Page 22 of Sweet Ruin

“But it’s not long, is it? Your father did let it become such a bore some years, especially toward the end. You know, sometimes I wonder if the cancer was in his brain before it got to his liver and we just never knew.”

Oh, this witch. How have I tolerated her for this many years?

“Nope,” I promise her. “I’d say it’s short, sweet, and to the point.”

“Good. Good, that’s good.” She picks up a napkin, then puts it right back down and grabs my wrist suddenly. “But remember what I said, dear, okay?”

I blink. “That it’s your house?”

She raps me on the back of the hand hard enough to sting. “Don’t be fresh. I’m talking about Vivvy.”

“Oh. Right. Be nice to her.”

“That’s right. She’s having a hard week, and she deserves our grace.”

I’ve got a hotel receipt burning a hole in my pocket that says my week’s been harder. But hey, Vivian needs all the love and support she can get, right?

That’s why she had to borrow some love and support from my husband.

“Alright.” She picks the napkin back up. “Alright, then, it’s settled. We’ll do the silly show. Nobody has to look at it if they don’t want to.”

Having conceded one thing, my mother spends the next hour making sure I earn it.

I count and recount the guest list, then pull up thirty-odd folding chairs from the basement, repeatedly stubbing my toes on the uneven steps.

I lay out plates and trays for everything that all our family members have agreed to bring. Mom makes sure that I save the big sterling silver platter for “the desserts that Vivian is bringing. I’m sure they’ll be delightful; she has such an eye for these things.”

“She really does,” I grit out, sweating profusely.

She has me iron the tablecloth on the dining table with a towel under it.

She has me find the extra bulb for the hall lamp and put it in.

She has me hold one end of a garland while she decides it looks better on the banister, then better on the mantel, then better on the banister.

And for the entire two hours and ten minutes that all those tasks take, my mother does not ask me one question about me. Not about the bakery or the Christmas rush, my marriage or when I might be having kids.

She does not ask me how I’m doing on the first Christmas without my father, either.

She does stop twice to tell me about Vivian. Once to say that Vivian sent her a photo of herself in Tulum and she should be a model, she really should, it’s a shame she never went that route.

And once, at the ironing board, to say, “Your sister never should have left interior design. She’s the one who told me to put the tree in front of the window. Do you see how pretty it looks?”

What she neglects to mention is that I’m the one who actually put it there.

I dragged the massive thing over, heavy base and all, filled it with water and Sprite to keep the limbs fresh, and vacuumed up the needles.

“She really does,” I say. “I’m lucky to be her sister.”

At quarter past twelve, I load the empty tube and the tote back in the trunk, keep the laptop bag over my shoulder, and go back inside for the run-of-show.

Finally, after numerous tweaks and changes, Mom is mostly satisfied.

She walks me to the door. “And come back at six tonight, won’t you?” she asks. “Someone has to let the caterer in, and I’ll be upstairs getting ready.”

Six. On top of the run back here at four with the food. I told Connor that plan at dinner last night and he said, “Three trips? Is that a good use of your time?”

That just makes me laugh now. Even my cheating husband thinks this family overbooks me.