Misery Loves Cabernet (39 page)

“Thank you, darling,” Julia returns with equal affection. “I’ll give you the name of my doctor. We sixty-something women need a bag of tricks to keep up our appearances.”

I wince, and slip out of the room as I hear Mom sneer, “Julia, you know perfectly well, I’m fifty-five.”

Knowing that my young aunt and uncle are in the living room, I slip upstairs into my old bedroom, climb into my old twin bed, put my coffee on my old nightstand, and hide under the sheets.

It’s at that moment that I realize someone has had an accident.

“Ewwww!!!!” I shriek as I jump out of my bed and yank off the covers. “Damn it! Cindy!” I yell to my twenty-eight-year-old step-grandmother.

“Yes!” she says sweetly from the other room.

“Bodhi had an accident!”

“Oh dear,” I hear her say loudly as she runs to my doorway, checks out the puddle in the middle of my old bed, then walks briskly downstairs. “Bodhi, are you still in your wet things?”

“Oh my God!” Mom yells. “My Ethan Allen sofa bed!”

Hmmm . . . on the plus side, maybe she’ll have to get rid of it, and I can spend next Thanksgiving eve at home in my own bed.

Hope springs eternal.

The back of my pajamas now sopping wet with pee, I grab my overnight bag, pull out a jar of Laura Mercier Tarte au Citron Honey Bath, and yell down to my mother:

“Mom! Can I use your tub?!”

“Sure!” Mom yells back. “Just make sure the jets are back to where they are supposed to be!”

That sounds ominous. “What does that mean?!” I ask.

“It means Bodhi and Jasmine decided when they were in the bathtub last night to start firing the Jacuzzi jets at each other!” Mom yells back. “By the time they were done, it looked like Esther Williams should have emerged from the middle of my tub, surrounded by jets squirting every which way. By the way, your phone just beeped that you have a text.”

I walk downstairs, grab my purse, and pull out my iPhone, which tells me I do indeed have a text: from Jordan.

I called you at home, but you weren’t there. Call me. I have news.

xoxo

J

“Call me. I have news.” Five words that annoy me even more than, “It’s not you, it’s me.”

I surprise myself by how quickly I delete his message.

•  •  •

Ten minutes later, I have put on a little soothing Sarah McLachlan on Mom’s iPod speaker system, slipped out of my urine-soaked pajamas, and slipped into a heavenly scented bath.

Which, if anyone knows my life, is the cue for my phone to ring. Or, in this case, for someone to knock on the door.

“What?” I ask, angrily.

“Do you mind if I switch place cards with you?” Jamie asks through the door.

“As long as I’m next to Liam, I don’t care what you do!” I yell back.

I hear Jamie’s footsteps disappear. I close my eyes and immerse myself in the water.

Moments later, I hear someone pounding on the door.

I pop out of the water. “Yes?”

“Did you tell Jamie you’d sit at the kid’s table?” my mother asks through the door.

“No!” I say.

Then I hear Jamie say to her, “I am twenty-five years old. There’s no freakin’ way I am sitting at the kid’s table again.”

“You can’t just move your sister’s name card to the kiddie table!” Mom chastises. “First of all, it’s rude to second-guess your hostess by rearranging place cards . . .”

“You’re not my hostess. You’re my mom.”

“And, secondly, I’ve put her between your aunt Ethel and your father’s father. Do you really want that spot?”

“What?” I yell. “I’m not sitting next to great Aunt Ethel.”

“It’s either that,” Mom threatens, “or I’m putting you at the table with the drunks.”

“Yeah, that narrows it down,” I hear Jamie mutter.

“Where did you put Liam?” I yell through the door.

“Do you want to see my chart?” Mom asks.

Before I can say, “Not really,” Mom bursts through the door, carrying a medium piece of cardboard with two rectangles and a circle glued to it. “Here’s my seating chart,” she says, seating herself on the overstuffed white chair next to the bathtub (I always wondered why she put a chair there). “As you can see, I’ve tried to alternate seating between men and women, while also alternating the normals with the weirdos, and the drunks interspersed with both the potheads and the prescriptive drug addicts. The children’s table is for anyone who plans to be sober.”

“Fine,” I say. “Put me at the children’s table with Liam.”

“But, darling, how will you get through the day without drinking?” Mom asks me in all sincerity.

“I just will,” I say.

Mom looks confused. Jamie explains to her, “Charlie wants to seduce Liam tonight, and she needs all her faculties.”

“Oh. Well, why didn’t you say so,” Mom says. “Godspeed. Nonetheless, I can’t very well seat you next to your date. That’s poor form.”

“We can’t bend the rules in the name of future grandchildren?” I ask.

On that note, Mom rips off the felt labeled with my name, and the one with Liam’s name, switches us to the kid’s table, and walks out.

Jamie turns to me. “Wait a minute. Did you just stick me next to aunt Ethel?”

“Oh it’ll be fun,” Mom says cheerfully from the other room. “She can tell you all about her bursitis.”

“Wait! Mom!” Jamie yells as he walks out, and shuts the door behind him.

I turn on the Jacuzzi jets, and let the bubbles repopulate themselves.

There’s another knock. “Yes?”

“I just had a thought,” Dad says through the door. “You know what should be in your book of advice? Words that should never go together. Wine box, for example.”

“Wine spigot,” I continue.

“White Zinfandel,” Dad finishes. “Speaking of which, I’m being sent back to the store for the second time this morning. Do you need anything?”

“I’m good,” I say.

“Love you, Bear,” Dad says.

I hear Dad walk away.

Thirty seconds later, there’s another knock on the door. “What?” I yell.

Drew walks right in. “Am I considered a pothead or a drunk?”

You are beautiful
.

Okay, so in your head, you just said to yourself, “No. I’m not.” Didn’t you?

You are beautiful
.

Wait, no, shut up . . . . You are beautiful
.

Now, how would your life be different if you actually believed me?

I recently wrote that to my great-granddaughter. It’s a longer bit of advice than I usually write. But I don’t know one woman who truly thinks she’s beautiful. If you ask any of my female friends on any given day how they think they look, the best answer you’ll get is, “Well, I’m okay.” And I know some truly beautiful women.

I’ll admit, there are a few women who actually do think they’re pretty. As a matter of fact, they hide behind it. Because they don’t think they’re smart enough.

So, what would happen if we did think we were pretty? Or smart? What would we do if we thought we were good enough? If we didn’t give ourselves a hundred reasons for why we’re awful, all in a split second, all in our head?

I pondered this at 12:59 that afternoon. As I opened my eyes and mouth to finish putting on mascara in the mirror, I wondered how differently I would act around Liam if I couldn’t give myself eighty-two reasons why he would laugh in my face if he knew how much I adored him.

I still can’t help giving myself all the reasons.

But I decided to go for it anyway.

I hear my mother’s doorbell ring, followed a few moments later by Alex and Sean screaming, “Liam’s here!” I walk out of the bathroom and through the hallway to get a peek at him from the top of the stairs.

He is breathtaking.

Seriously, I realize I am holding my breath as I stare at him. He looks like a model in his dark blue suit. I watch as he effortlessly hands my mother a bottle of wine and some flowers, and compliments her on her home, then immediately begins listening to Sean’s account of his recent run-in with a skunk, while letting Alex grab his arm and hang on him, and kisses Andy hello. It is all effortless, and beautiful, and . . .

Man. Breathtaking. That’s what it is.

I walk downstairs, and into the mayhem.

Normally, if I were trying to seduce a man, I would have a different game plan. For clothes, I’d go with a cute little skirt, and some sparkly strappy heels, not the rather formal-looking long black skirt and shirt and modest black boots I currently wear. I would also probably try to hedge my bets by making sure it was dark out, that the target of my affections had been plied with booze, and that I had had a bit of liquid courage myself. And I would absolutely make certain that my entire family, on both sides, was nowhere near my zip code, much less in the same house, as my crush.

But I’m beautiful (sort of). I’m smart (most days). And I am confident (kinda).

Liam smiles warmly as he sees me. “Charlie, you look lovely,” he says, leaning in to give me a kiss on the cheek.

“Thanks. You, too,” I say quickly. Then I take his hand, and begin pulling him away from the crowd. “Can you come to the garage with me for a second? I need some help with something.”

“Sure,” he says, confused.

“Is that the boy?” Grandma asks scornfully, as I pull Liam through several rooms and dozens of family members to get to the garage.

“Rose, don’t embarrass her,” Mawv warns.

“So, is this the new jerk, or the old one?” Grandpa asks my mother as he lights up a Camel.

“The new one,” Mom says, then catches herself. “I mean, he’s not a jerk. He’s just not the old one.”

I choose to ignore them. I open the door to the garage, pull him in, and shut the door behind us. Then, before he can speak, I put my arms around his neck, and kiss him hard.

Fortunately, he kisses back. We quickly begin feeling each other up over our clothes, and kissing each other greedily.

Oh, my God! It worked! I always wondered what it would be like to kiss him, and now I know. And it’s pretty good. I mean, I feel like I’m going to throw up from the nerves these past few minutes, but this feels good.

As I start to entertain the notion of hopping into my mother’s Porsche, and making out for hours in the car like teenagers, I hear reality rear its ugly head.

Or, in my case, open the door.

Liam and I stop kissing, and turn to see my mother’s Dad glaring at us.

“What are your intentions, boy?” he asks.

Before Liam can respond, Dad appears over Grandpa’s shoulder, “I wouldn’t recommend what I said to him thirty years ago.”

The next six hours included the usual family fights. There was:

“And let’s make a toast to the troops—”

“Who shouldn’t be there!”

“Oh, it’s Vietnam all over again. What happened to the list?”

Not to mention:

“Well, I’m a lady. So I won’t say it, but I think Hillary Clinton is the
C
word.”

“Hey, I voted for her. Let’s not—”

“I’ll say it. She’s a crook.”

And the perennial:

“Which brings us back to why Kermit the Frog is really Nirvana, and Fozzie Bear has a blocked Chi.”

What? Not everyone hears that in their house?

Nonetheless, I was in Nirvana myself. Liam and I spent the day stealing glances, stealing kisses, laughing, and holding hands.

After we said our good-byes around eight o’clock that evening, Liam walked me to my car (at the end of Mom’s driveway, next to Grandma and Grandpa’s Winnebago), and gave me a kiss that knocked my socks off.

Or, at least it made me want to rip his socks off, along with all of his other clothes.

As we kiss, he says to me, “Your family’s delightful.”

“They’re hideous,” I say, beginning to nibble his ear. “Your place or mine?”

“Well, my bedroom has been defrosted.”

I follow Liam back to his Victorian home. I park my car behind his. As I get out, he is already there, grabbing me, and lifting my shirt up slightly.

“Ah, your hands are cold!” I say, a little surprised.

“I know. I’m warming them up.”

We’re so desperate to be with each other that we make out for a few more minutes outside, despite the fortysomething-degree weather. I’m practically climbing on him by the time we make it into his house, and onto his living-room couch.

Liam carries me to the couch and places me down before climbing on top. We fiercely make out, and begin the mating dance of clothes on, clothes off, when is the girl going to give in. (Although really I’m just being shy, because I already know I want to give in. I just don’t want him to think less of me.)

And just as I unbutton his shirt, and pull it off his body, his cell phone rings.

Liam ignores it.

Fine by me. As we continue to kiss, I debate what to do next: allow him over the bra, beneath the shirt, or just let him take off my shirt. But how slutty is that an hour into the make-out session? Would it be . . . ?

And his cell phone rings again.

Liam stops kissing me. With a questioning look on his face, he pulls the cell phone from his pants pocket, and reads the caller ID.

His lips tighten up. “Well,
fuck
you, my dear,” he says angrily to the phone before tossing it onto his floor.

Uh-oh.

I’ve never heard that tone of voice from him before. I’ve watched him fire a second assistant director for incompetence, get kicked out of his own home by his supporting actor, even get screamed at when my cousin Jenn was in labor. Throughout it all, the man stays absolutely, charmingly calm.

Which means I can guess who’s on the phone. The ex.

As he stares down at the phone on the ground, fuming, I jokingly ask, “Is that an offer?”

Liam turns to me, confused. “What?”

“You said, ‘Fuck you,’ ” I say awkwardly. “I was making a joke about . . .”

My question seems to shake the cobwebs from Liam’s head. He shakes his head a bit, then forces a smile. “Yes. As a matter of fact it is. Shall we head to the bedroom?”