Fiona walks into the kitchen, prepared to tangle with the mess of bottles and debris from last night’s party. Luc wasn’t in bed when she woke up so she assumed he’d gone to buy the paper. But there he is, sitting at the kitchen table, with his usual cappuccino. The kitchen is spotless, the dishwasher …
—Why do we always choose the hottest day of August to make these things? asks Anne, cramming another pickling cuke* into a quart jar. — What are you complaining about? asks Fee, grinning. I’m the one pouring the boiling water. How many more to go? Anne eyes the pile of washed cukes in the sink. …
Saturday morning chores: Luc’s gone to buy groceries while Fiona makes the satay sauce for the chicken*. She’s washing up the blender when Trish barges through the backdoor. Bald. — Omigosh, Trish! Your hair! What happened? Trish bursts into tears. — I know I look terrible. Like a tondue. — Oh honey, says Fiona, wrapping …
— Hi Mom, says Fiona. Just let me put you on speaker phone, I’m in the middle of making a carrot cake*. There. Can you hear me? — You’ll never believe what that brother of yours is doing now, says her mother. — Is he okay? asks Fiona anxiously. She spoke to him on Wednesday …
For the tenth time in the last fifteen minutes, Fiona looks up at the starburst kitchen clock. Where the heck is Luc, she wonders. She considers dialling his cell, but doesn’t want to be a pest. He’s with his buds for their Friday after-work whine-fest; he’ll be home soon enough. Besides, she knows if she …
— What about me? Fiona asks her dad. — Do you think I neglected you too? he asks. — Let’s sit down a minute. The dishes can wait. Would you like some Glenmorangie? Or Bowmore? — How about another wee piece of that apple cake*, says her dad. It’s really delicious. — I’m glad you …
Fiona’s father fills the sink with hot soapy water, eschewing her offer to use Luc’s rubber gloves. She was astounded when he’d insisted on washing the dishes. Since when has he done household chores? she wonders. The possibility that maybe she doesn’t know him very well enters her conscience. — Great dinner, Fiona, her father …
— That’s delicious salad*, says Trish, putting down her fork. I’m still starving all the time. She pats her protruding tummy. — He’s insatiable! — You look fabulous, Trish. And you don’t seem to have gained too much. — No, I’m good. Hey, I’ve been talking about myself all through dinner. What’s up with you? …
Fiona’s stomach turns. Do I need to go to the bathroom again? she wonders. Was it was a mistake inviting Anne over to the house? Maybe we should have met at a café. Neutral space. She sighs. But Anne agreed to come. Via email. We haven’t talked in nearly a month, Fiona realizes. Her stomach …
— Trish! It’s so great to see you. Now I can stop cleaning the damn house! — Sorry to just pop by unannounced, Fee, but I was at the market and I just thought I’d see if you were at home. — Is something wrong? — I’m succumbing to guilt overload. I’ve asked Iryna to …