“Hello, Mother. What have you there?”
“It was a tray of Brie and apricot tarts.” She shrugged. “But Nana can’t chew very well these days, so it’s not like she could’ve eaten them anyway.”
Perry helped himself to a cup of punch and observed the momentary slump in his mother’s posture. She turned to him, straightening her apron. “So, how are you?”
“Fine.” He held up the punch bowl.
“You think of everything.” She nodded toward the pantry. “Two bottles of seltzer and one of cranberry juice. You didn’t happen to notice if Jake arrived yet, did you? He’s bringing his Olivia.”
Olivia. So the new girl did have a name. Perry glanced out the kitchen window at the circular drive. What could be taking his wife so long?
“She’s a doll, this one. Have you met her?”
He had not. But that was clearly about to change. “Do I have a choice?” It was tiring. Every special occasion, a new girl.
Like the rest of the Goodwin offspring, Jake was sharp and handsome. But unlike his more reserved siblings, he possessed a flirtatious streak that coursed back to their high school years, the likes of which had managed to attract the attention of the cutest girls in Perry’s junior class the first week of Jake’s freshman year. Although Perry aced his AP courses and swept the CIAC track and field championship that year, he’d regrettably remained unable to engage in any meaningful interaction with a member of the opposite sex, and so it was young Jake who’d lobbied (and then landed) his big brother a date two days before prom. “There’s room in our limo,” Jake had added.
Perry had been flummoxed. “You’re going to prom? Wait—you have a limo?”
Little had changed in the years since.
The last Perry had heard, Jake was seeing the multipierced blond rock climber from Colorado he’d met at Burning Man. The one who’d lasted almost the whole of the previous year, leaving the family to wonder in not-so-quiet whispers if this one would stick. But then there was the redheaded accountant, at Christmas. If Perry wasn’t mistaken, she was the one who’d giggled so nervously at the dinner table she snorted spiced eggnog out of her nose. Or maybe that was the blonde.
His mother ignored his question and continued scraping at the burnt tray in the sink. “There’s something about this one. You’ll see.”
Perry found the seltzer bottles in the pantry and emptied them carefully into the bowl, considering his mother’s choice of words. “There’s always something.”
“Oh, and I suppose you heard, I’ve asked your sister and Rob to move in with the kids while their new cottage is being renovated. I fear she’s taken on too much, and they really can’t keep living like that.”
“Is that wise?” Phoebe could be so selfish. It was too much to ask. Let alone of aging parents who already had their hands full with their Nana. He lifted the punch bowl gingerly, measuring the distance between himself and the dining room table where a clutch of women of a certain age hovered in orthopedic shoes, a group his mother referred to as “the biddies.” Mrs. Lorenzo from next door was laughing loudly and gesturing a bit too exuberantly. He and the punch bowl would have to take a different route.
“Well, I can’t exactly send my grandchildren out on the streets.”
“The streets?” Perry had been thinking more along the lines of a hotel. Or better yet, telling Phoebe to grit her teeth and live through her self-imposed house renovation like most people did. After all, it was Phoebe and Rob’s choice to sell their perfectly good house, buy a falling-down shack on the lake, and then tear it apart. It was hardly the cottage’s fault it was a hundred years old. “It might not be as temporary as you think, Mom. Renovations always take longer than planned. And the boys are great, but they’re a real handful. When you combine that with everything going on with Nana…”
There was a sudden clatter. His mother dumped the tray into the sink, and plucked a single cigarette out of her pocket. If she’d pulled out a switchblade, Perry could not have been more surprised.
“Mom?” The punch sloshed dangerously against the sides of the bowl.
Jane Goodwin did not smoke. Had never smoked. His father, Edward, enjoyed the occasional cigar, but Perry had no recollection of ever having seen his mother smoke, even in the haze of the early seventies when just about everyone seemed to. She reached for a high cabinet, ferreted around behind the sugar jar, and produced a lighter.
“Mother. What are you doing?”
Jane blinked. “Oh, please. It’s just one.” Her heels clicked as she headed for the patio door and flung it ajar.
Perry watched in horror as she leaned out, lit up, and inhaled. “When did this start?” he asked. Then, “Do you understand how toxic that is? Your lungs!”
Jane Goodwin was a portrait of health. All his life Perry’s mother had been fit and trim. She played tennis. She ate salad. In a corner of their manicured lawn she tended an organic herb garden.
She took a deep drag and closed her eyes dreamily. “Take the punch out to those biddies. And not a word to your father.”
Perry navigated the small sea of guests precariously. Phoebe swept up beside him, and again he had to steady the bowl. “Watch it.” Then, “Since when does Mom smoke?”
“What? I don’t know. Listen, Rob is going to ask you about joining the Club. I want you to talk it down.”
“My Club?” Had she not just heard what he’d said about their mother?
Phoebe trailed him to the dining room, fidgeting with her bracelets. “Jesus, Perry. It’s not yours.”
Technically, perhaps. But Perry was the president of the Candlewood Cove Clubhouse, a rustic but exclusive enclave on the western shore of Candlewood Lake in his gated community. Residing in the Cove did not guarantee membership. It had taken him four years, since buying his two-million-dollar home, just to be sponsored. And several more to work his way onto the board and up to presidency. Phoebe may have just bought a cottage on the lake, but it was across the way. Outside the clubhouse community. And though he loved his sister, he did not exactly relish the thought of sharing his private escape with her and her boisterous young brood.
“Relax,” she told him. “The house renovations have been more involved than we planned, so joining the Club isn’t exactly in the budget. He might as well buy a pony. Will you tell him that?”
“That he should buy a pony?”
Phoebe waited until he set the bowl down and then socked him in the arm. “I’m serious.”
“Ow. All right.” Perry was used to this. As much as his siblings ribbed him for being uptight, they never failed to queue up when things went down. To ask advice. To borrow money. To try and twist his arm into approaching one family member or other to twist his or her arm about one thing or other. Though this time he was secretly impressed by Phoebe’s unusual demonstration of financial restraint. Having bought the cottage was one thing, but the gut renovation was a whole other financial misstep. He couldn’t imagine where they’d come up with the initiation fee for the Club.
“Have you tried telling Rob this yourself?”
He watched his sister’s gaze land on her husband, who was standing by the window, talking to their father. The boys were back inside chasing each other in a hazardously widening circle around the guests. Phoebe’s eyes narrowed. “I’m a little over budget on the renovation.”