“That’s true, honey,” Mom said, reaching for Clare’s little hand. “And you have a wonderful mom, don’t you?”

  Clare nodded. “She’s the bomb.”

  Rachel took the chance to change the subject.

  “So, Edward, you grew up in Amsterdam?”

  He smiled. “Yeah, have you been there?”

  “Sure. For business and pleasure. I really like it.”

  “I knew a Bloem in the sixties. Arlette. She was a model, too.” My mother likes the conversation to be about her.

  Edward nodded. “Arlette is my father’s older sister. She gave up modeling before I was much more than a kid, but she was kind of famous in Holland, so I still see pictures of her from time to time.”

  My mother was delighted. “My goodness, what a very small world!”

  Edward’s tone was wry. “The world is very big, but Holland is pretty small.”

  My mother wasn’t paying attention. “Oh, the stories I could tell you about Arlette.”

  “Please don’t, Mom,” I begged. “I’m sure Edward doesn’t want to hear about his aunt’s exciting youth.”

  Pointless.

  “She was a very beautiful girl, I remember that quite clearly. You know, one fashion week in Milan she managed to sleep with all the best photographers, all of them. She had a copy of Italian Vogue, and went through, crossing them out. She was like that, very bold and adventurous.” She laughed and looked at Edward. “Are you like that, Edward?”

  He laughed with her. “Not so much. There are many top photographers I haven’t even kissed, to be honest.” We all laughed, even the kids, who had no idea what was going on. I hope. “And now my aunt is just an elegant older woman who dotes on her grandchildren and does good things for charity. She would probably love to hear from you, though. I will give her your e-mail address, if you like.” Edward smiled at my mom. “I hope when I am older I will have wonderful memories to think back on, too. It must be good.”

  Mom frowned a little at the repeated use of “old,” but he was charming, so she was inclined to let it slide. “I am still making plenty of memories, Edward. Why, next week I am taking a trip with a Venezuelan cattle millionaire. To Caracas.”

  Richard coughed. “Don’t forget your maracas.”

  She ignored him. It was easy to see which guy she was going to favor. Oh well, Rachel wasn’t interested in her approval. I looked at my sister, sitting with Richard and making quiet jokes about Caracas. She was fine. I looked over at my mother and noticed her hand was trembling a little as it lifted her wineglass. She was nervous, too, probably more nervous than any of us. Her jawline was still firm, but that was all. Our house had been filled with pictures of her—magazine covers, famous images—almost all of them retouched beyond what was real even at twenty-two. She had worked hard to keep looking that way, but time is implacable and moisturizer only goes so deep. It’s painful enough to get old without constantly being confronted with evidence of how much better you used to look. Whenever I see aging beauties, I imagine heavy garlands of “before” pictures hanging around their necks, like Marley’s chains. And . . . we’re back to Meg Ryan’s face.

  Things progressed peacefully for a while, and then Mom turned to me.

  “So, Lilian. Rachel tells me you’re going to try and go it alone for a while, professionally.”

  I looked at Rachel, whose face showed me she hadn’t really said anything of the sort, but it was OK. My mom could winkle information out of a parking meter.

  I nodded. “Yeah. I’m hoping there will be enough freelance, combined with original illustration work, to keep us going. I might have to cut back a bit.”

  “No more Leah, presumably.” My mom had always been a little bit jealous of Leah.

  Balls. I looked at Clare, but she hadn’t noticed. Annabel had, though. “What? Is Leah leaving?”

  OK, Clare heard that.

  “Leah can’t leave,” she said firmly. “Leah is family, and family doesn’t leave.”

  “Uh, we can talk about this later on, guys. Leah’s not going anywhere right now.”

  “But is she going to leave?” Annabel was persistent.

  I shook my head. “I hope not, honey. Let’s talk about it another time, though, OK?”

  Maggie leapt in to help.

  “Clare, I hear you’ve grown some strawberries.”

  Clare nodded, her mouth full of lasagna. Maggie turned to Annabel, who was still watching me thoughtfully. If I thought the conversation about Leah was done, I was on crack.

  “And did you grow fruit, too, Bel?”

  She shook her small head. “No, I grew flowers in a pattern. It’s a little patchy right now, but it will be all filled in soon.” She smiled. “Did you see our fairy house, though?” She beamed at Edward. “Edward brought us a fairy house with fairies and everything. It’s in the garden.”

  My mother laughed. “Nice work, Edward. Mind you, I guess it makes sense to seduce the children if you’re trying to bed the mother.”

  No. She. Did. Not. But yes, she did. Edward looked surprised, but kept his tone level.

  “Well, that’s one way of looking at it, but I mostly just wanted to make something fun for them to play with in the garden, so they would enjoy being out there. Being in nature is very good for kids, I think.”

  My mother just laughed, unable to think of anything to say. Rachel had put her fork down and was just gazing at her in horror. Maggie was trying not to laugh hysterically, I think. And then, thankfully, someone banged on the door.

  • • •

  I got up, somewhat shakily, and went to answer it. Everyone I knew was there, pretty much, so it was probably the Mormons or something. Maybe I would amaze them by converting on the spot and begging them to take me to Utah, right away.

  “Is my wife here?”

  Berto. Looking disheveled and badly dressed, which for an Italian man was a clear sign of imminent nervous breakdown. Great, this dinner was now truly a farce. All we needed to make it complete was a naked couple falling out of a closet, and a vicar in his underwear.

  “Uh . . . hi, Berto. Hang on, I’ll go look.” I closed the door in his face, which wasn’t very polite, but hey, he was a bottom-feeding cheat machine, so tough titties.

  Maggie heard him, of course, because it’s not that big a house. She was totally white, and everyone at the table was staring at her.

  “It’s Berto,” I said, unnecessarily. “Do you want me to tell him you’re not here?”

  She nodded, silently. I went back to the door.

  “She’s not here. Sorry.” I started to close the door again, but he stuck his foot in it. I was willing to crush it like a grape but hesitated one second too long. He leaned on the door.

  “Lili, cara, please let me in to see her.”

  “She’s not here, Berto. Go away.” I pushed back, ready to call for reinforcements if I needed to.

  “Her car is parked outside.”

  Shit.

  “I’m changing the oil for her. She took a cab home. Go away.”

  “I have known you forever, and this is first time you ever indicate you even know a car needs oil. She is inside, and I must speak with her.”

  I gave him my best haughty frown.

  “First of all, Mr. Cheating Bastard, this is no time to be insulting my car-care abilities, and secondly, she doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  He hung his head. “It is true, I have been a bad husband, a stupid man, and a careless friend, but I love my wife and I must talk to her.”

  He really looked dreadful, which was satisfying. I shook my head.

  “Did you just arrive?” He nodded. “Then you haven’t unpacked yet, which will save you some time. Go back to Italy, Berto, back to your little girlfriend.”

  “She is gone. It is over.”

  I switched over to disgusted frown. “Well. Maggie is not a consolation prize, shithead. She’s the trophy, the Pulitzer, the Nobel. The fact that your girlfriend dumped you means nothing. Go home.” Luckily, the anger I had been building up for my mother was right there, ready to be used. I was going to kick his butt.

  Unfortunately for my catharsis, he started to cry. I would have been touched, but he’s Italian. They cry over soccer.

  “Lili, my friend, I know that when Dan died, when you lost your lover, you went mad with grief. It was understandable. And now I, too, feel like I am losing my mind, except it is worse, because I am the one who drove her away, who cast her aside.”

  I wasn’t falling for it.

  “You’re too late, you sorry sack of shit. Maggie has moved on.”

  He gasped. “She has taken a lover already?”

  I shrugged. “More than one. She is a beautiful woman.”

  He cried harder. “I know it. I have thrown away my own heart, my own life. I am the most wretched soul who ever wandered the earth. I am a destitute man . . .”

  He went on like this for a bit. He can’t help it. Unfortunately, neither can Maggie.

  She came up behind me and threw open the door, nearly making me fall over.

  “Berto.” Voice like ice.

  “Maggie, cara mia!” Voice like fire.

  He leapt forward to embrace her, but she held up her hand, her face grave. I noticed she’d freshened her lipstick, though. No dummy, that one.

  “Back off! I am not going to forgive you, so don’t fritter your charm. You broke my heart and sent me flying home like a kicked dog.” Maggie was just warming up. “I fled my home, my work, my friends. Every single person we know, our colleagues, our neighbors, knew I had been thrown over for a younger woman and pitied me. I am not to be pitied, Berto. I am a proud and beautiful woman, and I am the one who should be pitying you. But I don’t pity you, because you made your own bed. Now go back to Italy and lie in it. Alone.”

  And then she stepped back, taking the time to grab me as she went, for which I was grateful, and slammed the door.

  “Jesus Christ, Mags, that was amazing . . .” I started to say, but she held up her hand to me, too. She had tears in her eyes. She was listening.

  For a moment, there was just the sound of weeping from the other side of the door. Then there was an enormous sniff, and the unmistakable sound of someone drawing a shuddering breath. And then he began:

  “Why do birds . . . suddenly appear . . .”

  With an Italian accent, and the occasional pause for sobbing. Honestly.

  “Every time . . . you are near . . .”

  I looked at Maggie. The tears were running down her face.

  “He’s singing our song,” she whispered.

  “Oh for fuck’s sake,” I said quietly, and opened the door again.

  Thank God for the extra napkins.

  How to Grow Turnips

  Select a site that gets full sun.

  • Turnips like the soil to be well worked, loose, and easygoing, and mixed generously with compost.

  • Scatter turnip seeds and then lightly cover with a thin layer of delicious fresh soil.

  • Once seedlings are 4 inches high, thin “early” types 2 to 4 inches apart and “maincrop” types to 6 inches apart. Do not thin if growing for greens only, obviously, as that would sort of defeat the purpose.

  • In many ways, turnips are the unsung heroes of the root crop universe. They don’t have the ad budget potatoes have, or the glamorous appearance of carrots, but they shouldn’t be underestimated. They’re high in vitamins and minerals, low in sugar, and taste delicious roasted, caramelized, or mashed with a pound of butter. Pliny the Elder considered the turnip the most important vegetable of his day, because “its utility surpasses that of any other plant’s.” Say what you want about Pliny the Elder . . . he was a man who knew his vegetables.

  Chapter 19

  The Fifth Class

  The next day it was drizzling lightly when we all gathered for class. The mood, despite the rain, was good-natured. Rachel regaled everyone with the story of our bizarre family dinner.

  “That sounds very romantic and wonderful.” Frances beamed.

  Gene frowned. “Once a cheater, always a cheater, I’m afraid.”

  I kind of agreed with him, but shrugged. “Who knows? Maggie didn’t go back to the hotel with him, and she’s moving forward with divorce proceedings. She’s no pushover.” I did wonder, though. It’s hard to be single after being happily married, and, as with childbirth, you tend to gloss over the painful parts as soon as possible. Thus, multiple children and the many marriages of Elizabeth Taylor.

  Bash came flying up just as the rain was stopping, and I looked over to see that Angie was crossing the grass toward us in the company of a man I hadn’t seen before.

  “My dad is here!” Bash was beside himself. “Look!”

  Everyone else turned to look, including Mike, who presumably had a heightened interest in the matter. I knew he and Angie had hung out some in the week, but I hadn’t had a chance to find out much more. Judging by his expression right then, he didn’t consider Angie’s ex a threat, which either meant that he wasn’t interested in her, or he wasn’t worried. Or neither. What the heck do I know?

  They reached us, and Angie introduced him. “Everyone, this is Matthew; Matt, this is everyone in the gardening class.”

  Matt was not particularly good-looking, but the sun broke through the clouds right then, burnishing him with a golden glow. He had a great smile, and I could see Bash in his face. He also had that relaxed self-confidence that makes regular-looking guys attractive and handsome guys irresistible. I could easily see a teenage Angie falling for him.

  “Hello, everyone. I wanted to see for myself the wonderful group of people my son raves about. This class is his favorite thing in the world right now. It’s great.”

  He knelt down and addressed my kids. “And you two beautiful young ladies must be Clare and Annabel. Sebastian talks about you a lot.”

  “Who’s Sebastian?” Clare wrinkled her nose.

  “I am,” Bash said.

  “Why didn’t you tell us that before?”

  He frowned. “I don’t know. You can still call me Bash. My mom calls me it. My dad calls me Sebastian.”

  Clare clasped her hands to her chest in the manner of a silent-movie star. “Oh, but Sebastian is so glamorous.” She smiled blisteringly at him. “I shall call you Sebastian.” The little boy looked shy. “And you can call me Princess Clare.”

  Matt laughed. “You have your work cut out for you there, dude.” He stood up and smiled at Angie. “So, shall I meet you later?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’ll drop him at your mother’s, is that good?”

  “Sure.” And then he leaned over and kissed her on the mouth, casually touching her butt as he did so. Possessively.

  It was kind of shocking, and Angie clearly wasn’t expecting it, because she pulled back right away and opened her mouth to say something. But then she looked over at Bash, who was watching them with interest, and just smiled tightly.

  “Bye, Matt, we’ll talk later on.”

  He grinned, waved at the kids, and walked off. She watched him go, silently, and then turned to look at Mike. For a moment he said nothing, but then his mouth turned up at the corners. “Asshole,” he said, softly.

  She grinned, relief flooding her face. “Exactly.”

  • • •

  I was sitting on the ground a little while later, randomly pulling weeds out of the herb bed, when Edward came over and crouched down next to me.

  “Are you aware that you’re pulling out perfectly viable plants?” He kept his voice low, presumably to protect me from public ridicule.

  I coughed. “Uh, no. I thought these were weeds.”

  He smiled. “No, but you’re being consistent in your pursuit of rosemary. Clearly, you hate rosemary.”

  “I’ve got nothing against her, I assure you.”

  “Well, she’s gone now, so she can’t contradict you.”

  I frowned at him. “Shouldn’t your English not be good enough to allow you to make plays on words like that? Shouldn’t I be able to outcolloquialize you?”

  He stood up and raised his palms. “The Dutch educational system is superlative.”

  “Yeah? Well, my kids know that worms are hermaphrodites, so there.”

  He sauntered off, not bothering to comment. It was all very relaxed. I could hear Sebastian and my kids chattering away.

  “My dad is a cop,” Bash said. I was surprised. When Angie had said, back at the beginning of the course, that maybe someone would shoot her ex-husband, I had immediately thought it would be because he was involved in something shady. Honestly, I needed to get out more.

  “He chases bad guys and protects people.” Bash clearly had a great deal of pride in his father, and who can blame him? This is yet another problem you face as a single parent—you want to protect the opinion your kids have of your ex, and yet life would be easier if they were as irritated by them as you were. If you could all agree that things would be better if Daddy stayed under a rock, then things would go swimmingly. But no, you have to agree that Daddy is a great guy, a wonderfully brave man, and dodge the implicit question of why you no longer want to live with the aforementioned great guy. It’s a tough exercise in doublethink. Again, I think maybe it’s easier to be a widow than a divorcée. The kids and I are in total agreement that life without Daddy sucks.

  I sat back and looked around. Only one more class after this, and people were tidying industriously, pimping their patch, so to speak. Rachel was the exception, of course. She was just sitting in the middle of her lavender, reading. I had to admire her follow-through. She’d had an idea, she’d made it happen, and now she was enjoying it. She felt me watching her, I guess, because she turned to look at me.

  “Enjoying your lavender?”

  She shook her head. “No. Worrying about random shit. How about you?”

 

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