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Mako let go of a booming laugh. “Don’t look so freaked-out, Hannah,” he said. “Chef’s just messing with us.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” said Chef Jeff. That same oddunsmile stayed plastered. It was practiced and icy. Not nice at all. “Doyou?”
Hannah felt like he was talking directly to her.
“Of course not,” she said, sounding prim and defensive even to her own ears. “Is that true, though, that a family was murdered here?”
Chef Jeff shrugged. “Maybe. It’s a rumor I’ve heard from some of the locals. For years, no one would buy this property because of that story.”
No one spoke, all eyes on the chef. “Anyway,” he said with a small bow. “Enjoy your feast.”
“Of course it’s not true,” said Bruce, putting an arm around her. He cast an annoyed frown toward the chef.
Hannah and Cricket exchanged an uneasy look across the table.
The meat platter which had at first seemed so appetizing, looked greasy and overdone. Hannah had her back to the bone sculpture, but she could feel those hollow eyes on her neck.
“To our hosts,” said Joshua, lifting his glass. He was clearly trying to clear the negativity of murder and ghosts, which Hannah put as a mark in his favor. “Thank you for this wonderful invitation and for welcoming me into your clan. I’m truly honored to be here.”
Hannah imagined how they must look from the outside. Happy, privileged, enjoying life. They were all that, weren’t they?
Mako gave him a kingly nod. “Okay,” he said. “Now—let’s eat!”
As Hannah started serving Bruce some potatoes, Liza rose quickly, her chair scraping back against the floor.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I have to lie down.”
She slipped away from the table and was gone.
Mako rose to go after her. “Excuse me. She hasn’t been feeling well.”
Murder, ghost stories, mounted skulls, her husband’s secrets. The ailing hostess. Her daughter far away for the first time. The things she had been pondering and puzzling about herself but had been buried deep and were a dark riptide, threatening to pull her under.
She pushed her swirl of thoughts away, and took a long sip of her wine. An awkward silence fell over the remaining guests.
Even Cricket had stopped smiling.
Everyone who remained at the table started to eat in silence.
13
Trina
It’s nice here. The house, the trees. The perfect getaway really, just like it said online. There are so many windows, it’s like a doll’s house. From where I stand, I can see inside clearly. The happy gathering of family and friends around the big table, a feast prepared.
They smile and laugh, served by the tall chef and his assistant. The served and the servers. I try to imagine myself sitting among them, maybe beside Hannah. I can’t. Story of my life.
I am the puzzle piece you think will fit—but doesn’t. People always try to guess my nationality. They might ask: Are you Italian? Or I might get:Habla español?
The truth is, until recently, it was a mystery, even to me.
My mother is French and Turkish, raised in Paris; I always knew that much. But her parents died young and she always thought of herself as an American, since she moved to New York City in her twenties to become an artist, met the love of her life, Scott, when they were both living in the East Village. My mom, Giselle, became a US citizen after she married, finally settling into life as a grade school art teacher before having me. She grapples now for her French, even her accent faded.
My father—well he was a biological wildcard, even to my mother.
Mydad, Scott, the man who raised me and who I have always thought of as my father, had a vasectomy at an early age. The child of abuse, he decided before he ever met my mother that he never wanted kids. When he changed his mind after they married, the reversal didn’t work. So my mother got pregnant via a sperm donor. Anonymous. Records sealed.
Like everything about the world, they gave it to me straight. I don’t remembernotknowing that about myself, or thinking it was strange. My mother always said things like:Love comes into our lives in all sorts of mysterious ways.Or:Any man can be a father, but it takes a special one to be a daddy.How I came to them was the unique texture of the fabric of our particular family.
