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“Okay, be here at six. And come hungry. I’m making my specialty.”
As she trotted down the steps to the parking lot, Gia realized she was smiling ear-to-ear. She had plans on Thanksgiving for the first time in—seven years? Eight? No grocery story leftovers or parade reruns. It turned out doing the right thing for Sylvia came full circle for her in the form of a dinner invitation. And probably a good story or two.
???
Mrs. Edelman’s home was a carbon copy of Gia’s, only decorated much nicer. Gia assumed she had a view of San Jacinto Peak based on its location, though the dark of night prevented her from confirming the suspicion. The apartment smelled of lavender and an array of candles lit the center of a solid wood mid-century dining table. In fact, all of Jennifer’s furniture seemed to be authentic mid-century.
“How long have you lived here?” Gia asked before taking a bite out of a celery stalk stuffed with what appeared to be pimento cheese.
Jennifer looked up from the pot she was stirring and paused. “In this apartment? Not long—eight or nine years. I used to have a house near downtown, but it was too much upkeep. And I lost a load of money in the stock market—bad financial advice. So, I downsized to pay my debts and live a smaller, simpler life. We’re happy here.”
Gia admired how her neighbor brushed off her struggles. Losing the love of her life to societal expectations. The death of her husband after only a few years married. And now, the loss of a bunch of money and her house. Mrs. Edelman leaked traumas little by little, like a faucet that wasn’t closed tight enough. Even so, she didn’t wallow. She projected a positive outlook. And it was remarkable that “eight or nine years” constituted “not long.” Gia assumed “we” included the gypsy cat, Galileo.
“I’m sorry—that’s a bummer.” Gia crunched more celery. Itwaspimento cheese, and it tasted like childhood, mayonnaisey and cheesy all at once. Her inner eight-year-old wondered why it was always delivered on celery, of all things. The same for peanut butter. Why did people slather delicious toppings on a stringy vegetable? “You sure have a positive perspective. I wish I was that way.”
“Dear, youcanbe. It’s completely within your power—and yours alone. My mother used to tell me you have to choose to be happy. It’s that simple.”
“I guess.”
Galileo appeared from the bedroom and brushed his side body along Gia’s leg, tail sky high and purr box on full volume. He left calico hairs along the calves of her work khakis, which she’d decided made the nicest dinner outfit, minus Sylvia’s vest. She’d upgraded to her button-up shirt and black Chuck Taylors for the occasion. “You’re welcome, buddy,” she whispered as Galileo traced circles around her legs. She’d bail him out of a tree anytime he needed it, mostly because he purred sweetly as he rubbed on her calf. The wicked scratches on her shoulder were bygones—barely even scars at that point. He was putting favors in the bank.
“He doesn’t do that with just anyone,” Jennifer said. “Dear, will you help me bring this pot to the table?”
“Is there anything else I can do?” Gia walked slowly with a heavy, double-handled Le Creuset and placed it on a waiting trivet. “I’m not used to this whole holiday dinner thing. I’m the worst guest!”
“Don’t be silly. I’ve had plenty worse, including some I was shacking up with. You worked all day and let someone else have time with their family. You did something. Let’s sit.”
As if he were a dog who sat on command, Galileo jumped into a booster seat on a dining room chair and waited. He couldn’t possibly eat at the table—could he?
“Thank you. This smells amazing.” Gia breathed in the salty, fishiness of the pot’s contents, and laid a cloth napkin across her lap. When was the last time she’d used a cloth napkin? It had to be dinner with Derrick. And before then? She couldn’t remember.
“It’s my traditional Thanksgiving cioppino. Everyone makes a turkey, and I say why? They’re dry and take too much work. Dear, can you ladle one scoop into Galileo’s bowl?”
Gia hoped her face wasn’t betraying her as she delivered one ladle-full of soup into a white China bowl in front of Galileo. It was a little bizarre, but then again, older women who lived alone with cats weren’t known for conventional behavior. The calico cat lapped at the broth, and then extracted a mussel from its shell with the precision of a surgeon. It wasn’t his first rodeo.
“He just loves the holidays,” Jennifer said. “Since I don’t have human children, he’s my baby. Now tell me, why is a young woman with so much going on having dinner with an old lady and her cat tonight? Do you have any family who’s missing you?”
Gia ladled soup into her host’s bowl, and her own—then grabbed a piece of buttered French bread from a cloth-covered breadbasket and dipped it into the broth. A delay tactic. “It’s complicated. My dad has a new family that I’m not part of—he left when I was eleven. My mom’s in Arizona, but she’s a train wreck. It’s better to not see her. We kind of enable bad behavior for each other. No siblings. And you know about my lack of a love life. So—here I am. Thank you so much for having me. This is my first sober holiday season. I’m grateful to not be alone.”
“You’re always welcome here, dear. And I’m proud of you for staying true to what you need.” Jennifer raised a glass of sparkling apple cider—Gia’s contribution to the dinner. “To new friends.”
“To new friends,” Gia parroted and ignored the fact that she was sitting next to a cat in a highchair, eating soup. Stranger things had happened in holidays past.
“I’m dying to know what’s happening with the girl since we talked last.” Jennifer’s lips were painted bright red to match her fingernails, and when she smiled, she kept them closed. She looked mysterious, like those old movie stars Gia thought she resembled. She’d worn a subdued caftan—black, with a few autumn leaves splashed here and there for color.
“Roxi?” As if there were any other girl.
Jennifer nodded and nibbled a chunk of bread.
“Nothing. I change my mind every day, but when I get in bed, I say a little prayer. Just to remind myself I’m doing the right thing. A friend told me I have to love myself first, before I can love someone else. So, I’m doing that. Meh—I’m trying to do that.”
“That’s very admirable, dear. Not many people can deliver on it.”
“Loving themselves?”
“Yes. And resisting temptation.”
“It’s fucking hard.” Gia slurped a spoonful of cioppino, letting the warm saltiness comfort her. “Do you think I’m doing the right thing?”
