Page 6 of The Holiday

“Oh, Peter,” Sunday says. In an effort not to drop her silverware, she sets it down gently on the edge of her plate and then leans back in her chair. She’s watching her ex-husband across the table. “That’s very…brave.”

“Are you going to beinthe documentary, Daddy?” Olive asks, eyes wide. James reaches over and puts an arm around her shoulders.

Peter clears his throat. “I think so. I lived a lot of years in hiding, and because I did, I forced everyone around me to collude with my lies. I’m ready to show people that stepping out into the light is true freedom. Letting the people around you live their lives without the burden of your secrets is also freedom.” He looks at Sunday and they exchange a long, searching look. “I’ve done a lot of things wrong, but I think taking part in this documentary would be doing something right. For once.” He smiles, but it’s wry and sad.

“Good for you, Dad,” Cameron says. She’s eyeing him appraisingly.

Out of the two girls, Cameron has always been the most critical of her mother and father, watching them closely for signs of being too embroiled in the falsity of the political machine. At the first sign of disingenuity from either parent, Cameron has always been ready to pounce. In fact, she’d punished Sunday for years for staying married to Peter just because of the optics of their union; in her mind, a woman who stayed with a man for any reason other than love was living a bald-faced lie. The fracture in their mother-daughter relationship had hurt Sunday, but she’d reminded herself over and over that Cameron was young and idealistic; life and time would soften her hard edges.

“I’m proud of you, Peter,” Sunday says gently, standing up from her chair and dropping her napkin onto her seat. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’m going to make sure that Banks and Owen are good. You all keep eating.”

Sunday walks out of their line of vision to catch her breath. The notion of Peter doing something altruistic and actually owning up to his mistakes and his life choices has shaken her, but she’s impressed and happy for him.

“Hey,” she says to Banks. He’s standing at the picture window in the dim front room, lit only by a lamp. Banks is holding Owen, who is eight months old and full of personality. “You two men doing okay out here?”

At the sound of his grandmother’s voice, Owen’s head turns swiftly and a smile spreads across his chubby, smooth face. “Gah!” he says forcefully, kicking his legs and waving his arms wildly.

“Hi, baby boy.” Sunday walks over to where Banks is standing and reaches out to hold Owen’s small hand in hers. She doesn’t move to take the baby, and instead, she smiles up at Banks, admiring the way he has Owen wrapped in one of his strong arms. From the dining room comes Olive and Cameron’s laughter as they joke about something. Sunday is happy in this moment, oddly enough: her girls are there and everyone is on speaking terms; Banks and Peter are at the same dinner table, and there isn’t really even a frisson of discomfort. It’s clear that neither man sees the other as a threat for Sunday’s affection. And, most importantly, Owen is happy and healthy and strong, and Sunday’s heart is full of pure, unadulterated joy at the sound of his squeals and babbling.

“What do you think, Sun?” Banks sounds gruff—emotional. He looks right at Owen, whose soft head of baby hair is just inches from Banks’s face. He tips his head forward slightly and puts his forehead to Owen’s. In turn, Owen giggles and places both of his little hands on the sides of Banks’s whiskered cheeks. “You think we could do this?”

Sunday glows with pride at the sight of the man she loves holding her precious grandbaby. “Watch him on our own? Sure, we could ask Cameron and Liam if they want us to?—“

“No,” Banks interrupts. “Do you think we could be parents?”

It takes Sunday a moment to realize that Banks isn’t kidding, and the smile on her face dims just slightly. She is well beyond biologically being able to give him a baby, and he knows this, but the realization of it stabs her in the heart just the same. “I…how?”

Banks pulls his forehead away from Owen, who is still holding Banks’s cheeks and examining him closely, his baby face serious and intent.

“I think we should adopt, Sunday. I really think we could do this.”

Banks is fifty and Sunday is fifty-five. She has one daughter who is twenty-eight and another who is thirty-one. Banks is standing there holding hergrandson,for crying out loud. She blinks a few times, watching him as he bounces Owen gently in his arms. There is something about the image of them together that feels so right, so…possible.

Against her own better judgment, and against anything she would have ever imagined coming out of her own mouth, Sunday nods. She reaches out with both arms and wraps them around Banks and Owen, holding them close. “I really think we could do this, too,” she whispers, laying her head gently against her sweet-smelling grandson.Oh god,she thinks,the smell of a baby is intoxicating.

“Let’s be parents together, Sun,” Banks rasps.

She lifts her head and looks up into his eyes. Sunday nods one more time. “Let’s,” she agrees.

Heather

"Good morning, sunshine," Dave Hutchens says, leaning in close to nuzzle Heather's warm neck as she sleeps. "I brought you coffee."

Heather rolls over and stretches, closing her eyes against the bright morning as Dave sets her coffee mug on the nightstand and pulls open the curtains to let in the sunlight. It's two days before Christmas, and she's been up late every night, wrapping gifts, addressing cards, and baking cookies. Heather loves Christmas, and there's no way that she's going to miss out on any part of the magic of the season, even if Dave doesn't seem as interested in talking about marriage as she is.

Sitting up, Heather spreads the blankets over her lap and reaches for her glasses, which she slides onto her face. She reaches for the steaming mug of coffee and holds it in both hands. "I wish I could wake up to thiseverymorning," she says, dropping a heavy-handed hint.

"You know I only stay over on Mondays and Wednesdays." Dave leans over and kisses the top of her head. "And in fact, I'm on my way out the door now to meet up with Ed and Barry--we're taking Barry's sailboat out for the day. You want to have dinner tonight?"

Heather takes a sip of coffee to mask her disappointment. Rather than saying anything, she nods her head enthusiastically. Better to let Dave believe that she's feeling as unconcerned about the nature of their relationship as he is.

"Perfect." Dave's smile gleams white as he grins at her from his spot next to the bed. He looks down at her fondly. "You're a real gem, you know that?"

Heather still says nothing--instead she smiles at him shyly, watching as Dave crosses the room and pulls a V-neck windbreaker over his head. He turns and blows her a kiss before walking out.

Heather exhales loudly as the front door of her small villa closes behind Dave. "Agem?" she mutters. "Am I a fiery red ruby? Or am I an emerald because I'm green with envy over anyone who can speak their mind and get what they want? No, I'm blue," she says, placing her bare feet on the floor and standing. "I'm a sapphire. I'm sad and stormy."

The window of the bedroom looks out onto a stand of palm trees that are waving casually in the morning breeze. Heather takes another sip of her coffee as she watches Dave climb into the golf cart that his buddy Barry is driving, and then the men pull away, driving out of the sandy lot that's full of golf carts.

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