Nicholas withers. It’s not a visible withering—for all outward appearances, he’s fine. His face is calm, his tone bland. But I feel it like a sixth sense: he’s hating this. We’ve just sat down and he wishes he could run out the door, but he can’t. He’s stuck being Nicholas Rose, Perfect Son, and after all these years the role is wearing him down.
“Harold,” Deborah barks when he tries to steal a roll. “You know you can’t eat that.”
“You gave me too many green beans,” he whines. “There isn’t even any seasoning on them.”
“Seasoning makes your bowels disagree with you.” She turns curtly from him and says to Nicholas, “You’ll come over sometime this week with the invitations. I’ll help you address the envelopes myself, if no one else will.” Nice little dig at me. “You’ve got to get those out if you expect your RSVPs in time. Some guests have to make room in their work schedules to be able to travel here for the wedding, and you waiting until the last minute to supply this information is extremely inconsiderate. I wouldn’t be surprised if my friend Diana from college can’t make it, now that there’s barely any time left to prepare.”
“You haven’t just told your friend when and where?” he asks. “You’ve known it’s going to be at St. Mary’s on January twenty-sixth for months now. One p.m. You could’ve just told her yourself.”
“That’s not how things are done! You have to send proper invites. This isn’t some trashy Las Vegas wedding, Nicholas. You’ll conduct yourself accordingly.”
She says this like Nicholas has failed her and ruined this wedding by not moving heaven and earth for some lady named Diana. Ten to one, he has never met Diana. Deborah just wants to show off whatever mother-of-the-groom outfit she’s picked out for herself. A dazzling dress to outshine mine.
“I’m taking care of the invitations, Mom,” Nicholas says amiably. “Don’t worry.”
“Don’t tell me not to worry, Nicky. It’s my job. And don’t be ridiculous—I’m helping you get this matter settled once and for all. Come by Wednesday after work. We’ll make an evening of it! I’ll have the woman make those tiny pizza bagels you love, and we’ll work until midnight if we have to.” Note how she doesn’t invite me to come, only him.
I’m all ready to tuck into my food and forget where I am when I’m suddenly transported back to Let’s Get Crafty, and how awful I felt when I saw Melissa behind the counter. I had to process the loss of the job at the same time that loathsome Melissa was rubbing it in, and it might’ve killed my whole day were it not for Nicholas rescuing me. Instead of leaving the shop in a foul mood, I left laughing.
“Actually, Nicholas and I are booked solid next Wednesday,” I answer for him.
Deborah eyes me curiously. “Doing what? Addressing the invitations?”
I can’t commit to that. My relationship with Nicholas is a split hair. Sending out invitations makes the wedding all too real, and I still can’t visualize walking down the aisle at St. Mary’s. I can’t visualize a priest’s echoing, monotone instructions for how to treat each other during marriage, and I can’t visualize myself in that A-line dress I don’t love. I can’t see myself staring up at Nicholas and hearing him say the words I do. I don’t think Nicholas can picture any of this, either, which is why we’ve been dancing around it for so long.
“Fishing,” I improvise. “In our canoe.”
Deborah coughs on her food. Harold’s hand shoots out, considers patting her back, but grabs a roll instead and stuffs it down his pants for safekeeping. I don’t blame him. The green beans suck.
“You don’t have a canoe, Nicholas,” she says, like I’ve just told her we’re shedding all material possessions and running off to join a cult.
Nicholas looks fatigued, so I answer for him again. “We do! It’s a lot of fun. Nicholas took it out on the pond the other day.”
She’s aghast. “Whatever for?”
She’s not addressing me, thirsting for a reaction from her son. I’m right about my hunch: this man’s in need of a rescue. It requires a different strategy than him rescuing me in Let’s Get Crafty. Mrs. Rose isn’t Melissa. I don’t give a single solitary shit what this woman thinks of me anymore, but Nicholas does, so I have to approach it with finesse. It’s going to cost pride points.
“For canoeing in, of course,” I tell her without a hint, even a whisper, of insincerity. Tonight, I am Shakespeare. “There’s all sorts of studies that say canoeing is good for you mentally and physically. They call it a ‘meditative sport.’” I don’t know if I’ve made up that terminology myself or if I’ve heard it somewhere and kept it around subconsciously, but either way I’m proud of myself for producing it on the spot. Meditative sport. Sounds legitimate as hell.
I reach for the yams, but Deborah slides the dish away. “Don’t eat those, dear. Your future children will come out orange.” She leans over her plate until the ends of her bob come perilously close to getting in her gravy. “Nicky. Have you registered for wedding presents yet? I need to include it in the announcements at the church. I’m having them put it in every Sunday bulletin, and I’m thinking about asking the Beaufort Gazette to write a little something about you, too.”
Nicholas sucks in a breath, but I squeeze his knee lightly under the table. I’m his knight in shining armor. That’s my role here. I’m slowly understanding that it was always supposed to be my role, but I didn’t realize it and missed my cue the first time my charge was under attack by fire-breathing mothers. I’ve got some lost time to make up for. “Deborah, this turkey is sooo delicious. What’s your secret?”
Her secret is that she didn’t cook it, someone else did, but she’s so taken aback that she has to respond. “Oh. I … uhh … butter. And spices. And plenty of love!” She smiles dotingly. It’s full of shit. “Love’s the most important ingredient of all.”
“I agree. Love is so important.” I’m not going to leave her alone for a second. I’m going to occupy every square inch of space in this conversation and for once in his life, Nicholas will be able to finish his food while it’s still warm. He won’t be squirting honey into his tea tonight to soothe his throat after two solid hours of talking, talking, talking. “It’s a shame Heather couldn’t be here. I’d love to finally meet her.” Heather split town on her eighteenth birthday and only comes home when she can’t maneuver out of it. From what I’ve heard, she and Deborah have had an extremely tumultuous relationship ever since Heather was a teenager and Deborah was the horror of all parent-teacher conferences.
“Heather!” Deborah nearly fans herself. I’ve hit the jackpot. “Shame is right. It’s beyond shameful she wouldn’t come home for Thanksgiving. I’ve begged. Her father’s begged.”
Harold frowns as he shovels food into his mouth, probably wondering if he did in fact do any begging. He gives up thinking about it and sneaks a piece of turkey.
“It’s like we’re nothing to her!” Deborah continues. “I always tell her on the phone that it’s lucky we have Nicky, or else we’d be all alone. Our Nicky understands the value of family.”