Page 90 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

We arrive separately, keeping our relationship under wraps today out of respect, or possibly cowardice. I’m choosing not to examine my motivations.

I don’t know what I expected from the words Cookie Party, but it was not this. There are no children frosting cookies on coffee tables or parents passing around Tupperware containers of maimed gingerbread people. This is an elegant, catered affair with charcuterie, two different fig preparations, and holiday whiskey punch with a punny name spelled out on a letterboard. The titular cookies were ordered in from a local high-end bakery and are so stunning, I feel uncomfortable eating them.

Unlike Adam’s cozy Thanksgiving celebration, the dress code at the Lewises’ appears to be Minnesota Cocktail Casual, which translates to women in their finest wool sweaters and men in their golfiest golf shirts. Not much of a linksman, Adam is in a cream fisherman’s sweater, awakening within me a new—and decidedly sexual—Deadliest Catch fantasy. My cranberry sweater dress is doing something similar to him if the conspicuous charge in the space between us is any indication. I’m shocked the hair of passing guests doesn’t stand on end.

The Lewises’ decor consists of Pottery Barn’s best approximation of “Farmhouse Americana.” The whole house is painted like different-flavored lattes. The vanilla foyer transitions into a hazelnut formal living area. There’s an unlit Christmas tree in every room. I can’t discern whether this is an aesthetic choice or if they weren’t in the decorating spirit this year. The whole house approaches “festive” without quite crossing the finish line.

The vibe is more of a free-flowing cocktail party than a sit-down affair, and to my relief, very few people ask who I am to the family. Sam exists in stories, but direct mention of him is avoided at all costs.

The less relevant a guest is to an immediate family member, the greater the burden they seem to bear in keeping the conversation light and snappy. In some spaces, that person is Adam or me, but in the sunroom overlooking Lake Minnetonka, a neighbor is carrying the conversation on her back. Against a chai latte wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, she asks everyone their favorite James Bond film and refuses to let anyone off the hook until they’ve provided a bulleted list of reasons why they prefer it.

“I’ve only seen one of the Pierce Brosnan ones,” I answer, gripping my appetizer plate like a security blanket. “I can’t remember which one.” For our trivia team, Patrick is the expert on the Suited Men Saving the World genre (both tuxedo and latex).

This answer doesn’t seem to satisfy her. She pushes her icy blond hair behind her ears, agitated. “What country was he in? Who was the villain? Which Bond girl was it?”

“I want to say Denise Richards was a scientist?”

It’s not what she wants to hear, and I’m finally dismissed.

“You couldn’t have just said Casino Royale?” Adam grins against the shell of my ear. I look around on instinct, finding only a pregnant cousin, Lucy, napping with her eyes open while her oblivious husband, Greg, holds court in the corner with a nineties-style stand-up routine on mini quiches.

“You couldn’t have jumped in and saved me?” I ask, biting into my bottom lip.

“And miss the trivia expert struggling to name the movie where Denise Richards played a nuclear physicist? You’re still trying to remember it, aren’t you?”

“The World Is Not Enough,” I blurt with a snap of my fingers. “I should go find her.”

He pulls me back by the arm. “Let her find someone who appreciates British spy films the way she does.” His thumb swipes the sensitive part of my wrist, igniting my insides.

“Adam, my man!” a voice booms from behind me. “It’s been too long.”

A corn chip flees my plate, and Adam takes a small step away from me, his left eye twitching at the tall, forty-something man in a fleece vest. “Paul. How’s the house?” Adam asks stiffly.

“Don’t get me started on that money pit.” Paul’s smirk tells us he’d love nothing more than to detail every small construction setback. “It was such a shame we couldn’t get that partnership off the ground. Are you still doing carpentry? I have a million projects I could use you on. The deck railings are a mess, and come summer we’ll want one of those fancy She Sheds for the girls.”

“My work up north keeps me pretty busy.” Adam must register my confusion because he glances my way before looking back at Paul. “Sorry I couldn’t be more helpful. If you’ll excuse me…” Adam starts to walk away.

Paul initiates a Sorkin-style walk-and-talk, detailing the hail damage to his deck. Adam increases his pace, refusing to relent, and I trail behind like a lost puppy. Once we’re in the matcha mudroom, Paul must realize that Adam will walk out the door in his socks to escape this conversation, and he retreats to the kitchen with his tail between his legs.

“Why wouldn’t you take that job?” I ask Adam once Paul’s out of earshot.

“I can’t rebuild a deck by myself in a weekend. Or make a She Shed playhouse for his daughters. Why call it a She Shed? Sheds are for everyone.”

“I think it’s a Pinterest thing.” I tug at a stray piece of hair that’s fallen out of my half-up half-down thing. “If you lived here it wouldn’t be a problem. Plus, you’d have more time to focus on your furniture. He wants your work.”

“He doesn’t know what he wants.”

“What partnership was he talking about?” Adam doesn’t respond, instead digging through his pockets with the frenzied intensity of a truffle pig. “What are you looking for?”

“Sam’s condo keys. I forgot to return the other set.”

He frees the key ring from his pocket. The touristy key chains clink together like discordant wind chimes. He places it on the rack like an eerie parting gift from beyond. It dangles between his parents’ keys like a denial, as though Sam might stroll through the side door and pluck them off the hook.

It’s the most unsatisfying ending imaginable.

“I’m sorry. I think I’m a little off today, Sam’s birthday and all.”

“It’s Sam’s birthday?” I ask too loudly. My head swivels around to see who might have overheard. “Today?” I ask, in a whisper this time.

---