Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [75]
“David, sweetheart, come here,” she says.
He does, wrapping his arms around her from behind, as she turns and kisses his cheek before returning her full attention to her butternut squash soup.
Meanwhile, Connie is manning the turkey, basting it with peasantlike efficiency. In high contrast to Diane’s ultrafeminine skirt suit and sleek crocodile pumps, Connie is wearing elastic-waist pants, a fall-foliage sweater adorned with a pilgrim pin, and tie shoes that are either orthopedic or her attempt to win an ugly-footwear contest. I can tell she disapproves of Diane’s cookbook, as she is firmly in the no-frills-or-recipe camp, especially on Thanksgiving. In this sense—in every sense—she is utterly traditional, a subservient wife who thinks Nick, her only child, walks on water. She actually refers to him as a miracle child—as he came after her doctor’s prognosis that she could not have children. Considering this, and the fact that Nick has met and surpassed all parental hopes for greatness, it is another miracle that Connie and I get along at all. But for the most part, she pretends to approve of me, even though I know it kills her that I’m not raising the kids in the Catholic church, or any church for that matter. That my father’s Jewish (which, in her mind, makes me half Jewish, her grandchildren a quarter so). That I use spaghetti sauce from a jar. That although I love Nick, on most days I don’t think he lassoed the moon. In fact, the only time she has ever seemed genuinely pleased with me was when I told her I was going to quit my job—an ironic juxtaposition to my own mother’s views on the subject.
My hand sore from peeling, I set about filling a large pot with water while listening to two parallel conversations—one about Connie’s neighbor’s battle with ovarian cancer, another involving Diane’s recent girls’ spa trip, with only the most attenuated thematic connection between the two threads. It is one of the only things that Diane and Connie have in common—they are both big talkers, incessantly chattering about people I’ve never met, referring to them by name as if I know them well. It is an annoying trait, but it makes them easy to be around, requiring almost no effort other than an occasional follow-up question.
The next two hours continue in this vein, the noise level ramping up as the kids infiltrate the kitchen with their most nerve-trying toys, until I succumb to a string of Bloody Marys—which, incidentally, is the only other thing Diane and Connie have in common. They are both big drinkers. So by four o’clock, when we all come to the table, at least three of us are tipsy, possibly four if you include Nick’s dad, Bruce, who has drained several Captain and Cokes but never talks enough to reveal any signs of consumption. Instead, he sits gruffly, and after a nudge from Connie, makes the sign of the cross and speeds through his standard prayer: Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty through Christ our Lord. Amen.
We all mumble Amen, while Nick’s parents cross themselves again and Ruby imitates them, with a few too many touches—in what occurs to me, with amusement, looks more like a Star of David than a cross.
“So!” my dad says, as uncomfortable with religion as he is with Nick’s parents. “Looks delicious!” He directs his praise at Diane, who beams and helps herself to a comically small portion of mashed potatoes, then conspicuously refuses the gravy, passing it along to Nick’s dad.
The conversation comes to a standstill after that, other than murmurings of how great everything looks and smells, and Frank and Ruby’s discussion of what they do not want on their plates.
Then, about two minutes into dinner, Diane looks at me with alarm and says, “Oh, Tess! Do you know what we forgot?”
I glance around the table, finding nothing amiss, pleased that I remembered to get the rolls out of the warming drawer—which is my usual omission.
“Candles!” Diane says. “We must have candles.”
Nick shoots me an irritated look that makes me feel fleetingly connected to