Saturday, the day of the party, started off gray and cool. Her mother began cooking at lunchtime, reducing the wine and chicken stock, frying the lardons, then the onions and carrots, browning the chicken and putting everything into a big, deep pan. She added tomato paste, flambéed the brandy, and let the dish simmer. The smell reminded Beatrice of being a little girl, the first time she’d sat at the table, surveying the guests from her booster seat and feeling like a queen.
Beatrice set the table （“and I only had to ask her once,” she heard her mom marvel to her dad）， using her favorite blue-and-yellow patterned tablecloth, pale gold napkins, and her mother’s good china, which had a red-and-gold pattern and gold leaf around the rim. On the counter in the kitchen was the red leaf salad with toasted hazelnuts, which would be dressed with a sesame vinaigrette at the last minute and served with warmed baguettes and unsalted butter. There would be warm spiced nuts and Beatrice’s very favorite treat, olives, wrapped in a cheesy dough and deep-fried. As irritating as Beatrice found her mom, as much as she pitied her, she could still recognize her culinary skills, and acknowledge that the fried breaded olives were the most delicious thing in the world.
It had started to rain when Diana arrived. Her pale-gray trench coat was spattered with raindrops, and the wind had tumbled her hair. “Beatrice!” she said, smiling and touching Beatrice’s crinoline-puffed skirt. “What a fabulous outfit. Is it okay if I give you a hug?”
Beatrice decided that it was, and Diana enfolded her in her warmth and her perfume. Under her chic, belted coat, she was wearing wide-legged black pants, black leather boots, and a black cashmere wrap that looked like a cross between a cape and a blanket.
“I know,” Diana said, like she was reading Beatrice’s mind. “It’s basically a Snuggie.”
Beatrice didn’t know what a Snuggie was, but she loved the sweater. “It’s so soft,” she said, touching Diana’s sleeve.
“It’s cashmere,” said Diana. “I found it at this shop in—oh, Lord, Atlanta, I think. It was on clearance, probably because not many women want to walk around wearing blankets. I bought it in every color they had. Pink, pale gray, this kind of plum color, and black.” She gave Beatrice an assessing look. “You know, the pink never really suited me. But I bet you’d look fabulous in it.”
Beatrice’s heart felt strangely swoopy. “Really?”
“Really. I’ll box it up and put it in the mail the minute I’m home.”
Beatrice’s mom came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Next to Diana, in her green flowered apron and black leggings and bare feet, with her hair in a scrunchy, her mom looked ridiculous, and very young. The two women hugged each other warmly, and Diana kissed her mom’s cheek before turning to Beatrice. “You know, your mother is saving my life.”
“Oh, that’s an exaggeration,” said her mom, looking pleased nonetheless.
“It’s true!” said Diana. “Thanks to your mom, I’m going to eat well for the rest of my life.” Her mother was beaming when Beatrice’s father came down the stairs.
“Hello, ladies!” The women didn’t exactly spring apart, but Diana stepped back and her mom looked down. Her dad wore a button-down shirt and khakis, instead of the jeans he’d normally have on for a Saturday night at home. If her mom was a wren, and Diana was an eagle, what was her father, swooping in to eat as soon as the meal was prepared? Maybe a vulture, Beatrice thought, and turned away to hide her smile. Her dad kissed Diana on the cheek, and Beatrice saw, or thought she saw, the other woman stiffen, very briefly, the same way she had at the mention of Provincetown.
Beatrice knew that her father hadn’t wanted Diana at the dinner party. “I’m glad you have a new friend. But I don’t want to have to make conversation with a stranger.”
“Diana is my friend,” her mom had said, her tone unexpectedly sharp. She’d dropped her voice, but Beatrice could imagine what she was saying: after everything I do around here, after everything I do for you.
From her bedroom, Beatrice heard the low sound of her dad’s voice, probably agreeing. Giving her mother permission to include her friend, the same way he’d give Beatrice permission to go to a sleepover. Her dad was so much older than her mom, sometimes listening to the two of them was like listening to a parent with a child, not a husband with a wife. Beatrice hadn’t noticed it until recently—probably right around when they’d read A Doll’s House, back at Emlen—but now, she could see that her dad was the one making decisions, about where they’d go on vacations, about where Beatrice went to school, probably about things that had been decided before she’d even been born, like where they would live, in which house and in which town. Usually, her mom went along with the program and seemed happy enough. But lately, Beatrice had noticed changes, small acts of resistance, barely notable—or at least, they would have been barely notable in other families. A few days ago, her mom had been in Center City, with Diana, and she’d called to say they’d decided to go out to dinner. “Well, what are we supposed to do?” her dad had asked, and her mom said, “Get a pizza!” so loudly that Beatrice heard her, even though she wasn’t on speaker.