“They’re on their way!” Libby announced as she hung up her phone. Savannah was upstairs with her new boyfriend. We had developed the habit of texting each other in the house, and not just because the stairs hurt my knee. Her dad would have never allowed her to be alone with a boy in her room, but I was grateful she’d found someone to adore her. She deserved that and so much more.
“Savannah’s coming down now, too,” I announced, and Libby raised a conspiratorial eyebrow.
“How do you like the new boyfriend?” she asked in a gossipy tone, and I just shrugged.
“We’ll see if he sticks,” I replied. I was actually a little surprised that Savannah had said “sure” when I suggested she invite Logan to our dinner party, given that their budding romance was so fresh. I had thought she’d be more private about her new boyfriend—her first boyfriend! But if she was ready to share him with me, I had no choice but to share her with him, too. I’d had her largely to myself up until the accident, for movie nights and ping-pong and late-night bake-offs. And of course for these last three months, too, minus the revelry. It was a little bittersweet to see my daughter stepping into new relationships, what every mother wants and fears in equal measure.
The doorbell rang. As Libby went to open the door for her husband and kids, I looked at my table. I had never hosted dinner for seven, so this was yet another first in a week full of new things—new dishes, new boyfriend, new friends, new traditions. I felt a flicker of an emotion I hadn’t felt for a long time—I wasn’t sure, but I thought it might be hope. Growing up in Bakersfield, I was never particularly proud of the creaky prefab we called home, but I did love how neighbors would stop by with extra tomatoes from their gardens or lemons from their yards. And how it often turned into an impromptu picnic—a pasta salad with whatever ingredients we had on hand, on lawn chairs in the front yard with kids and dogs running amok. For a moment I let myself slip into a daydream of Calabasas being my new, improved Bakersfield. It was foolish, of course. But I didn’t know that yet.
“Hi, beauties,” Libby sang as she opened the door for her husband and daughters. “Can you say hello to Miss Holly?”
“Hello, Miss Holly,” the little one said robotically as the older one waved.
I waved back, and Andy nudged them across the threshold. “Thanks for having us,” he said.
“Thanks for coming,” I replied, trying to sound like having neighbors over for dinner was perfectly normal.
“Let’s take off those shoes so we don’t get Miss Holly’s beautiful house all muddy,” Libby instructed, and the girls plopped down on the floor to remove their shoes.
“Can I help with anything?” Andy asked, and I shook my head.
“Just need to take the garlic bread out of the oven, everything else is on the table.” I’d made the bread from scratch. It takes a whole day to make a loaf of bread, plus an overnight for the dough to rise, but I enjoyed it. And what else do I have to do? The days were long without a job. Not that I missed staring at a spreadsheet all day. Work was boring. I sat under the same fluorescent light, having the same conversations with the same coworkers, patients, and insurance people for eight hours every day. No, I didn’t miss work. What I missed was being useful. That perfect balance of needing a job and the job needing me. Now that I was a kept woman, going back to work was pointless. And so I baked.
“I’ll get the bread,” Savannah called out as she descended the stairs. Her boyfriend appeared on the landing a moment later, and I tried not to think about what they were doing up in her room. We’d of course had “the talk.” She was sixteen—I assumed they were fooling around. I figured she might as well do it here, where she’d feel the most in control of how far they went.
“Why don’t we all sit down?” I suggested. Tatum and Margaux looked up at their mom, and she shooed them into the dining room. I had asked her to set all the places the same, so there were no “kid” seats—Libby’s daughters would drink from glasses and eat with adult-size forks just like the rest of us. Gabe had always insisted Savannah feel like an equal at the dinner table, not be babied like he had been by his grandparents. Kids get bossed around all day, he once told me. Raise your hand, wait your turn, say thank you. Let mealtime be a break from that. We had a few spilled glasses of milk along the way, but we got a confident, independent kid out of it. If it wasn’t for all those empowering family dinners, the last three months might have gone very differently. I tried not to wonder whether Savannah’s boldness would have filled her dad with pride or regret.