It’s easy, when you’re the youngest sibling, to feel like no one cares what you’re doing because all the cool stuff has already been done–and probably better–by another kid. So I’d let my sisters be the Smart One and the Driven One and the Artist, and I was left with the Fuckup. I was really good at it. At boarding school, I got into trouble for smoking weed and got kicked off the lacrosse team–which I hated–freeing up yet more time for smoking weed.
In what I told myself was an act of rebellion, I didn’t even apply to my father’s alma mater, Harvard. In truth, he had to pull strings to get me into Dartmouth. It would have taken a serious donation to get me into Harvard. Dartmouth was willing to lower its standards in exchange for a new locker room in the gym. I did not take them by storm.
When Dad had a pretty serious heart attack my junior year of college, I realized I was being an idiot. I’d met enough people from seriously messed up families–my then-girlfriend Elise, for example–to know I had it much better than most. So I decided to make him proud of me if I possibly could. I actually did my work and went to class and got good grades. Of course, that’s the bare minimum a kid should do, so I joined the college newspaper–just like my dad had done.
Still, I felt like they had trouble seeing that I had changed. I’d been the Fuckup for so long that I’d kind of worn a groove into my place in the family. So, as Senior year started to wind down, I decided to marry Elise Hamilton and take my place in the family business–what could be more grown-up than that? My folks had gotten married right after they graduated from Harvard and Radcliffe, my dad going right to work managing the family textile mill in Maine.
Of course those mills had moved to India, but the offices were in Boston, and my parents agreed to let me learn the ropes there. So I started right after graduation, taking off a month for our honeymoon after the ridiculous wedding Elise’s parents threw for us. I told my mother, once, about a month before the wedding, that Elise and I were fighting constantly. She said, “It’s probably just the stress of the wedding, but if you think it’s more than that, it’s never too late to call it off.”
But of course I didn’t listen. I was afraid I’d look like the Fuckup.
My phone buzzes.
V: Food’s here! I’m in the kitchen.
I respond that I’m on my way and head to the basement. The Domaine is built in the old European style, with the kitchen and laundry in the basement, as if one wouldn’t want the actual work of the house to be seen by anyone. When I arrive, Vanessa and Connie are at the rough butcher block table, a spread of take-out around them.
“I think I got too much!” says Vanessa, “but it all looked so good. I should never order when I’m hungry.”
"I can’t imagine why you order when you aren’t hungry," I say, sitting down across from her.
“Fair point. So, how much do you know about Latin American food?”
“Enough to know not to go to Taco Bell. But that’s about it. I know the standard Mexican restaurant dishes, and whatever Marta cooks, does that count?”
“Marta is from Mexico, so those probably overlap a little. You’re from Honduras, right Connie?”
“My parents are. I moved to the US when I was a baby, though.” I feel a little bad for not ever asking them where their families were from. Or maybe I shouldn’t ask? Anyway, I had no idea.
"So you’ll know baleadas, here." She points to what looks like a soft taco made with a thick tortilla. “These are refried beans and Honduran creme which is soooo good.”
It’s funny to see her go into teacher mode. Her voice is even slightly different as she points out each container and what it holds. "These are pupusas, Salvadoran, tamales–these are Mexican style, I like that best…"
I cut her off as she points to corn on the cob. “I know that one!” I say, like an eager schoolboy.
She laughs, “Okay smart guy, what is it?”
“Corn.”
"Yes, but street food style, with lime, chili, and queso fresco. One of my students last year was in a restaurant family. They make street foods from around Central and South America and drive a food truck around. Taste the baleadas, Connie, tell me what you think."
“Mmm, it’s good!” She nods as she chews. “Like Mama made!” I wonder, for a moment, where Maeve is, and realize it has already gotten dark. Maeve must be asleep. Guess I got wrapped up in work.
“Dig in!” says Vanessa, heaping food onto her own plate. I know it’s a cliche by this point, but I like to see a woman enjoy her food. It’s such a refreshing change from the country club “I couldn’t possibly!”s.
The food is terrific, but even better than the meal is when Vanessa says, “You can go on to bed, Connie, we’ll clean up.” Connie looks at me uncertainly–lord knows Mr. Pierce has never offered to clean up before–but I nod in agreement.
“It’s mostly disposable,” I say. She hands Vanessa the baby monitor and heads to her room.
“Thanks for bringing in dinner,” I say, piling the waste into the plastic bags the food came in. Vanessa was wrong about getting too much. I was hungry.
“I’m glad to do it,” she says, smiling into my eyes. “I wanted a chance to just hang out and talk with you. And Connie, of course.”
Of course.
“Do you need to rush off? We could sit out by the pool for a bit. The breeze is almost pleasant tonight.”
Vanessa chuckles. “Well, since I just sleep upstairs now, I don’t think I have to go far. But as long as Maeve is snoozing, I’m free to hang out. Say, isn’t this place a winery? What’s a gal gotta do to get a glass of wine, take the tour?”
I could think of several things she could do, none involving tourism, but kept them to myself. “Red or white?”
“My winemaker buddies in town say you’re growing Cabernet Franc, do you have any of that?”
“No, that’s years out, I’m afraid. I do
have Cabernet or Merlot, though those are our only reds.”
She chuckled again, that sexy sound. “Guess I’ll come clean, I don’t know anything about wine. I worked in a cocktail bar and I tend to drink beer myself. So just get me something that’s not too complicated. Something witty, yet approachable.”
I waggle my eyebrows at her. “That’s my favorite combination,” I say, and am rewarded by seeing the color darken on her cheeks. The dimple flashes into view for just a moment as she smiles at the floor.
When I hand her the glass, half full of a dark red Zinfandel I’ve been told is delicious, she says, “Won’t you join me?”
“I’ll join you in conversation, but I don’t drink anymore.” That “anymore” usually shuts down any pressure to drink.
But Vanessa just laughs. “Well, you’re in a funny job then, aren’t you?”
“Indeed I am,” I say and lead her out the back door to the gazebo near the pool.
It’s a perfect mid-summer night. The breeze is soft, like it had come in off the water. The nearly full moon reflects off the water of the pool.
“I’d never been in a salt water pool before,” says Vanessa, as she settles onto the lounge. I had hoped she sit on the wicker couch, so that I could sit beside her. Instead I sit in a chair that lets me see her face, lit by the moonlight–and all those lights around the pool.
“That was my sister’s idea. When she heard I’d be coming out here with Maeve, she insisted that we get it refitted for salt so that I wasn’t, as she put it, ‘dipping the baby in bleach every day.’”
“Hadn’t thought of it that way, but she has a point. I do like it better, it doesn’t dry my skin out the way the city pool did when I was a kid. So, do you just have the one sister?”
Ah yes, the “how many siblings” conversation.
“I have three older sisters. I’m the baby and the only boy.”
She smiles at me. “I bet you were spoiled rotten.”
“Probably. I imagine my sisters would tell you so. How about you? Siblings?”