She pauses and looks at him, preparing to speak to him directly, so I say, “Yes, he does. Nicholas is a good man and I couldn’t be prouder of him. You did a fine job raising him. Wow, this cranberry sauce is something else! I haven’t had cranberry sauce this tasty in forever. The way my mom always made it was bleh.” I make an exaggerated expression of disgust.
This gets her full attention. Deborah pounces on any opportunity to put herself above my mother. She hates that Nicholas is going to have a mother-in-law more than she hates Harold’s ex-wife. And she literally had a priest come bless Harold’s house after they got together, to rid it of Magnolia’s essence.
“Thank you. It’s true, not many people know how to fix it properly.”
“Including you,” Harold grunts too quietly for her to overhear.
I take a bite, then make a savoring noise. “Mmm. Divine. I’m not sure I’ve ever told you, but this dining room set reminds me of a French castle. I feel like Marie Antoinette when I sit here, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Her eyes light up. “That’s the inspiration!”
“You don’t say! Solid job.” I raise my glass and do a mock toast, which she reciprocates to my mingled wonder and horror. I don’t dare look at Nicholas because I know if I do, whatever I see on his face is going to make me laugh.
She starts to tell me more about her table and chairs, which I respond to with enthusiasm and a great many questions. I weave compliments about herself, Nicholas, and her knack for interior design wherever I can fit them.
Sucking up to Deborah was easy as breathing when Nicholas and I first started dating. I’d been out to impress, and I didn’t know her very well. Everything’s easy when your eyes are innocent and you don’t spot the hidden dangers. My eyes aren’t innocent anymore. I know exactly who this woman is. We have a history now. The sugary compliments still flow like they used to, but I’m summoning them through a different channel because my goal is different. My priorities are different. Nicholas deserves one holiday in which he isn’t nagged to death.
When Deborah excuses herself to the kitchen to fetch the dessert, I gasp for air and gulp down all my cranberry juice, plus a glass of water. I brave a glance to my right and my heart skips.
Nicholas’s eyes are resting on me. They’re warm with gratitude, and that gratitude makes my exhaustion worth it. I’ll go ten more rounds with Mrs. Rose if it means I get another look like that at the end.
When Deborah glides back in bearing a cake the size of a small island, I’m already laying the groundwork to pump her ego. “Mmm, that looks incredible!” I don’t even have to lie. I didn’t eat much of my dinner because I was so busy gabbing, and the cake smells like heaven.
“Doesn’t it?” She’s glowing from my praise. Deborah cuts two pieces of cake and slides them onto two small dishes. One she keeps for herself, and the other she gives to Nicholas. “Salted caramel apple cake. It’s a Rose family recipe, passed down from generation to generation.”
“I can’t wait to try out the recipe myself.”
Her smile is tight. “Someday, when you’re a mother, I’ll let you in on the secret.”
Lovely. Using a recipe as leverage to get grandchildren. Still, I rub my hands together and say, “Until then, I guess I’ll have to be content with simply eating the cake and not baking it!” I scan the table for another plate.
“I want some, too,” Harold insists.
“Hush,” Deborah scolds him. “You know you can’t have this much sugar. Think of your bowels!”
I wish she would stop forcing us all to think of Harold’s bowels.
I scrape cold food around on my dinner plate to make room for a slice of cake. But as I reach for the cutting knife, her hand closes over mine. Her skin is warm. Human.
But her eyes are cold. “I don’t think you should, dear.”
“Don’t you agree?” she continues when I don’t retract my hand. “You know …” Her eyes dip to my waistline. “For the wedding. It’s tradition for brides to curb their appetites until the big day, so there aren’t any rude surprises when it comes to the dress fitting. Normally I wouldn’t say a word, you know I wouldn’t, but you just ate an exceptionally large meal. Overstuffing yourself wouldn’t be wise.”
My mind spins, blinks, and shuts down. In the black vacuum, there exists a single word floating adrift. What.
“Mom,” Nicholas says icily.
She places her other hand over mine, as well, patting fondly. My stomach revolts from all the polite, syrupy sentiments I’ve been feeding her entitlement complex over the past forty-five minutes. It doesn’t matter how nice I am. It’ll never matter. She’ll always be horrible.
“When I was engaged,” she tells me, ignoring her son, “gluttony tempted me, too. My sister loves to bake and the house smelled like cookies and cakes every day. You can’t imagine!” Her smile is chilling because she means every word that’s coming out of her mouth. “But you must control yourself. Back in those days, girls had a way of taking care of the problem.”
“The problem being … hunger?”
She nods, not hearing the incredulity in my voice. “Exactly. Can’t be eating like a pig if you want to look trim in your wedding photos. Drink hot water with lemon and basil, and you’ll get so full you’d swear you’d been eating all day long! I can go have the woman fix you a cup if you’re still hungry.”
“She’s not drinking that crap,” Nicholas interjects. “Let her have a piece of cake.”
“I can’t let her eat cake!” she exclaims. Even the torso of the Marie Antoinette she so admires rolls in her grave, like, Girl, I wouldn’t. “I’m saying this out of love, Nicky. You have to believe that.”
He’s not backing down. “You’re not her doctor, and what she eats is none of your business. If you’re going to bring out dessert, you don’t get to decide who gets it and who doesn’t.”
“I agree!” Harold pipes up.
Her cheekbones flush with high color. “Shut up, Harold.”
“Don’t you ‘Shut up, Harold’ me. I pay the salary of the woman who made this cake. I get to eat it.” He reaches out. She slaps his hand, but he snatches the whole serving tray with startling agility and whisks it away to his lap. “Here you go, Natalie.” He offers me an enormous chunk right out of the middle.
“No!” Deborah cries, rushing to intercept. “Don’t eat that! You’ll look like a sausage in your dress. After your last fitting, I had the seamstress take the gown in to a size zero!”
I drop the cake. It splatters magnificently onto the table. “You what?”
Deborah panics. She wrings her hands. “I was a size zero when I got married. It’s not impossible—you just really have to start buckling down. No more desserts or—”
“I’m not a size zero.” I’m mortified. I hate that I have to talk about this in front of Nicholas’s parents. “I’m not even close. You’d have to remove my organs! I don’t understand—why would you—why’s it so—” I’m close to breaking down because I’ve been trying so hard to be courteous, and I should’ve expected this. I have whiplash. There is no part of me that desires to be a different size than the one I am, and I absolutely hate Deborah for trying to make me feel bad about myself for not meeting some bullshit standard she set over thirty years ago.