I knew by the tone of Isabella’s voice when I mentioned I’d be making the customary dish that she was afraid I’d butcher it. But I had plans to practice until I got it right. Determined to win her over by making her family’s favorite foods. Something I later realized was naive of me to think. But back then I was blissfully naive. And still hopeful.
So, there we were in Crate and Barrel, my mother-in-law and I, standing in the aisle overflowing with holiday-themed tablecloths, napkins, and placemats. I wanted to please Isabella by being agreeable and letting her buy the tasseled one in her hand. But I also wished we had the kind of relationship where I could tell her that it just wasn’t me. That if it were my choice, I’d just put a few candles in the middle of my table and call it a day. Then I realized by her smug expression that she already knew I wasn’t going speak up, that I’d take the easy way out. So I surprised her—and myself—when I did something uncustomary for us. I pushed back.
“I’m thinking maybe no tablecloth.”
She glanced at me like she’d smelled something rotten and pinched the red fabric between her fingers, ignoring my statement. “This will be a lovely pop of color in your kitchen, against those beige walls.” She said beige like just looking at the color was an insult to her sensibilities.
“What if we compromised and got a runner?” I offered, feeling my confidence rise as I pointed one out that was white with a simple gold trim.
She gave me a look then. One I never forgot. One I later realized had nothing to do with the tablecloth or the runner or any of it. Then she’d let out a stilted sound—like a cross between a scoff and a laugh. “So you’re suggesting a runner? And that’s it?”
“Well—” I started to explain myself, but she cut me off, and I felt my confidence disappear into the air around us.
“And don’t tell me that the next thing out of your mouth is that you have no plans to decorate the house. Because I know that’s your style when you’re not hosting Christmas brunch for the Moraleses.”
She rolled the r extra hard as she pronounced the Morales name. Her accent always grew stronger when she was angry. It was her tell. I waited for her to speak again.
“If the preparation that goes into the brunch is too much, I understand if you want to cancel. I can easily take it over. And no one will say a word.”
Bullshit. We both knew she’d speed-dial her sister the minute I left her sight. There would be words. A lot of them. Mostly in Spanish. And I highly doubted they’d be kind.
“I do want to host,” I said, but it came out sounding like I was begging for my job back.
Isabella was right that I usually subscribed to a less-is-more school of thought when it came to decorating for the holidays. She’d once come over the day after Thanksgiving, mortified to discover our tree wasn’t up yet. Isabella treated holiday decor like it was an Olympic sport. She turned her home into a display every holiday, from Halloween to Thanksgiving to Easter, and even for the Fourth of July. Depending on the festivity, her house would be adorned with ghosts or scarecrows, bunnies or American flags. There would be matching dish towels next to the sink, festive serving dishes on the table, and handmade decorations she copied from Pinterest.
Meanwhile, I’d ask James to drag out our fake tree the weekend before Christmas and would carefully sift through the broken ornaments (How did they break? They were sitting in a box all year!), trying to come up with enough to adequately fill the gaps in our artificial pine. But no matter how much I tried, there was always more emptiness than I was comfortable with.
This year I had planned to do a little bit more—probably not Isabella Morales more, but more. But I also didn’t want to crowd the small space with unnecessary things like frosted pinecones and fake snow.
“I think I should just host. Save you the trouble,” she said, ignoring my plea.
“Isabella—” I said her name, then realized I had no idea what to say after it.
“Yes?”
“I appreciate your help. I do,” I said, pushing aside her judgments, already mentally ordering the most ornate Santa Claus I could find on Amazon, desperate to bridge the gap that always seemed to exist between us. Last year Beth had surprised me with a Mind the Gap T-shirt from her trip to the UK, and it always reminded me of Isabella. I wondered if I spent too much time trying not to slip through the cracks in our relationship. “There’s no doubt you know more than me when it comes decorating.” I paused, and she gave me a satisfied smile. “So if you think we should go with that tablecloth, I’ll trust you. Because I know how important the holidays are to you,” I said, reaching over and squeezing her arm, falling easily back into my typical daughter-in-law role. Agree with Isabella. Repeat.
“Thank you,” she said, putting the tablecloth in the cart. “You probably think I’m overreacting about this . . .”
I shook my head. Deny. Deny. Deny.
“And maybe I am,” she continued. “Because what I’m really struggling with is the realization that I may never have a grandchild to enjoy it.”
My hand flew off her arm. “We don’t know that for sure, Isabella,” I said, my voice faltering slightly. I caught the eye of the woman behind us in the aisle, who quickly focused on a placemat covered in snowmen, trying to pretend she hadn’t heard our exchange.
“Oh, but you do know, don’t you?” she accused, her eyes steely.
I realized later, looking back, that she had been waiting for that moment. To let me know that she knew. Had she held her tongue at Pottery Barn? Bitten her lip at Williams-Sonoma? Was she being patient and calculated, making sure we had the perfect tablecloth picked out before she punched me in the gut?
But the real question was: How long had she known? And why had James told her?
CHAPTER TEN
DYLAN—BEFORE
Dylan rubbed her hands over her bare arms, feeling a chill as soon as she stepped out of the cab.
James noticed her hugging her arms to her chest. “Let’s get you inside and on the dance floor. That will warm you up. I can’t wait to see you move in that dress.” James looked her over, then offered his hand with so much authority that Dylan didn’t even question him as he tugged her arm to join the crowd of bodies moving to the music. She’d never been much of a dancer, but she felt her hips obliging with ease and swinging to the beat, as if on autopilot.
James put his arms around Dylan’s waist and pulled her into him so she was grinding on his thigh. He closed his eyes and moved his body in time with the song. Dylan couldn’t believe the drastic change in him since they’d arrived. He’d been quiet on the ride over, but then he’d inched forward in the backseat of their cab when it pulled into the parking lot. And the second he opened the door of the bar for her and heard the music, every muscle in his neck and face seemed to relax.