“We’re pushing bedtime waiting for Poppy, and well, things are spiraling,” she says.
“I’m sorry, we had to finish something,” Kent says. His hand moves to the small of my back, and instead of moving away, I lean into it, grateful for the support.
“Dad, please. She’s been begging for you all night.” Gillian pats her daughter’s head. Their identical hair and features make them look like a matching set—one maxi, one mini. “Go. Fifteen minutes, and then it’s bedtime.”
“Lia,” Kent whispers, “my shaina maidel.”
He puts Lia down, extends his hand, and she clasps on, dragging him into the other room.
“My dad and his pretty girl. Vincent, may I take your coat? Come. Eat. There’s food. So much food.”
I follow Gillian into a kitchen with tall ceilings and beautiful white cabinets. A large island, covered in plates, silverware, and a fresh, crisp stack of napkins, serves as the centerpiece. The smell of meat, rich and smoky, intensifies, and a white man, slightly shorter than Gillian, stands over the stove, turning and poking at what I’m guessing is the life-changing brisket.
“Louis, this is Dad’s friend, Vincent.”
“Vincent,” Louis says, slipping his fingers out of the oven mitt and offering me his hand.
“You look like a Vinnie,” he says, and I spy the sink a few feet away. I’ll be able to wash before eating, but a trip to the bathroom for a proper scrub down may be in order.
I take Louis’s hand, and his tough skin is damp against mine. It’s probably from the heat of the oven mitt, and I swallow hard and plaster a smile on my face.
“No, just Vincent.” I’ve never had nor wanted a cute nickname. “Sorry to intrude.” I quickly wipe my hand on the seat of my pants.
“Please. This beauty,” Louis says, back to poking the meat, “would feed a small army. We’re happy to have you. Any friend of Kent’s is welcome.”
“Can I get you a drink?” Gillian asks, and—spying the glasses and open bottle of wine on the counter—I decide a beverage might help take the edge off.
“Sure, I’d love some.” I nod toward the wine.
“After my day, I might need my own bottle.” Gillian grabs more wine from a small rack under the cabinets.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, taking a glass.
“It’s fine. I work in the front office of a chiropractor with two other women. Both older. Both there longer. And both a pain in my ass.”
“Sounds … interesting,” I say.
“I keep waiting for a call to come bail her out of jail.” Louis takes the lid off the brisket and steam fills the kitchen.
“It could happen.” Gillian pours herself a glass, filling it to the brim.
“Help yourself,” she says.
As I pour myself a half glass, a smile spreads across my face. I concentrate, using my breath to help me decipher the midway point in the unfamiliar stemware. New people. New place. There’s no need to get tipsy.
“Why don’t you go sit and relax?” Gillian nods toward the sounds coming from the next room.
“We need five minutes. Lia ate and had her bath, and it’s almost bedtime,” Louis says, using tongs and a massive fork to transfer the brisket to a cutting board.
Following the noise, I find Kent in what appears to be the den, sitting on an oversized leather couch, Lia in front of him. A bright blonde wig covers her head, falling over her eyes, and she periodically brushes it aside. Her arms reach and her face scrunches. I’ve stumbled onto her performance. Kent pats the seat next to him, and I sit quietly, trying my best not to interrupt the show.
“This bed is too soft!” Lia shouts while a trio of stuffed bears sit on the floor.
“This bed is too hard!”
“This bed is just right.” She lies on the carpet and pretends to sleep. After a minute, I turn to Kent, who simply shrugs.
“Poppy, you’re the bears,” she whisper-yells, eyes still closed. “You come in, find me, and ask, ‘Who’s this sleeping in my bed?’ Okay?”
