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I look toward the living room where I hear peals of laughter from Anthony and sigh. Talk about bad timing. This is a conversation I’ve been waiting for so long to have.
“Okay, but we can talk more later?”
She pats my hand and starts toward the living room “Yes, honey, we can.”
* * *
* * *
“This is delicious, Red.”
Dean smiles up at me halfway through dinner. The chicken came out perfectly and everyone’s been busy eating and conversation has been light at the table.
“Thank you. It’s actually an old recipe of my mother’s.” I look at her and smile warmly. She's a wonderful cook, always has been, and even though she cooks a lot of dishes from her native Ghana, she also has a wide repertoire of dishes from all over the world.
“Well, then my compliments to you, Mrs. Dennis.” He smiles at her.
“When Milly was first born and I decided to stay home, learning to cook different dishes was one of my biggest projects. This was actually a favorite of their dad’s, too.”
He starts to cough, and I jump up to beat his back while my mother fills his water glass.
“Are you okay?” I ask him as his coughing subsides. Anthony is staring wide-eyed like he's watching a scene in a movie.
“Yes, sorry,” he says between coughs. “Something went down the wrong way.” He clears his throat and touches my arm which is now resting on his shoulder. “I’m okay. Really.” He looks imploringly at me, so I sit down.
“You were saying? This was a favorite of your husband’s?” Dean prompts my mother.
She looks at him wistfully, but then smiles and continues.
“Yes, he loved it. In fact, when he was in the mood for it, he would hint by bringing home a bottle of the marsala wine and leaving it sitting on the counter top where I could see it.” She laughs and then blushes. “Oh, excuse me. You probably don’t want to hear me reminisce about him.”
“No, I don’t mind. I was very close to my dad, and since he died, my mother and I have drifted apart. I don’t get to hear anyone tell stories about my own father . . .” He sighs a little and then looks at us. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be maudlin,” he apologizes.
“You’re not, and telling stories about your dad can be your thing.” She smiles at him, and I feel a warmth blossom in my chest. This is my mother. She's such a nurturer and she always knows what to say.
“I’d rather hear stories about Milly, actually. The college years. What I missed,” Dean says with a smile that is positively rakish. I note, though, that he's changing the subject. I let it go. I understand how sad and hard it is for him to talk about his father.
“Oh no, you wouldn’t. There is nothing to tell,” I exclaim. “Anyway, aren’t you the slightest bit curious about the party I'm planning for you?”
“Yes, I am. I just didn’t think you’d want to talk about work tonight. But, if you want to tell me, I'm all ears,” he says as he takes another sip of his wine.
I fill him in on the venue and the progress I’ve made in getting the event planned. I start to tell him about the guest list Cristal sent over to me for a head count when Anthony interrupts.
“This is boring. I want Mommy stories instead and Picture Man can tell us his stories, too!”
We all look at him as he clasps his hand over his mouth.
“Who’s Picture Man, Ant?” my mother asks him..
He looks at all of us wide-eyed, his eyes resting on me for a long moment. And then they fill with tears. I get up and walk over to him, crouch down, and put my arm around him.
“Anthony, who is Picture Man?” I ask him quietly.
He looks at me and shakes his head, but lifts one tremulous finger and points it at Dean.
Dean doesn’t look surprised, so I turn on him.
“Care to tell me what that means?” I ask him, knowing I sound as concerned as I look.
