Winter at the Beach Read online

  So let the rain come. Who cared? They’d be cozy and happy inside—as long as Jenna didn’t think about the fact that Sabrina wasn’t with her. It wasn’t the same not having her daughter present. Thanksgiving was family time.

  But Sabrina was with family. The other grandparents had a right to see her once in a while. Anyway, Jenna consoled herself, this would be good practice for the day when Sabrina moved out and turned her and Aunt Edie into empty nesters.

  The fun officially started at three in the afternoon. They were assembled around the little dining room table, which was festive with its cornucopia and Pilgrim candles and turkey-shaped salt and pepper shakers. Pete, clean shaven for once and wearing jeans and his best flannel shirt, was about to carve the turkey with Aunt Edie’s old electric carving knife when the lights began to flicker.

  “Uh-oh,” said Pete, regarding the dining room light warily.

  “Uh-oh,” echoed Jolly Roger from his cage. “Uh-oh, uh-oh.”

  “It’s just a flicker,” Aunt Edie said.

  “Well, it’s starting to blow out there,” Pete said.

  No blowing allowed. Jenna had rented movies.

  The lights flickered again. Then there was a loud boom that made Jolly Roger give a startled squawk in his cage, and both the electricity and the carving knife snapped off.

  “Call the cops!”

  Chapter Nine

  Taylor, Greg and Miranda were on their way to Thanksgiving dinner at her parents’ house in Issaquah. She should’ve been looking forward to the day. Once upon a time, when life was good and money was plentiful, she’d enjoyed celebrating with her family, but this year she was dreading it. Everyone would ask Greg how the business was doing. He’d lie and say it was going great and that would make her mad because she knew it was going nowhere. The investor who was supposed to come on board with a cash infusion had backed out only the day before. She’d hoped to be able to announce that she’d closed on her first house sale, but the deal had fallen through.

  So far, her real estate career had consisted of getting two listings and walking through a lot of houses with a lot of people who did a lot of talking about wanting to buy and then never did. Or else came out losers in a bidding war. Even though the Seattle market was hot, she had yet to find the hot spot. Shows like Property Brothers and House Hunters made the real estate business look so easy, but it wasn’t. It was unstable with no guaranteed paycheck.

  “We are going to have a good time today, right?” Greg asked warily.

  “We’re going to try,” she said, frowning out the window. These days, fun did not factor in when it came to doing things with her husband. Their sex life had evaporated, and conversation about anything other than Miranda had dwindled to “When are you going to be home?” and “Don’t forget to put out the garbage.”

  Taylor knew all the important dos and don’ts for a happy marriage. Communicate. Don’t withdraw sex as a punishment, don’t go to bed mad. Well, she was mad most of the time, so good luck with that. How was she supposed to feel romantic when she was constantly pissed off? And she’d communicated until she was blue in the face, but her husband stubbornly refused to quit trying to ride a dead horse. Or beat a dead horse. Or lead a horse to water when it didn’t want to drink. Whatever.

  “We still have stuff to be thankful for,” he said.

  “I know,” she admitted grudgingly. They had their adorable six-year-old, and she alone was worth a ton of gratitude.

  “I’m thankful,” Miranda said from the back seat. “I get to see Gramma today. And Christopher and James.”

  Ah, yes, the rambunctious cousins. People who said there was really no difference between boys and girls had never met her nephews, the mini-whirlwinds. Over the course of the last three years they’d managed to break her glass table wrestling and two expensive figurines, thanks to the basketball that got away when their mother wasn’t paying attention, and to take out half her azalea bush playing touch football in the front yard with their father and Greg and his two brothers. And they were just ten and eight. She hated to think how much damage they’d be capable of by the time they were teenagers.

  Even though the boys could get out of control in a heartbeat, they were nice kids, and they were good with Miranda, including her in their games and giving her piggyback rides. Miranda would have fun today.

  She’d be the only one.

  Taylor’s father was on door patrol and let them in with a hearty greeting and hugs.

  “I have a new dress,” Miranda informed him, parting her coat so he could see it.

  Velvet featuring a flared skirt with several layers of glittery Tulle. Taylor had gotten her one in red and one in green. On sale. Fifty percent off. Which she’d be quick to tell her sister if Sarah said anything about Taylor’s spending habits.

  “Well, you look very pretty,” said Dad, giving her another hug and a kiss. “As does my daughter,” he said to Taylor. “But then you always look pretty,” he added, and she smiled at him.

  “Yes, she does,” Greg agreed, and she didn’t smile at him. After the fight they’d had the night before, she was debating whether or not to ever smile at him again.

  Her father took their coats and bore them off to the master bedroom to add to the heap on the bed, and she proceeded on toward the kitchen to drop off her fruit salad. To get to the kitchen, though, she had to traverse the living room, where a set of grandparents, one single aunt, two cousins and her sister’s family were camped out, watching the football game. Out in the dining room she could see one small cousin raiding the mints on the buffet, while Christopher and James chased each other around the table.

  “About time you got here,” Sarah greeted her. In addition to losing her credit card debt, Sarah had lost twenty-five pounds, and she was looking good in skinny jeans and a formfitting white blouse.

  Taylor didn’t envy her older sister her newly found looks. She, herself, was slender—always had been—and she knew she was cute. She’d figured that out back in grade school when boys started teasing her and showing off for her on the playground. In middle school, she’d perfected the art of makeup, and managed to make lovely hazel eyes even lovelier. Blond hair hadn’t hurt, either.

  “Dinner’s not till four,” Taylor said. Sheesh.

  She’d been so busy transferring the frown she’d had for her husband to her sister that she didn’t see Christopher and James barreling toward her. Christopher, in the lead, hadn’t seen her either, since he was looking over his shoulder at his younger brother, who was in hot pursuit.

  He and Taylor collided with an oomph and a squeal, and the bowl of fruit salad she was carrying tipped inward, dumping fruit and whipped cream onto the front of her gray cashmere sweater.

  “Urgh,” she croaked.

  “Sorry, Aunt Taylor,” he muttered, backing away as she pulled the bowl and what remained of her salad away from her chest.

  “I hope there’s some salad left,” joked Chris.

  Ha ha.

  “Christopher, I told you to settle down,” Sarah said. “Now, go sit on the couch with your father and watch the ball game. Sorry,” she said to Taylor. “They’ve had too much of Mom’s punch. They’re on a sugar high.” She took Taylor’s arm and began towing her toward the kitchen. “Come on. We can get the stain out with some dish soap.”

  Their mother and grandmother were seated at the kitchen table, enjoying a chat over cups of coffee before the dinner prep hit high gear. Grandma said a cheerful, “Hi, sweetie,” to Taylor.

  She set down the salad and bent to kiss her grandmother and caught a whiff of her vanilla-scented perfume. The older woman put a soft hand to her cheek. “You look lovely as always.” Grandma Nelson knew how to make people feel good. Even when they didn’t.

  “What happened to your sweater?” Mom asked, seeing the mess on Taylor’s chest.

  “Christopher ran in
to her,” Sarah explained. “I told Dad not to give the boys so much punch. They’re buzzing.”

  “Oh, they’ll be fine,” Mom said. “But we’d better do something about that sweater.”

  “It’s ruined,” Taylor said miserably. The sweater was the last thing she’d bought before she discovered their financial boat was sinking. Even on sale it hadn’t been cheap.

  “No, it’s not,” Sarah insisted. “Take it off.”

  Taylor scowled at her. “And what am I supposed to wear?”

  “I’ll find you a top,” Mom said and disappeared.

  She’d get to wear something from her mom’s floral blouse collection. Three sizes bigger than she normally wore. But it beat running around in her bra.

  Or not. Mom returned a few minutes later, bearing a scoop-necked blouse spattered with large purple flowers. “Not quite your style, but the colors are pretty.”

  Oh, well, it was only family. Nobody cared how she looked. Taylor thanked her mother, took it and slipped it on. She felt like she’d just aged twenty years.

  Gram approved. “Very pretty,” she said.

  “Thanks,” Taylor murmured, and moved to the sink to see what damage her sister was doing to her sweater.

  “See? It’s all come out,” Sarah said proudly, squeezing the sweater in a death grip. “We’ll just lay it out on the counter on a towel, and it’ll be fine.”

  “I doubt it.” Taylor peered over Sarah’s shoulder, bracing herself for a ruined mess. But Sarah had gotten the whipped cream cleaned off. Maybe there was hope for the poor abused sweater.

  “Clean,” Sarah said. “And no pilling.” She put an arm around Taylor. “You’re not going to sacrifice my firstborn to the fashion gods, are you?”

  “It’s a thought,” Taylor said, trying to keep her sense of humor.

  “If it turns out it’s not as good as new, I’ll buy you another one. Promise,” Sarah said.

  “You’d better.” Okay, that sounded bratty, so she added a joking, “The fashion gods get hungry.” Then, determined to forget her sopping sweater and start again, she asked her mom what she could do to help.

  “Come sit down and take a deep breath,” said Mom, pouring her a mug of coffee.

  She spent the next forty minutes hiding in the kitchen, first drinking coffee with her mom, grandma and sister, then helping with all the last-minute bustle of getting a large holiday dinner on the table—mashing potatoes, bringing out the salads, carefully avoiding the mint-stealing cousin, who was now dancing around the table in pursuit of Miranda. How much punch had Dad given her?

  Taylor was returning to the kitchen for the candied yams when she heard her grandmother gasp and Sarah say, “Oh, no!”

  She hurried into the kitchen, worried that her grandmother, who’d been about to move gravy from a heavy frying pan into a gravy boat, had burned herself. Gram had, indeed, managed to spill the gravy. Happily, not on herself. Not so happily, the new cashmere sweater had, once more, been a food casualty victim. There it sat, sodden and now covered with a mini-pool of greasy, brown liquid. Time to start making funeral arrangements.

  “Oh, dear,” Gram said. She looked ready to cry.

  “No worries,” Taylor assured her, putting an arm around her bony shoulders. “It’s just a sweater.”

  And money down the drain.

  But her grandma’s feelings were more important than any sweater. Besides, the cost of a sweater was a mere drop down the drain compared to what they poured out on their credit card payments. Ugh. Then there were the house payments, car payments, daycare, groceries, clothes for Miranda, her business expenses, his business-going-nowhere expenses. They even had money still owing on Greg’s old student loan from when he went back for his master’s in business. Much good that was doing them now.

  “I’m so sorry, dear,” her grandmother said.

  “It’s not that big a deal, Gram, really.” People are more important than things, she reminded herself. “I didn’t like that sweater very much anyway,” she fibbed.

  Sarah raised both eyebrows, but Mom gave Taylor an approving smile.

  Time for a sweater burial. Taylor scooped the poor thing up and tossed it in the garbage. There had to be some symbolism in that, but she wasn’t in the proper frame of mind to look for it.

  The afternoon continued to go downhill. With everyone gathered around the table, Uncle Bill asked her how the real estate business was going, and having to confess that her big deal had fallen through stole her appetite. That commission wouldn’t have gone a long way toward pulling them out of the deep, dark hole they were in, but they would at least have seen daylight.

  “It’s a tough business,” said Uncle Bill.

  “That’s why you should always have at least three months’ worth of living expenses in savings,” said Chris, who was now an expert on money management. “You never know what’s going to happen.”

  You sure didn’t. For instance, someone could get fed up with listening to him pontificate about money and dump what was left of her rutabagas on his fat head.

  “Pass the rutabagas, will you, Dorothy?” said her dad, saving Chris.

  Mom obliged, then pointed to Taylor’s plate. “You’re not eating, honey.”

  “I’m not very hungry,” Taylor said. She wasn’t very happy, either. Or grateful. And if anybody asked Greg how his business was doing, she was going to throw her plate against the wall.

  “Well, Greg, how’s your business going?” Uncle Bill asked a moment later.

  That was it. Taylor could feel her blood pressure rising faster than a rocket.

  Fortunately for the Wedgwood, Mom picked up Taylor’s plate and her own to start clearing for dessert.

  “It’s coming together,” Greg said.

  In what universe? He was lying to everyone at the table, including himself.

  “I don’t see anything coming together,” she said. There. Let the truth be told.

  “These things take time,” Uncle Bill told her.

  “You have to support your husband,” added Chris.

  “Cut back on expenses,” put in Sarah.

  Taylor clenched her jaw and got up to help clear the table. She was so done with this Thanksgiving dinner, so done with Thanksgiving. So...done. Period.

  * * *

  Kat was exhausted. Darrell could tell. The dark circles under her eyes looked like coal, and her smile was barely hanging on to her face. She’d sighed three times during dinner.

  He’d tried to talk her out of hosting this year, reminding her that if anyone had an excuse to beg off it was her, but she’d insisted. “Everyone will help,” she’d said. “Anyway, I want to. I don’t even know if I’ll be here next year.”

  That had brought the tears to her eyes and his. “Don’t talk like that,” he’d said. “You’ll pull out of this.”

  “I want to. But I also want to live every moment to the fullest right now.”

  He got that. Her own mother had died ten years earlier, never lived to go on that world cruise she and Kat’s father had planned. But that wasn’t going to be them.

  They’d just finished the main meal and were visiting over wine before moving on to coffee and dessert when Kat’s sister-in-law Maggie said, “I’m thinking it would be good to share something we’re thankful for this year. Or several somethings.”

  “Sappy,” said Kat’s younger brother, Mitch, and his wife frowned at him. Their two teenage sons looked uncomfortable at the thought of having to get touchy-feely.

  “Just whoever wants to,” Maggie said.

  “I think that’s a great idea,” said Jewel, Kat and Darrell’s daughter.

  “Me, too,” agreed their new daughter-in-law, Marina.

  “Okay, we’ll do it to humor you women.” Mitch grinned across the table at Kat. “I’m thankful my sis is such a good cook.” Then he sober
ed. “And I’m glad you’re still around.”

  “And you’re going to be around for a long time,” Jewel said. “You stuck around to see Luke get married. You have to be here for when I get married.”

  “She doesn’t have a hundred years to wait for you to find somebody,” Luke teased, and she stuck out her tongue at him.

  “So, what we’re thankful for,” Maggie said, getting them back on track. “I’m thankful for our family.”

  “Me, too,” Jewel chimed in. “Well, most of them,” she added, giving her brother a look and making him snicker.

  “I’m thankful for my wife,” Luke said. “And that I’ve still got a job. I survived another round of layoffs.”

  “That’s good news,” said Kat. She sounded so tired.

  “I’m thankful for my husband,” said Marina. “I’m also thankful I got such a great mother-in-law.”

  Kat blushed and waved away the compliment, but Darrell knew she was pleased. She’d worried that she’d be a stinker of a mother-in-law, not good at sharing her son with another woman. But she and Marina, both avid readers, had hit it off from the start. Marina read Kat’s blog regularly and they’d even launched a book club together. Marina’s parents were divorced, and her own mother was a walking bundle of issues. She practically idolized Kat.

  Kat’s dad went next. “I’m thankful for my kids,” he said, and saluted each with his wineglass. He’d had a difficult time socializing since losing his wife, and his appearance at family events was usually short. Darrell expected him to bolt soon after the pie was served. Actually, Darrell hoped everyone would leave right after dessert, so Kat could go lie down.

  He took his turn. “I’m thankful for my wife,” he said, smiling at her. “She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “Oh, stop,” she said, her cheeks flushing again.