By the time I reach the International Arrivals gate I’m sweaty, breathless, and ready for a fight. I see him before he sees me, sitting on top of his duffel bag, back against the grimy airport wall, reading a book. He smiles when he spots me.
“Right on time,” he says, and gets up to give me a massive kiss. “God, I’ve missed you, beautiful.”
* * *
—
I’ve prepared Peter for our dark apartment, my depressed mother’s obsession with conserving electricity, the slow, heavy way she moves—as if she’s sagging under the weight of her own boards.
“Must have been a cheery Christmas all-round,” he says.
But when we get there, every light in the apartment is on. A Duraflame log makes its noiseless crackle in the fireplace. A scratchy LP plays bossa nova.
“Mum? We’re back,” I call out.
“In here,” she singsongs from the kitchen. “Leave your boots outside if they’re wet.”
I shake my head, puzzled. “Maybe she stole Mary’s pot.”
Peter gives me a wry look as we head into the kitchen.
My mother is standing at the icebox. Her hair is up in a bun. She’s wearing lipstick and a red silk blouse.
“Peter.” She gives him a kiss on both cheeks. “You made it. How was your flight?”
“Fine. Bit bumpy, but nothing.”
“It’s been blizzarding on and off all day. We were worried they might divert you.”
“Where’s Anna?” I ask. “She said she was going to be here.”
“Some friend of hers from law school called. She went rushing out.”
“Sorry,” I say to Peter. “I really wanted her to be here when you arrived.”
Mum pulls a silver shaker and three martini glasses out of the freezer. “Olive or twist?”
“Twist, thanks,” Peter says.
“A man after my own heart.” She pours him a drink.
There’s cheese, paté, and a small bowl of cornichons on the kitchen table. She has brought out the special rosewood cheese board with the irritating little curvy knife that she and my father were given, a million years ago, as a wedding present.
She raises her glass. “Here’s to a new year. It’s so good to finally put a face with a name. You never told me he was so handsome, Elle.” She is practically batting her eyes. “Chin-chin.”
I feel like I’ve stepped into one of those black-and-white society movies where everyone lives in an apartment with fifteen-foot ceilings and wears fur stoles to lunch. Any second now, Cyd Charisse will stick a black-stockinged leg out from behind a door, while a maid in uniform serves canapés and a little white dog scampers about.
They clink glasses. I raise my glass to toast, but they are already drinking. My mother takes Peter’s arm. “Let’s go sit in the living room. I’ve made a fire. Elle, grab the hors d’oeuvres. I got a piece of Stilton at Zabar’s. I figured that was a safe bet.”
Peter follows her out, leaving me standing there with my glass in my hand.
“Oh, and your father called. Twice,” she says over her shoulder. “You’re going to have to call him back sometime. It’s so nice to have a man in the house, Peter,” I hear her saying as they disappear into the other room.
I know all her efforts—Peter’s warm welcome—are meant for me. And the last thing I want is Peter’s first instinct to be “Escape from Horror Castle.” But listening to my mother howling with laughter at something Peter has just said, all I want to do is slap her.
* * *
—
“I like her,” Peter says later as he drags his duffel down the hallway to my room. “She’s not at all how you described her.”
“A narcissistic bitch?”
“What you said was that she’s been very sad. And she likes to conserve energy. You never mentioned what an attractive woman she is.”
“Stilton? Because you’re English? We’ve been living on saltines and peanut butter and soup out of a can since Christmas. Believe me, this is not normal life.”
“So, just my British charm?”
“No. She’s a male chauvinist pig. Also, she asked me to take my underpants off in front of her on Christmas Eve. And gave me ugly gloves and a bottle opener for Christmas. So, it might be Yuletide guilt.”
Peter stops to scan the bookshelves that line the hall. Pulls out an old grade-school textbook of mine. “Caribou and the Alaskan Tundra. Perfect bedtime reading.” He opens it and riffles through. “Oh good. You’ve underlined the important bits. That’ll save me time.”