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“Tanya, just apologize to Matt’s mother. I’m sure she’ll forgive you.”
“I will do no such thing!” hissed my grandma. “That girl is a down-and-out thief! I want her out of my home. Right now! You need to send her back to wherever on earth she comes from. And it’s sure as hell not Great Britain. She’s a phony baloney. A danger to everybody!”
My mother’s face heated. She looked at my father, then at Will and me. Then shot to her feet. “Matt, children, let’s go. If Tanya isn’t welcome here, I don’t want to stay. We’ll have Thanksgiving dinner back at the hotel.”
“Fine.” The first word my father had uttered since the discovery of the pearls.
Will and I stayed silent.
“Natalie,” said my grandma, “there’s no need to ruin the children’s Thanksgiving.”
I looked at my parents. “Mom, Dad…Will and I want to stay with Grandma and Grandpa.” Will nodded in agreement. “Plus, we’re staying here, not at the hotel.”
They acquiesced. My brother and I watched as my parents and the still sobbing Tanya walked out of the grand pre-war apartment.
The worst Thanksgiving ever? No, the best. My grandma even had special vegan dishes prepared for me. So delicious. And despite the Tanya incident, the conversation was lively, full of laughter thanks to Grandma and Trevor.
I helped my grandma clean up, and for the first time in my life, I gave her a high-five. Then a tight hug. Her diabolical plan of having Will use an untraceable burner phone to call Tanya after he’d planted the pearls in her backpack was a success.
The best actress in the world was Tanya Blackstone. But tonight…
The Oscar goes to…Marjorie Merritt.
And Will and I each deserved one for our supporting roles.
FORTY-THREE
NATALIE
This had to be the worst Thanksgiving ever. Well, except for the one after Anabel’s death, which I’d missed because I was too ill to travel to San Francisco—sedated and bedridden with around-the-clock nurses.
When we got back to the hotel, a still tearful Tanya took to her bed, claiming she had no appetite. I couldn’t blame her, and truth is, neither did I.
At his insistence, I forced myself to have dinner with Matt in the hotel’s dining room. My emotions were all over the place. I felt terrible for our exchange student and was still shaken by my mother-in-law’s accusation, unsure if Tanya had stolen the pearls despite the incriminating evidence.
More and more, I was having misgivings about our family guest. Her behavior of late had been erratic. Questionable. When I’d confronted her about dating Lance, she’d brushed it off and said all is fair in love and war. Then she’d accused Paige of stealing her laptop and had almost strangled her. Plus, the increasingly frequent rants and tantrums. With her extreme ups and downs, I was beginning to wonder: Was she bipolar?
On top of this unsettling thought, there was the deep-seated contempt I felt for my two-timing husband. It was going to be hard to have dinner with him without spitting at his traitorous face. My only solace: At least the kids were having a good time with their grandparents, aunt, and uncle. They didn’t need to get dragged into this mess.
The dining room was surprisingly crowded. Without a reservation, we were lucky to get a small table in the corner. The two of us each ordered the turkey dinner, Matt starting out with a bourbon and me with a vodka martini. I needed something stronger than a glass of wine to calm myself and get through the next hour.
I’d decided before the drive up here I wasn’t going to bring up his indiscretions until I hired a lawyer. I had a meeting this coming Monday with Jason Nussbaum. And was thrilled Cecilia had confirmed his snake-like reputation.
Little did she know she might be facing him in court…soon.
Our turkey dinners came. Everything was cold. The meat dried out. The stuffing soggy. The mashed potatoes lumpy. The green beans overcooked. We ate in silence. The coldness between us rivaled that of the lackluster meal.
I polished off my second drink, barely tasting it. I’d have to do with my husband what the farmer does with the turkey…
Co-exist with him until next Thanksgiving. And hopefully no longer.
FORTY-FOUR
PAIGE
“Wow! The view is amazing!” I gushed as I stood next to Jordan, staring out an observation window of Berkeley’s famed landmark, the Campanile. Completed in 1916, the regal Beaux-Arts structure was the third tallest bell-and-clock tower in the world.
From my vantage point, I had a breathtaking view of San Francisco from the surrounding hills to the Golden Gate Bridge as well as of the Berkeley campus, with its majestic architecture and sprawling grounds.
