“Look”—her eyes soften a little—“I love you, and I’m happy for you and Smith. Really, I am. I’m also just really stressed.”
“I can tell.”
“Would you mind not telling Mom and Dad until after dinner? Or at least until after Caroline leaves? You could just stick your ring in your pocket, and then when the coast is clear, you can scream it from the rooftops. OK?”
“No.” The word shoots out of my mouth like an arrow. “Absolutely not.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m not taking off my ring, Phoebe. I’ll hold off telling Mom and Dad, but I’m not going to hide my engagement because you’re worried it might hypothetically lead to an argument that will embarrass you.”
“You think they won’t notice? Have you met our parents?” She points the dead flower at my face like a baton. “And it’s not a hypothetical argument. You guys always argue. It’s your thing. And you argue double on holidays!”
“It’s not my fault!” I wave the flower away.
“Of course it’s not!” She smacks the flower on the buffet table. “Nothing ever is.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve never asked you for anything, Penny. Never. And the fact that the one time I ask you to do something important to me, you flat out refuse is bullshit.” She dumps the flower in the bin next to the buffet table. “It’s bullshit, and you’re too selfish to realize it.”
“Well, I’m sorry my engagement is such an inconvenience to you.”
The doorbell rings like a buzzer signaling the end of a round in a boxing match. Both of us start and stop awkwardly toward the door, neither of us knowing how to proceed. It’s not like we haven’t fought before. It’s just never felt this personal. Thankfully, Marie sweeps in to answer the door.
Smith breezes into the dining room, blissfully unaware of the battle that just took place. “Hey, is someone else coming to dinner? A black SUV just pulled up.”
Phoebe and I stare at each other blankly. Every fiber of my body is telling me to leave. I could grab my bags and be out the door before my parents noticed. I could wave at Caroline Winston on my way to Smith’s house, and Phoebe could tell her I was just a neighbor stopping by to say hello. My family could have a nice, quiet Thanksgiving completely drama-free. I don’t even think Phoebe would try to stop me. I’d be doing her a favor.
“Are you two OK?” Smith rests his hand on my shoulder.
“We’re fine,” I lie. “But I just got a call from my editor. Apparently, Irene Steadman’s family wants me to meet them in person tomorrow to go over her obituary. We should probably drive back.”
“I thought her family hated her,” Smith says.
“I guess they had a change of heart. Families are funny like that sometimes.” I hold Phoebe’s gaze. “One minute you think you know how they feel about you, the next you don’t.”
I give Phoebe a brisk hug and collect my bags. She doesn’t try to stop me.
Chapter 16
I am going to take up space.
I deserve to be here for this Thanksgiving just as much as my sister does, and my news is just as worthy to be shared over Thanksgiving dinner. Unless of course they’re announcing that they’re having a baby, in which case, fine, I’ll move my news to the port course of tonight’s menu. But I don’t think Phoebe’s news is a baby. Phoebe is afraid of babies, and babies are afraid of her.
If I had to bet money, Phoebe’s news is academic driven. Maybe she’s getting another degree. Or the big news could be that they’ve finally set a wedding date. That would be exciting news, but it’s not giving me main-course energy. That news feels decidedly dessert-course energy. That is, of course, if there’s even going to be a dessert course.
Nana Rosie left me with her famous lemon meringue pie recipe card and a pat on the back before she retired for her traditional pre-Thanksgiving nap. Shockingly, I have never made a pie. The closest I’ve ever come to baking a pie is ordering one from the McDonald’s drive-through. But I am nothing if not resourceful.
I set up my laptop in the kitchen, along with all the piemaking essentials, and videoconference in the Smut Coven.
“I thought this was supposed to be a business call.” Jackie glares at me through my computer screen. “We are in the book business. Not the Betty Crocker business.”
“I thought we were catching up to talk about Smith,” Chelsey says in between sit-ups. The woman is a human workout Barbie. “Or Knot Guy. I forget who we’re rooting for you to bang at this point.”