“Was it six months?”
“What? No, of course not.”
“Then why is it Christmas in Patrickland?”
Grant stepped forward to field this one. “We found hith tree in the garage!”
“Kids, it was already past your bedtime when I took off from New York and so I can’t even imagine how tired you are now. Let me use the restroom and then I will help you brush your teeth. Have they even been brushed once since I saw you last?”
Patrick held his tongue. She clearly did not realize what a commodity good teeth were in California. A perfect smile was practically a calling card. He’d rigorously overseen twice-daily teeth brushings for a month now, which, between the two of them—three if you counted Patrick—equaled one hundred and eighty brushings.
“Where is your powder room?”
“Powder room. There’s no powder in there.” Patrick bit his lip. “Unless you count cocaine.”
“What?!”
“It’s a joke. Relax. Just go.” Patrick pointed behind him and Clara turned sharply on one foot. He grimaced, and when she closed the bathroom door behind her, Maisie and Grant laughed nervously. They all knew they were in gobs of trouble, but there was at least some safety in numbers.
“Do we have to clean this up, GUP?” Maisie surveyed the living room, which was dotted with half-empty glasses on colorful cocktail napkins and little plates with discarded nibbles that Marlene was dutifully tending to.
“No. Tomorrow’s a new day. I asked Rosa to come and we can all clean up together.” He took in the chaos around them. “Remind me to pay her double.”
“Do we have to take the Christmath tree down?” Grant asked, sadness dripping from the question. The evening had been a high point in their stay and it was sad to think it was over.
Patrick took a knee so that he was eye-to-eye with Grant. “Is it Christmas yet?”
“No. Not until December!”
“Well, I’ve never heard of anyone taking their tree down before Christmas. Have you?”
Grant grinned broadly. “No.”
“Besides. You did such a marvelous job decorating, I should think your dad would like to see it when he joins us. Let’s leave it up to show him.”
Both kids threw their arms around their uncle and squeezed him tight.
“What on God’s green . . .” It was a muffled Clara from behind the bathroom door. “How do you flush this thing?”
Patrick was drained—a kind of exhaustion that you felt in your bones, from the night, from the week, from the month. He exhaled, blowing his hair from his forehead before fishing the washlet’s remote from his back pocket, where he’d tucked it earlier for safekeeping （he didn’t want guests squirting water all over his powder room）。 He handed the remote to Maisie. “You want the honors?”
A wicked smile formed on Maisie’s face. She took the remote with both hands like she was being trusted with the nuclear football, found the button for the bidet feature, clenched her teeth, and pressed hard.
The delay was maybe three seconds. Clara’s scream pierced the silence and they could hear her leap up and scramble to safety. Grant laughed first, then Maisie, then Patrick, until they were reduced to a pile of yowling hyenas; it was, in that moment, the funniest thing they’d ever done.
* * *
Patrick sat at his patio table picking at the paper on a bottle of spring water. The kids were in bed, together, and Clara had passed out in Patrick’s other guest room; the worst of her ire would come tomorrow. Marlene lay at his feet, the patio stones finally cool and offering relief from the warm night air. When he shifted in his chair she raised an eyebrow, then closed her eyes tight, her rhythmic breathing melting into a gentle snore.
Along the back wall, the solar lights were holding their charge; Patrick always wondered if they lasted all night or if they faded at some point in the predawn. He felt guilty for not inviting JED tonight, but he’d never been good at mixing friend groups—especially at parties. Some acquaintances overlapped well enough, but JED was a world apart. Or maybe he was just being a snob. What would his Hollywood friends have to say about a throuple who sometimes wore matching shirts? Fortunately, their house was dark. If they were stewing, they were doing so inconspicuously. If they asked about the party at some future date, Patrick would lie and say he thought they had already left for Burning Man.
An unfamiliar light pierced the darkness above one of the pool lounge chairs, dancing a slow, intricate ballet like a single firefly. It startled him. Patrick squinted until the light sharpened into some sort of focus. It appeared to be the tip of a cigarette. “Hello?” He stood up and walked over to the light, cupping his hands against his brow as if that would help him see. At the edge of the house he stopped to flip on the pool light and the water shimmered a perfect summer blue.