Nearlyweds (9 page)

H
ow do we know if it’s defrosted enough?” I gazed down at the pale turkey in the roasting pan. “How will we know when it’s done?”

“Right here.” Mark pointed out a little red plastic dot on the side of the bird. “That pops out when the internal temperature gets high enough.”

“Okay.” I sighed dutifully and started squirting herb butter and white wine all over the turkey. “If you say so. You sure you don’t want to just hit the White Birch and let them deal with all this prep work?”

“Don’t worry so much, sweetheart.” He rubbed my shoulders with his strong, capable hands. “We’ll all pitch in and make dinner together. You, me, and the girls. Who knows? Maybe you and Taylor will end up bonding over the whole thing.”

I had woken up drenched in sweat last night, dreaming that Taylor had managed to get me alone with the electric carving knife, but I just smiled sweetly and got back to the bird, which Mark had insisted on soaking in a gourmet sea salt brine that cost as much as a week’s worth of groceries. “Now what about the gaping hole in the middle? Do we put stuffing in there, or what?” I peered into the disemboweled body cavity.

He laughed and shook his head. “You wouldn’t make much of a chef.”

“Nope,” I agreed cheerfully. “Cooking is not my thing.”

My thing, as we all knew, was kids. But we had agreed to call a truce for Thanksgiving; to pretend, in the fine tradition of our WASPy upbringings, that we looked forward to opening our house to hellish dysfunction and long-simmering feuds. (Also in fine WASPy tradition, we had stocked up on plenty of gin and tonic.) His daughters were coming, and we had to prove that we were deliriously happy and that our May-December (or as Mark liked to say, “more like May-October”) marriage was getting stronger every day.

The truth was, we hadn’t discussed the letter from the county clerk since that fight in the kitchen. We both knew that bringing up the state of our union was bound to set off another round of extreme fighting about the baby issue. So we skirted the issue and remained carefully, painfully polite with each other.

And Cash was staying. Since my meltdown in Casey’s
apartment last week, the dog had refused to leave my side. He curled up under my chair while I ate breakfast, camped outside the bathroom door and whined while I showered, and snuck up onto the bed to sleep between Mark and me at night.

“It’s the rescue dog honeymoon phase,” Casey had explained when I mentioned this to her. “He’s just come out of a scary transition from the shelter and he wants to make sure you’re not going anywhere. It’s just like having a houseguest—for the first few days, they’re quiet and accommodating, but after a few months, they’re rummaging through your medicine cabinets and drinking the last Diet Coke without asking.”

“All I can say is, if this is the ‘honeymoon phase,’ we’re in trouble when he starts to get comfortable,” Mark had grumbled. “And I don’t want him in our bed anymore—that’s a sacred space for the two of us. Not to mention all the shedding—you know,
you’re
the one who insisted on the white sheets. If we had gotten a maltipoo—a little, nonshedding maltipoo—we wouldn’t have these problems.”

But the big, dramatic “it’s the dog or me” ultimatum had turned out to be an empty threat. I took it as a very good sign. If he could compromise on the dog issue, he could compromise on the baby issue, right?

“
Down,
Cash.” Mark shoved Cash’s head away from the turkey as the dog propped his front paws up on the counter. “Down.”

“You don’t have to get violent,” I huffed, crouching down to scratch Cash’s ears.

“Stella. Please. That was hardly violent. I just don’t want this mongrel getting dirt and slobber on my kitchen counter.”

“He’s not a mongrel, and he’s not dirty,” I defended. “I just gave him a bath last night.”

“Yes, I noticed the profusion of black fur clogging the Jacuzzi drain. And point of information, sweetie: Cash is, by definition, a mongrel.”

“Well, so what?” I asked hotly. “He’s a good boy and he loves us—”

“He loves
you,”
Mark corrected.

“Maybe he’d love you, too, if you weren’t constantly shoving him and—”

The doorbell chimed, startling both of us. Cash bounded for the door, barking up a storm.

“See?” I said, checking my reflection in the freshly Windexed microwave door. “He’s a good watchdog.”

“He’s a legal liability on our homeowner’s insurance,” Mark retorted. “Not to mention an egregious bed hog.” He grabbed Cash’s collar, dragged him into the laundry room, and shut the door. “No bark,” he warned as Cash started to whimper.

Then we clasped hands, plastered toothy grins on our faces, and threw open the front door. “Hiii! Welcome to the new house! So glad you could make it!”

Taylor and Marissa stood on the stoop, making a big production of shivering despite their cashmere scarves and thick wool coats.

“Daddy, I’m freezing!” Marissa exclaimed, swooping into her father’s embrace. She had inherited his wavy brunette hair and aristocratic cheekbones, but she had her mother’s stunning green eyes and flawless skin. Not that I’d ever met Brenda. But I’d seen pictures—Taylor had made sure of that.

As Marissa moved on from Mark to give me a meek, formal “Happy Thanksgiving,” Taylor swept into the foyer, not bothering to close the door behind her.

“Hmm.” Her calculating brown eyes raked over the chandelier, the artwork, the baseboards that Cash had been gnawing on yesterday. “I like what you’ve done to the place.”

This stunned me into responding. “Thank you.”

“There’s only so much you can do to customize these Mc-Mansions, but you’ve done a decent job.” She nodded appraisingly. “Given the shoddy construction and the clusterfuck architecture, this place doesn’t look half bad. I mean, it’s nothing like our old house on the Hill, but they just don’t build ’em like that anymore.”

Ah, yes. The house on Spruce Hill, Alden’s ritziest neighborhood for local bigwigs and wealthy summer people. The house that Mark had deeded to Brenda during the divorce.

Marissa’s eyes got huge as she glanced toward Mark, but Taylor just sauntered down the hall, taking off her coat and
scarf as she went. Since I’d seen snapshots of her as a child, I knew she’d been born a brunette like Marissa, but now she had bleached her hair platinum, and that, in addition to her willowy height, preppy sense of style, and deep-rooted self-confidence…well, quite frankly, she scared the bejesus out of me.

Mark ignored the McMansion dig and forced a good-natured chuckle. “All right, girls, roll up your sleeves! We’re all going to help Stella with dinner. Won’t that be fun?”

Marissa waited a few beats before murmuring, “I guess” and handing me her coat.

“You invited us over to do scullery work?” Taylor sniffed. “Daddy. You know I’m not the culinary type.”

“Well, neither is Stella.” he said. “It’s her first time making Thanksgiving dinner, and we’re all going to help. We’re starting a new tradition around here—egalitarian holidays. Why should the hostess have to do all the work?”

“I don’t know,” Taylor snickered. I could hear her opening cabinets in the kitchen. “Maybe because she’s the
hostess
?”

Mark squeezed my hand. “Taylor Lillian Porter…”

“What’s in here?” Taylor asked. One second later, she started to shriek. “Agh! Ow! Oh my God, Daddy, get it off me!
Get it off me!
”

We sprinted into the kitchen to find Taylor pinned to the travertine tile floor beneath Cash’s massive front paws. He panted up at me and wagged his tail proudly.

“Good boy,” I mouthed while Mark and Marissa rushed over to pull the dog off my stepdaughter.

“Ick!” Taylor wiped at her face. “I’ve been slimed! Since when do you have a vicious attack dog?”

“Sorry, I should’ve warned you.” Mark lapsed into full divorced-father guilt mode. He didn’t ask her why she’d felt entitled to peer into every last nook and cranny of a house that didn’t belong to her. He just handed her a clean white dish towel and kept groveling. “That’s Stella’s new dog.”

“
Our
new dog,” I corrected. “Cash. He loves meeting new people.”

Marissa looked like she might start giggling, then decided against it.

“Well, your dog owes me a new sweater.” Taylor scowled down at her argyle knit. “And a facial.” She wiped off the drool, along with most of her lipstick, blush, and eyeliner.

“So sorry,” I said. “He just doesn’t know his own strength. Now who wants to help me peel potatoes?”

“I do!” Mark volunteered.

“Okay, and who wants to chop celery for the stuffing?”

Dead silence.

I tried again. “What about making the gravy?”

“Can’t.” Taylor matched my simpering smile. “I’m a vegetarian. I don’t touch meat products.”

“Since when are you a vegetarian?” Mark demanded.

“For years, Daddy! Duh. Don’t you know anything about your own daughter?”

Marissa glanced at Taylor as if to ask permission before venturing, “I’ll help with the gravy.”

“Thank you,” I said gratefully. “Okay, Taylor, that leaves you with the squash and the dinner rolls.”

She pointedly examined her French manicure and said nothing.

I tried to remember that I was married now, a grown woman of twenty-four who should not have to resort to middle-school mind games to deal with Taylor. Even though we were almost the same age, I was her stepmother. It was wrong to feed her rivalry for Mark’s affections. I needed to take a step back and try to feel some compassion. I should try to feel…maternal.

“Okay.” I stepped in just as Mark started to lecture Taylor about the importance of family teamwork. “It’s okay. She wasn’t expecting kitchen duty. It’s fine, Mark, really.”

Mark looked relieved. Taylor looked homicidal.

“She can set the table. Come on, I’ll show you where we keep the china.” I led Taylor into the dining room.

She crossed her arms over her chest and sulked.

I inhaled. I exhaled. “Taylor. Babe. Work with me. I’m trying to be nice.”

She slitted her eyes and lowered her voice. “Don’t bother. You fooled my father, you may have even fooled my sister, but you’re not going to fool me. I know what you are.”

“Hmm.” I nodded, trying to stay calm and analytical. “I’m sorry to hear you’re upset.”

She looked ready to claw our mahogany dining room table with her sharpened nails. “I bet you are.”

“But eventually, things will get better between us. Someday, maybe we can be friends.”

“Death first.”
She slammed open the china hutch, snatched up a delicate, platinum-rimmed plate, and brought it down hard on the table. Shards of china flew everywhere, including into the palm of her hand.

The conversation in the kitchen halted. Cash started barking furiously.

“Whoa! Everything okay in there?” Mark called.

Taylor glared at me for a moment, then started crying. “I dropped a plate, Daddy—it was an accident, I swear. But my hand’s bleeding and I feel dizzy and oh, can’t someone please put that dog outside? He’s giving me a headache.”

Mark shot into the dining room. “You feel dizzy? Your head hurts?”

“Uh-huh.” Taylor stuck out her bottom lip and clutched her injured hand to her chest.

Marissa raised her eyebrows as she looked from me to Taylor, but she didn’t say anything.

“Maybe you hit your head on the tile when the dog knocked you over,” Mark suggested. “Maybe you’re getting a concussion.”

“He has a name,” I interjected. “Cash.”

Mark turned to me, irritated. “Well, do us all a favor and put
Cash
out in the backyard, okay?”

“It’s frigid out there.” I pointed to the flurry of snow falling outside the window.

“He’s got a fur coat, he can take it.” Mark put an arm around Taylor’s shoulder and steered her into the guest powder room. “Sit down right here, honey, okay? Now follow my finger…look up, look down…do you feel like you’re going to throw up? Do you hear ringing in your ears?”

Ten minutes later, Taylor had secured her place as queen bee, curled up on the half-eaten white sofa with a chenille afghan, a cup of chamomile tea, and the TV remote. “Daddy,” she called.

Mark once again abandoned his potato-peeling duties and trotted off to wait on her. Two minutes later, he popped his head around the doorjamb. “Listen, Stell, can you take over for me for a few minutes?
It’s a Wonderful Life
is on and Taylor wants me to watch with her.”

I looked up from the diced celery in disbelief. “You’re not serious?”

“I used to watch it with the girls every year when they were little, and ever since the divorce…” He shrugged. “It means a lot to her. I’ll only be a few minutes. Just until the commercial break.”

“Daaaddy!” came the high-pitched wail from the next room.

“Fine.” I gripped the chef’s knife and resumed chopping. “Go ahead. Whatever.”

Two minutes later, Taylor called, “Hey, ’Rissa! Come here a sec!”