“Maybe you could just shut up and listen to the story?” Maisie suggests.
“Why wouldn’t you have told me that?”
“Maybe,” Nell says, choosing her words judiciously, “you were a maniac who was in love with a movie star and Mom didn’t feel like throwing gasoline on it.”
“I wasn’t inlovewith Duke,” Emily says. “I thought he was my father.”
“Right. Your father. Forgive me.” Maisie pulls the towel over her face. “Please proceed.”
“None of you think she should have told us this before?”
Emily says, looking at the three of us in disbelief.
“I’m starting to think I shouldn’t have told you this now.” I wonder if the red in Emily’s cheeks is sunburn or rage.
“I just can’t believe—”
“Please,” Nell shouts. “Please! Mom is about to go into our house for the very first time and it’s the happiest day of her life. Can this not be a story about you for two minutes?”
“The happiest day of the summer of 1988,” I remind her. “Not the happiest day of my life. Not by a long shot.”
“All I’m saying is that I think it would have helped me to know,” Emily says.
Beneath the towel Maisie shakes her head. “It would so not have helped you.”
The long oak table in the kitchen was set for four but Nelson’s aunt Maisie was already pulling more placemats out of the drawer. She was a tall woman with short, curly hair, an oversized laugh and oversized feet she housed in blue Keds. “It’s the first time we’ve ever had a movie star come to lunch,” she said. “You’ll just have to forgive me if I say anything stupid.”
For all the world it appeared she was looking at me. “Me?”
“A huge star,” Nelson said. “Once your movie comes out.”
“Joe can’t stop talking about how good you are,” his aunt Maisie said. “Joe says you’re the best actress he’s ever worked with, and you know he’s worked with a lot of good ones. We’re going to drive down on Thursday to see you. Opening night! And Uncle Wallace, I can’t believe we’re going to see Uncle Wallace.”
“Uncle Wallace is really something,” Duke said.
I held out my package to her and she looked so surprised. “You didn’t need to bring me anything,” Maisie said.
She put it down on the table and folded back the tissue.
Such a genuine pleasure lit her face. I could imagine that it had been awhile since someone had brought her something so impractical and pretty. She ran her fingers over the cutwork. “Oh, Lara, will you look at these,” Maisie said quietly.
Maisie, look, the white canisters are still on the sink, the whole row of them including coffee and rice. I broke the sugar the year we moved into the house. My hands were wet when I picked it up and it slipped right through and smashed on the floor. I stood there crying and crying, until Joe told me it was just a canister and it didn’t matter. But they were yours. Everything was yours. I’d forgotten how small the kitchen was before we pushed out the back wall. You would have loved it the way it is now. I can stand at the sink and keep an eye out for Joe and make dinner and talk to the girls. There’s so much space. The first day I came to the house the kitchen was so small and we were all crowded in together. Look how beautiful we all were, Maisie. Can you believe it? Look how young.
“Maisie, this is Peter Duke,” Joe said. “He’s Editor Webb in the play. And Pallace Clarke, she understudies Lara’s part. Pallace is inCabarettoo, so she’s the busy one. And this is Sebastian Duke. He’s Peter’s brother.”
“What part do you play?” she asked Sebastian, holding his hand.
“I play the brother,” Sebastian said.
“You wouldn’t believe how good he is at it,” Duke said.
Maisie laughed. “You’re going to tell me everything,” she said to Sebastian. “We’ll sit down and you can tell me what it’s like to be the brother of a famous man.”
And Duke, who knew he was destined to be a famous man, smiled.
Joe was dispatched to the orchard to find his uncle but as soonas he turned to leave his uncle walked in the kitchen door. Maisie’s husband was Ken. Ken and Maisie Nelson. Their nephew, Joe. A bouquet of pink and yellow dahlias sat in a green drinking glass on the table. I didn’t know how there would be enough food for everyone but Maisie brought out plenty. Maybe we ate their dinner, too: fried chicken and biscuits and butter beans and corn cut from the cob and baked apples. We ate like children, greedy and unconcerned, and Maisie acted like nothing in the world had ever made her so happy.
“When I was growing up I used to lie in bed at night imagining what other people’s families must be like,” Duke said once the pie was served, cherry pie, which he told her was his favorite. “I would picture their houses, their furniture, what they ate and how they spoke to one another, and what I always pictured was this.” He turned to Joe. “Turns out I spent my entire childhood picturing your family.”
