Page 69 of Pieces of Ash
Gus and Jock. Julian and Noelle. Me. A sunny evening. Lawn games now and dinner coming. Five misfits who don’t have a lot of somebodies, who suddenly have each other.
I don’t have much experience with family, but I long for it so terribly right this minute—with the four unlikely people around me—that it makes me dizzy, and my eyes sting while I try to catch my breath.
“You okay, baby doll?” asks Gus.
I nod, setting the last glass in place, then I turn and run back up to the house.
JULIAN
There is no comparison between last night’s dinner and tonight’s.
Last night, we sat at a bare picnic table with paper plates, a roll of paper towels, and a citronella candle, eating pizza slices directly out of the box. Tonight? As part of a security detail, I’veattended dinners with the most powerful movers and shakers on the planet, and I can say without reservation that tonight is elegant. Tonight is decadent. Tonight is not just a meal, it’s an experience.
On one side of the table, Jock and I share a bench. On the other side, Gus is flanked by Noelle and Ashley. The table has been carefully set with white and pink linens, plates, and my own glasses—clear bowls with royal blue stems that I made for the house. At some point, Ashley must have picked flowers and has arranged them in bud vases. She found floating candles hidden somewhere and put them in two hurricane vases filled with water so that the candlelight pings off the glass and the water.
Couldn’t she find any candlesticks?I wonder, making a mental note to craft some for her—er, the house.
To start, she spoils us with a cold soup, vichyssoise, I think, as Jock pours each of us a glass of wine that pairs with it.
Across the table, I watch Ashley bring the glass of wine to her lips, and I stare until she catches me, then I smile at her over the rim of my own glass.
“Do you like it?” I ask, thinking that the cold, dry Chardonnay is a perfect match for the creamy soup.
“Yes, I do.”
“I thought you didn’t drink?”
“I only drink a little,” she says, replacing her wineglass, “when a meal commands it.”
“Does this meal command it?” I ask.
She nods, her head moving just a little, like a queen acknowledging a loyal subject. “I hope so.”
“Li’l Ash has always been a good cook,” offers Gus, grinning at his goddaughter beside him. “Used to spoil me rotten when I looked after her, putting bacon in the mac and cheese and potato chips on the PB&J.”
“Was that often?” I ask. “That you looked after Ashley?”
“Often enough,” answers Gus, shooting a look at Jock.
“Julian,” says Jock, as he clears his throat, “we’ve already gotten inquiries for Christmas ornaments. How many are you planning this year?”
I see what they’re doing. In their own gentle way, they’re protecting Ashley, and while I respect that, something in me longs to be on Team Ashley too. I want them to trust me. Even more importantly, I wantherto trust me. It’s not a good idea. It could get me in trouble. But I can’t help the feeling that zings through me—of wanting to be useful, of wanting to keep her safe too.
“We had one lady come in and buy half a dozen,” says Gus. “She had a bunch of ornament swap parties coming up and said your pretties would make a splash.”
Last year, I made almost fifty blown-glass ornaments, some round, some teardrop shaped, some onion shaped like the domes on a Russian cathedral, but each original and unique. They sold like hotcakes, especially, I think, because of the skiers at Sugarbush who often swing over to quaint Shelburne for the restaurants and shopping.
“How many do you want?” I ask.
“At least a hundred,” says Gus. “Right, P.C.?”
“At least.”
“What will you sell them for?” I ask.
“Fifty each?” asks Jock. “Twenty-eighty split?”
Not bad. I’ll make $4,000 for the batch, and who knows how long I’ll be living rent free with Ashley? I’ll be able to bank most of my commission.
