“What about the mosquitos?” Any state in the South will claim mosquitos as their state bird. Florida included. I start chewing my fingernails.
“I bought some of those large citronella candles. According to the package, we shouldn’t be bothered.”
Desperate times call for desperate measures and, even though I know it’s a cheap shot, I don’t hesitate.
“Oh, OK. So you aren’t worried about the study that came out?” There is no study.
Sarah Grace stops cutting vegetables. “What study?”
I pick up a second chip and dip it. “The one linking childhood learning disabilities to West Nile Virus. It stated citronella and pesticides are ineffective.” It’s low, I know. I also know the safety of my niece and nephew is high priority for Sarah Grace and about her natural proclivity to go to the extreme.
I use it to my advantage.
Sarah Grace pauses for a beat and marches outside. I watch her discuss something with Dan, turn, and march back inside. Dan shoots me a lethal look. I give him the thumbs-up. I bet he’s happy I came.
He takes down the table he struggled to get open and carries it to the screened portion of the deck, closer to the house. It’s still outside, but if I can get Gigi to sit facing toward the inside of Sarah Grace’s house, maybe I’ll be OK.
“You don’t have to change eating outside, Sarah Grace. It’s one study. I’m sure one night of citronella smoke and the odd mosquito bite won’t hurt them. Much.” What’s the point of putting a blade in if you don’t twist it?
“Better to be safe than sorry.” She finishes loading the appetizer tray and hands it to me. I scurry off to my mom and Gigi like the rat fink I am.
Not fifteen minutes at my sister’s house, and I’ve chewed my nails down to nothing, made small talk with everyone, eaten all the carrots, half the salsa, and drank one and a half oversize piña coladas. I slow down on the booze, considering being drunk will probably not work in my favor, and I reassess the situation. No one is the wiser about last night. I’m in control.
Tonight might turn out all right.
Maybe.
And then my very own mother throws me under the bus.
“Mercy, Sarah Grace. You certainly can host a dinner. You’ve enough food to feed the neighbors,” she says, taking in the smorgasbord Sarah Grace has prepared.
Sarah Grace shrugs and smiles, her head snaps up, her smile widens, and she looks right at Gigi. My stomach plummets.
“Gigi,” she cries. “Why don’t you invite your parents over? It’s been forever since we’ve seen each other.”
4
I pick up the remainder of my piña colada and toss it back. Gigi calls her parents. I pour another one and start chugging. Screw being in control. All hell has broken lose. It was stupid to think I could avoid Gigi’s family. Stupid.
“My brother is visiting?” Gigi poses the question to my sister. My mom and Nana ooh in unison.
“That’s even better. We haven’t seen Hank since the homecoming party. When was that, two? No, nearly four months ago. Dan, get the other table out of the garage.”
Sarah Grace takes off for her linen closet and starts gathering table-setting items.
My mother turns to me and attempts to fancy me up. She pinches my cheeks, straightens my dress, and squashes down my hair before she steps back to assess the results.
“Go put on some lipstick, sweetheart. It wouldn’t hurt you to try to impress Hank. He’s a nice boy. Imagine how lovely it would’ve been if you had married Hank rather than Trevor.” She shakes her head in what I can only assume is disappointment.
My mother never wastes a moment to point out my failed marriage. She didn’t seem to object six years ago when I was engaged to Trevor, pleased at his quiet, gentle nature. Now, a year after the divorce was finalized, all she can talk about is how she knew he was wrong for me, how he probably never loved me, and how he was probably always cheating on me. Though her remarks are heavy with truth, they are better left unsaid.
I bite back a snarky reply. “Marrying Hank would have been unlikely since we were never like that.”
I get myself another drink and catch my reflection in the mirror above the wet bar. My eyes are large, and my skin is pale. I look guilty.
“So you slept with him. Big deal. There’s no need to panic. It’s about time you slept with someone,” I whisper to my reflection. “Maybe next time pick someone more removed from the family.” With a firm nod of my head, I pour another drink and make my way back to the group.
People bustle around, setting up a second table on the deck, getting dishes, and moving chairs around, excited to see Poppy and Becky Lancaster. It’s clear how my one night can backfire in ways I never imagined. What I do out of town, where my family cannot bear witness, makes it seem as if it never really happens. But this, this was right under everyone’s noses.
“Paisley, don’t just stand there,” Sarah Grace calls to me as she carries chair cushions outside. “Grab the pruning shears and cut some hydrangeas. The vase is on the counter.” She stops and gives me a look. “What’s wrong with you?”
I tip my drink back and return her stare. I don’t see her. I only see a catastrophe in the making.
“Paisley,” she shouts.
I jump, put my drink down, and move toward the kitchen.
Gigi rushes by, shoots me a broad smile, and squeals, “This is going to be so much fun.”
Yeah, until she puts it together and the world implodes.
I try to return her grin, but I can’t force my lips to make a real smile. Instead I stretch them back. They curl upwards and I show teeth, hoping it’s enough. I move in what I’m sure is the opposite of warp speed, like an out-of-body experience. I head toward the kitchen and everyone’s running past me, chatting excitedly, yet it’s all white noise. It takes all of my brainpower to put one step in front of the other. Maybe I’m drunk? Maybe this is the afterlife. Gigi has worked out what’s happened and separated my earthly body from my spirit. Maybe it’s hell.
I snort. It’s definitely hell.
I don’t know how I do it, but I make it to the garden, snip some hydrangea blooms, walk them back inside, and put them in a vase. I’m heading back out to the table when I realize Gigi’s family has arrived.
Everyone’s talking, hugging, and acting as if they live hundreds of miles from each other instead of around the block. I’m afraid to make eye contact. Gigi’s father, we all call him Poppy, pulls me into a bear hug.
“Paisley, we don’t see enough of you. You need to come over more often,” he says.
They could have seen a whole lot of me this morning.
“I’ll try, Poppy,” I say. Looking at him, I see what Hank will look like when he’s his father’s age. He passes me over to their mom, and my eyes meet Hank’s, who is hugging my mom. He winks and I glare. His mom gives me a warm embrace, and I feel dirty. If she knew, would she be disappointed?
“You look lovely. You doing OK out there in Daytona by yourself?” Ms. Becky asks.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m doing all right. It’s good to see you.”
When she lets go, I head inside to the bar and refill my wineglass. Goose bumps cover my arms, and I sense rather than see Hank come up behind me. I’m caught off guard at how close he’s standing. He takes my glass and finishes it off.