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I ruminate on that until she appears in the doorway to the living room, looking like a sunny angel. “I’m ready,” she announces. “Well, I guess technically, dinner’s ready. But I’m ready too.”
I leap off the couch, nearly tripping over my own limbs. “I’ll help you carry everything out.”
“I have a blanket, plates, and glasses, and the food is packed into casserole dishes. And I have wine. Red, if you want. I might have picked it up when I got the steaks.”
My brow arches as my chest zings with crackly, static, zingy, pinging, white-hot hope. “You were going to drink it by yourself and eat steaks alone?”
“Well, I was counting on you being too polite not to protest letting me cook.”
She leaves it at that and picks up the wicker laundry basket she has everything in. I immediately rush over to take it from her, and she hands it over without complaint. She grabs the wine off the counter and lets me make my way through the back door first.
Neither of us falls through the porch, so that’s a huge improvement. Score one for the carpenter. The grass is nice and soft back here, which is a point for the landscaper. I’m going to have to send them all thank you cards because even though I paid them premium rates to do the job on short notice, they did it well.
I set the basket down on a spot that’s unshaded because it’s now later in the day, and it isn’t roasting in this particular spot. It’s just nicely warm. I take the blanket off the top of the basket and spread it out. I follow that by taking out the casserole dishes, the plates wrapped up in burgundy-hued cloth napkins, the wine glasses carefully rolled into tea towels, and the cutlery.
Victoria kicks off her canvas sneakers and sits down on the edge of the blanket. The wine is a twist-off cap, and while I pass her the glasses, she unscrews it.
As soon as I take the lids off the casserole dishes, the heavenly aroma of fresh, buttery pasta and perfectly seasoned steak hits me. I’m not a big salad guy, but this one with the lettuce, tomatoes, yellow peppers, carrot pieces, and cucumbers with some tossed-in herby dressing looks delicious.
“I called my parents yesterday,” Victoria says, and damn it, I can tell she’s trying to be brave, but her hands tremble just slightly as she pours the wine. “I wanted them to come and see the house and come for dinner. I didn’t tell them about the renovations since I wanted it to be a surprise. You’d think they’d be worried about me being all alone out here in a dumpy house that could have fallen down around me or potentially getting eaten by raccoons, but nope. My mom said she has a nail appointment, and my dad has a golf tournament this weekend, so they can’t come out even though that’s on Saturday. I guess, on Sunday, they need to recover from their strenuous activities. My brother never answers his texts half the time, so I guess he’s busy doing his own thing. I don’t even think he’s read my message yet.
“I’m tempted to send them photos of the house, but I don’t want to ruin the surprise. I guess…is it wrong that I feel, um, I don’t know. Sad? Disappointed? Slightly abandoned? Like they’ve turfed me out, and they’re so thrilled to be empty nesters and live their own lives that they couldn’t be bothered to spend an hour driving both ways to have dinner with their daughter? Is it okay to be offended by that, or am I making a big deal out of nothing? I barely just moved out. They haven’t even had time to miss me.”
Is it wrong that I want to find her parents and introduce myself by egging their house, bending their golf clubs over my knees, and pouring nail polish on their driveway in big letters that spell F-U? Yeah, probably. That’s probably not a good way to meet anyone.
“Yeah.” I try and keep my voice neutral because it’s not good to get too heated. “I mean, yes, I think it’s okay to be offended. Maybe they haven’t had time to miss you, but that’s still disappointing. Maybe they don’t know about the changes to the house, but that’s all the more reason to be concerned.”
“I’m being hard on them. The only things you’ve heard me say are how they don’t want to visit because they’re busy, how they don’t believe in me being a writer, and how they bought my brother a brand new car but gave me this house. I have to say, the house turned into the best treasure ever, thanks to you and all your help. I guess they are busy and entitled to their own hobbies. I wouldn’t want them telling me that I couldn’t read or make my own choices. I’m sure they do worry, but they also know I can take care of myself. I’ve always been very shy but also very independent. I clam up in groups, but I work well alone. I’m stubborn, and I can be headstrong, hence the writing thing. If I’m determined to do something, they know I’ll do it. I guess maybe that’s why they’re not that worried.”
