annie,” Wes said as we walked toward the bar. “You didn’t tell me you were throwing your hat in the matchmaking ring.”
“I’m trying out something different. Thought it might be time to learn some new tricks.”
“Well, you seem to be taking to it like a bear to honey.”
“He’s perfect for her. They’re two odd peas in a pod. She just doesn’t realize it yet.” It was more than that, really. Ogden and Annie seemed to share a solid self-confidence; both seemed immune to any outside pressure to disguise their quirks.
“You’re a good friend to her,” Wes said.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe.” I looked down at our entwined hands and took a deep breath. “You know, Wes,” I said, “we haven’t had a moment alone together in ages. Maybe we could sneak upstairs before the countdown begins and no one will even know we’re gone.”
A mischievous grin spread across his face, and I saw a glimpse of the devious, too-clever-for-his-own-good child he must have been. “Lead the way, my lady.”
If only either of us knew the path I was leading him down, I thought as we climbed the stairs. But if we did, he might not follow so willingly.
Upstairs, leaning against the pillows on my bed with the sounds of the party drifting up from below, Wes and I kissed for a long time. As his hands began to push down the gold strap atop my right shoulder, I stopped him. He looked at me, flushed.
“It’s good to be alone with you,” he said. “I missed you.”
“I missed you, too,” I said. I took his hands in mine and stared at them, blinking back tears. “I have so much to tell you.”
Wes shifted. “What do you mean?” When I was quiet, he lifted my chin gently until our eyes met. “What is it, Julia?”
And so I told him everything—the miscarriage, that long awful night knowing the baby had died but was still inside of me, the terrible procedure the next day. Instead of delivering our baby, whose due date I was all too well aware would have been that very week, I was delivering the truth. And then I to
ld him about Jake—the drinks, the kiss, the misunderstanding with Annie. Haltingly, through tears, every tiny detail spilled out of me. While I was speaking, Wes held me, then stood angrily, sat back down abruptly, held me again, squeezed the blanket fiercely with his free hand, shook his head, and cleared his throat, his eyes red behind his glasses.
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about this Jake character,” he said when I was finished. It was the first thing he said, so I knew his words weren’t entirely true, but I appreciated hearing them nonetheless. “It sounds to me like he took advantage of you. Maybe you let him. That shouldn’t have happened. But I believe you when you say you don’t feel anything for him and that that kiss was his doing, not yours. I believe you one hundred percent. And I don’t want to talk about him anymore.” This last bit came out as low and angry as a growl, and I swallowed, nodding.
“But the baby—” The word caught in his throat. He looked away. “Why wouldn’t you tell me, Julia? All this time. That was my baby, too. That was our baby.”
“I know,” I said. Tears were streaming down my face. “At first, I just wanted to tell you the good news in person. And then it became bad news so quickly, and I . . . shut down. I didn’t tell anyone. But I should have told you. Of course I should have. And then at some point I think my anxiety shifted away from what had happened and focused more on what could still happen.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just have this feeling,” I said, barely getting the words out, “that something is wrong with me. That I’m saddling you with marriage to a woman who can’t have children. And I know how much you want a family.”
“Oh, but Julia, that’s why I’m marrying you—to be a family. You and me. We’re the family.”
I pulled back and looked at him. “You’re being kind,” I said carefully. “It’s easy for you to say those words now, when we both feel young and optimistic. But please think about all of this more before you say anything you might regret later. You want children. I know you do.”