Great Big Beautiful Life(69)

“How can I help?” Hayden’s voice rolls over me as he steps into the room, freshly showered and dressed in a worn Purdue sweatshirt and black sweats. He looks so clean and cozy that suddenly I want nothing more than to nestle up in him, the human equivalent of a comfy bed after a long day.

My face must betray this, because he’s looking at me like What am I missing?

“You can help Alice peel the carrots, if you want,” Mom says over her shoulder.

I hand him the peeler and grab a knife from the block before rinsing the carrots. He peels, and I cut them on the diagonal, tossing them in a bowl with some oil and salt before spreading them out on a pan to roast.

If he’s bothered by the lack of conversation, he doesn’t show it, which is good, because I learned to cook at my mother’s hip and thus never developed a talent for talking while working.

With the carrots roasting, I put Hayden on salad-prep duty, rinsing and chopping Mom’s freshly collected cucumbers, tomatoes, and onions, while I massage the kale with some oil and smoked salt. Mom makes her Alfredo sauce from scratch, and when the timer goes off, I pull the carrots out, stir them around the pan, drizzle them with some honey and spices, and pop them back in for a few more minutes.

I’m so immersed in the process that it takes me a while to realize Mom is humming along to the music, another one of Cosmo’s love songs on the playlist, “Peggy All the Time.”

My chest twinges at the sound. Dad used to sing this as Angie all the time.

    When I close my eyes at night,

Every time I’m down and out,

If the sky is blue and bright,

I’ll tell you what I’m thinkin’ ’bout.

It’s Angie all the time.

Angie all over my mind.



Tears unexpectedly spring to my eyes. Not just for my mom, but for the woman Cosmo Sinclair wrote the ballad for.

For Margaret Ives, and the part of her story that broke an entire generation’s heart.

“Hey,” Hayden says, so quietly his voice is more of an impression than a sound, tucked beneath the music. “You okay?”

    When I let myself dream,

Or it all comes crashing down,

If it all turns out all right,

And at every pretty little sound,

It’s Peggy, Peggy on my mind.

Peggy all the time.



“Onions,” I say, the first outright lie I’ve ever told him, and he knows it. I lift the cutting board and swipe his neatly sliced veggies into the salad bowl with the kale.

“Soup’s on, kids,” Mom calls from the stove. “Grab some forks and plates. It’s serve yourself around here, Hayden. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” he says. “That’s perfect for me.”

His eyes connect with mine, and the moment of melancholy slips past, the kernel of something warm and giddy swelling in its place at the word perfect.

I’m not sure why. It’s not like he said I’m perfect. But all those little zaps of excitement must be melting my brain a little.

Hayden on my mind, I think.

Again, I wonder if the thought should terrify me. But there’s no room for terror. There’s just warm golden light, the smell of freshly cracked pepper and almond soap, the soft pop of a cork Mom’s pulling from a bottle of cabernet, and a pair of pale brown eyes set into a thoughtful expression I can’t believe I ever mistook for a glower.

Perfect for me.



* * *



? ? ?

    “I’m serious!” Mom says. “I hated him.”

“You did not hate him,” I argue with her over my own laughter.

“I did!” she says, turning to Hayden, who’s fighting a smile. “I’m serious. First impressions are so meaningless. I hated him.” She throws her hands up, then grabs her glass and takes another swig.

“Just to be clear,” I tell Hayden, “I’ve heard this story ninety thousand times—”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re exaggerating, my girl.”

“—at ninety thousand different dinner tables,” I go on, “and she’s never once said she hated my father at first. She’s always said she barely noticed him.”

“That’s because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings,” she says. “Now he’s gone, and I can admit I was not impressed.”

“Mom!” I cry, laughing a little from the shock of it. She so rarely talks about him, let alone acknowledges the humongous hole in this world where he should be.

“I had bad taste, and I didn’t see what a gem he was,” she says. “I just thought he was so…” She scrunches up her face as she finishes. “Silly.”

I snort into my glass, narrowly avoiding inhaling wine straight into my lungs. “Okay, that tracks,” I admit. My dad could be silly. My mom, though she has her own sense of humor, is not.

“What did you think was silly about him?” Hayden asks.

She gives an exaggerated eye roll and pushes her empty plate back from the edge of the table. “God, what didn’t I think was silly? I mean, we were living in a farming commune. Most of us took ourselves very seriously, you know? Alan was ridiculous. He was always singing, for one thing, and he couldn’t carry a tune to save his life. Beyond that, he was terrible at remembering lyrics, so most of what he sang was nonsense anyway.”