Grant tugged at one end of his bow tie. “Enjoy our Christmath tree!”
“Yes. A special hat-tip to Jerry Herman, who taught us Guncle Rule number . . . I’ve lost count: When faced with unimaginable loss, we need a little Christmas.”
“Right this very minute!” Emory bellowed. He raised his glass in the air with such infectious enthusiasm, the rest of Patrick’s guests followed suit.
“RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE!”
Patrick looked out over the sea of raised glasses and saw, if only momentarily, the flash of another, happier, life. The Ghost of Christmas Past at work, perhaps, if only it really were Christmas. The spell was broken by the sound of his white lacquer baby grand—an impulse purchase he’d only played once and instead made for an expensive table to display Jonathan Adler knickknacks—and the opening chords of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” He looked up. It was Cassie. She smiled at him, all teeth and gums, the nervous expression of someone asking permission. Sweet Cassie, who still needed to learn it was always better to ask for forgiveness.
But Patrick gave his consent. And the whole crowd turned and burst into joyous song, looking to each other for a cue. Are we really doing this? Yes, I think we are.
And the party raged on like this. Carol after carol, drink after drink. It was the sound of pleasure, of long forgotten joy. Not just for Patrick, or the kids （Maisie settled on the piano bench next to Cassie while Grant sat on top of the piano itself, twirling one end of his bow tie）， but for everyone who in the midst of the Hollywood rat race had forgotten to exhale. Gaiety, Patrick thought, smiling. And no one seemed to love it more than Emory, who, in the midst of a FA LA LA LA LA, linked his pinkie finger with Patrick’s, a gesture so intimate it felt like an entire sex act.
They were on the eighth day of Christmas, maids-a-milking, swans-a-swimming, and whatnot, when the front door opened and Clara thrust her head inside. No one noticed, no one turned, no one made anything of this late entrant who wheeled a carry-on suitcase with a red ribbon tied to its handle （not in a Christmas bow, but to distinguish it from other lookalike luggage） across Patrick’s floor, except for gargantuan Adam, who, towering over her, put his meaty arm around Clara just in time to sing, “Fiiiive gold-en rings!”
Patrick caught a glimpse of his sister’s horrified face out of the corner of his eye and his first thought was Can you imagine? and he cackled to himself without missing a lyric. But then he turned and looked more carefully, the words “French hens” flopping off his tongue and plummeting clumsily to the floor like flightless birds. Like, well, French hens. He sheepishly waved, the happy buzz of vodka and Christmas draining from his face along with any color his skin’s pigment held from a life of year-round exposure to sunshine.
Clara, stunned into silence, looked up at Adam, then across at the hulking hand squeezing her opposite shoulder. She looked around the room, recognizing a few faces from magazines in the supermarket checkout, but not many, then down at Marlene, who was jumping at her feet and sniffing her shoes. She next spotted the pink Christmas tree with its sparkling white lights and colorful ornaments and tried to make sense of it in the context of the general décor of a house in which she had never stepped foot. Eventually her eyes landed on her niece and nephew, Maisie nuzzled into a stranger in a beaded caftan and Grant sitting on top of the piano with his bow tie undone and Patrick’s empty vodka glass by his side, looking like Frank Sinatra if he had starred in the movie Big. Finally, after all that, her eyes landed on her brother, dressed in butterfly-patterned pants with a curious expression that enraged her, and she regained her ability to speak.
“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.”
FOURTEEN
“How long was I on that plane?”
The few remaining party guests had broken down into two distinct conversation clusters in the living room; the vibe had irrecoverably dimmed with Clara’s arrival. It was nearing one o’clock in the morning and while that’s hardly last call in LA, where most of these guests were from, the bartender was only hired for five hours and had already started to break down the bar. As much as Patrick would like to pin this all on his sister, it probably had as much to do with that; this crowd seemed loath to pour their own drinks. Patrick did his best to do a round of goodbyes, thank everyone for coming, but the exodus was mass and he likely missed a few, including Emory, who slipped away into the night.
“I don’t know. Five hours? Six? There are headwinds when you’re flying west.”