Page 60 of Backlash

“Three sharp does not mean five minutes later,” he barks before wheeling away.

I don’t know why we have to go through any of it. Why do we have to pretend like everything is normal? Why does it matter if it’s three sharp—the time my mother set—or half an hour later? Why act like we have anything to be thankful for this year at all?

Plastering a smile on my face, I enter the dining room to discover everyone else already in their seats. Most years I’m sandwiched between guests, left to make small talk on topics I know little about and care even less for. This year, I stop when I see there’s no place for me.

My father clears his throat and nods toward the end of the table opposite him. “You’re the lady of the house now.”

My gaze lands on my mother’s place, the spot where she would sit and charm everyone, redirecting arguments before they could occur, seamlessly keeping track of when courses needed to appear, and making certain no one at the table wanted for anything.

I don’t move. I’m not up for the task.

“Adair,” my father says with a smile, but there’s a sharp edge to it.

“Maybe Ginny should,” I stammer.

“Nonsense. Ginny sits across from Malcolm, not me,” he says.

“Maybe they should sit at the ends of the table,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

A dangerous silence falls over the table. Eyes flicker between the two of us as our dining companions try to stay clear of the approaching storm.

“They are not the heads of this house.” His words are terrifyingly quiet. I strain to hear them, even though the implication is loud enough.

“Neither am I! We can just leave the spot to remember Mom,” I begin to suggest.

“Sit down.” He slams the table with his fist.

I don’t know where it comes from or why. It would be easier to just agree. It’s what my mother would do. She’d sit and quickly distract everyone from the unpleasantness with a witty story. I’ve never been any good at putting on airs. Instead, my hands ball to fists and I shake my head.

“What?” My father asks like he doesn’t understand.

“No,” I say in a quiet, but firm voice.

“You will—”

“No,” I shout, losing control, “I won’t sit here, fill her spot and pretend nothing’s wrong. I won’t act like I’m okay that she’s gone, not when we all know it should have been you!”

“Go to your room,” he roars.

“I thought I was a head of the house,” I spit back. “I guess that means I can do what I please.”

I dash out the side door, down to the kitchens. I don’t know why I’m running. He can’t follow me. Not in his wheelchair. I just know I need to get out—away from him, away from Valmont, away from the secrets slowly tearing me apart inside.

Just like my mother should have done while she had the chance.

17

Sterling

“Turkey time!” Francie calls in a sing-song voice, so full of joy I can feel it warm me up.

I miss how excited she gets over the little things. Food is a passion we share, mostly because we were always too broke to order out or eat at the new, hip places in Manhattan or Queens. Instead, we found the best hole-in-the-wall restaurants and food carts and learned how to make the things we loved. I’d been secretly glad when she announced she was cooking Thanksgiving and to ‘not test her patience on the matter.’

We earned more than a few side glances from the guests of the Eaton when Francie and I crammed into the elevators with grocery bags full of supplies. She’d taken one look at the hotel’s idea of catered dinner, laughed, and began looking for a local grocer. It had taken a little work, but we finally found one with fresh turkeys and most of the items she considered essential to the holiday. To her dismay, there wasn’t a fresh cranberry to be found in the whole store, so we settled for some of the canned stuff.

“It smells okay,” I tell her, leaning onto the counter.

She swats at my head with the spatula she’s using to scoop fresh whipped cream out of a bowl, sending dots of it onto my shirt. Neither of us can stand the stuff in the plastic vats, and since we agree it’s a prerequisite for pie, we had to make our own.