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I’ve always liked shopping fordinner parties. As I wheel my cart through the supermarket, I imagine the guests seated around my table, feasting on the meal I’ve so lovingly prepared. Not that this is a particularly large dinner party, just Jane’s family and nice Barry Frost with his annoying wife Alice, plus Maura and—I hope—Maura’s friend Father Brophy. Once it would have bothered me, seeing the two of them together, because I was raised a good Catholic girl. But perspectives change. At my age, none of the old rules seem set in stone anymore, certainly not when it comes to love. Just in case he does come, I’ll plan on dinner for seven. Seven and a half, counting little Regina. That’s not much bigger than the dinners for five I used to cook every night when my kids were young, when cooking was a duty, more about just getting something edible on the table.
This meal will be more than edible. I want it to feel like a feast.
At the meat counter, I pick up the beautiful leg of lamb, which my butcher lovingly wraps in paper. I’m going to stud it withgarlic cloves and roast it a juicy medium rare. What a shame Alice Frost is on some sort of diet and probably won’t even touch it. Her loss. I cruise through the produce section, plucking up tender lettuces and yellow onions, potatoes and green beans. And asparagus. That’s for me. It’s the season for fresh asparagus and it makes me happy to see it because it means summer’s on the way.
I push my cart up and down the aisles, searching for olive oil and pasta, coffee beans and wine. Six bottles, at least. Again, some of it just for me. With my cart almost full, I head to the frozen desserts section. It never hurts to have an extra carton or two of ice cream on hand. I round the corner into the freezer aisle and come to a halt when I see who is standing there, staring at the offerings.
Tricia Talley. So she’s not kidnapped and murdered after all, but alive and apparently shopping for ice cream.
“Tricia!”
She looks at me with a blank teenage stare. Either she’s too zoned out to recognize me or she just doesn’t care.
“It’s me. Angela Rizzoli.”
“Oh, yeah. Hi.”
“I haven’t seen you around in a while.”
On this warm day she’s wearing blue-jean cut-offs and an oversize T-shirt that’s sagged off one shoulder, leaving it bare. That skinny shoulder shrugs at me, a halfhearted greeting as I wheel my cart closer.
“What’s going on, Tricia? I talked to your mom and she’s been worried sick about you.”
Her face stiffens. She looks at the freezer, glaring at the shelves.
“At least give her a call, why don’t you?” I suggest. “Tell her you’re okay. Don’t you think she deserves at least that much?”
“You don’t know a thing about her.”
“She’s your mom. That’s enough reason to call her.”
“Not after what she did.”
“What? What’d Jackie do?”
Tricia turns away from the freezer. “Guess I don’t want anything after all,” she mutters and walks away.
I stare after her, baffled by what just happened. I’ve known this girl all her life. I remember bringing over a pink onesie and a bag of Pampers when she was born. When she was a Girl Scout, I bought Thin Mints from her every year, and I donated to her class trip to D.C. But this isn’t the same sweet girl. This Tricia is angry and resentful, every mother’s nightmare teenager.
Poor Jackie.
—
That afternoon, after I putaway the groceries, I walk down the street to Jackie’s house. She’ll be relieved to hear I’ve seen her daughter alive and kicking. When she answers the door, I can see the strain in her face, the saggy eye bags, the unkempt hair. She’s been crying and that only makes me angrier at Tricia. Thank god my Janie never put me through anything like this.
“Oh honey,” I say as I walk into the house. “You look like you need some good news.”
“I’m really not in the mood for a visit right now.”
“But this’ll make you feel better. I guarantee.”
We head straight to the kitchen. For women, it’s an automatic destination, the first place you go for tea and comfort. I’m not sure Jackie even uses her living room these days, because everything there seems frozen in place, never moved, as if someone has coated it all in wax to keep it presentable just in case an important guest turns up. I’m not that guest. I’m just a friend—orso I thought, but she doesn’t look happy to see me and clearly wants me to go away. Something has changed.
Yes, I think as I step into the kitchen. Something has definitely changed. The place is even more of a mess than the last time I visited. There are dirty dishes piled up in the sink, and judging by the food crusted on the plates, they’ve been there for at least a day. A few shards of glass sparkle on the floor by the refrigerator. Who leaves broken glass on the floor? Jackie doesn’t offer me tea or coffee—again, that’s unlike her. We sit down at the table but she doesn’t look at me, as if she’s afraid to. Or embarrassed by her haggard appearance.
“Tell me what’s going on,” I say.
She shrugs. “Marriage. It’s complicated.”
