“But you will.” His eyebrows raised, pushing up the edge of a stocking cap that, these days, seemed forever on his head.
“Oh, yeah,” Pescoli said, dropping her computer onto a chair at the table and unzipping her jacket. Cisco was still spinning crazily at her feet, so she took the time to bend down and scratch him behind his ears. “Hey, there,” she said to the dog and was rewarded with a wildly wagging tail and a few more quick circles. “Yeah, I missed you too.”
“Mom?” Bianca appeared in bare feet, pajama bottoms, and a sweatshirt that looked two sizes too big for her small frame.
“Hi.” Pescoli threw her daughter a wan smile. “Sorry about all this.”
“It’s okay,” Bianca said as Pescoli tossed her coat over the back of a chair.
“But I was going to cook a ham with scalloped potatoes, you know, try to have a real Christmas dinner.”
“Who cares?” Jeremy was sitting up though his fingers were still attached to his game controller. “I had Cap’n Crunch.”
“Swell. Cereal for dinner.”
“And Gatorade.”
“Mmmm.” She noticed a half-full plastic bottle set on the floor next to a mixing bowl—the remains of his dinner. “Terrific.” Lifting an eyebrow, she glanced at her daughter. “You?”
“A protein bar.”
“And? Gatorade?”
“Yuk, no. Diet Pepsi.”
“Even better. Zero calories and zero nutrition.” Pescoli made a face, then cringed inside when she thought of her own childhood and all the traditional meals eaten around the dining table on polished silver. Even after her father had abandoned them when she was eleven, her mother had, each and every year, held Christmas dinner at the big table where she and her three older sisters had sat with various aunts, uncles, and cousins. If too many family members showed up, the long table was extended with a series of folding tables that pushed into the living room. The tantalizing aromas of roasting prime rib and hot baked pies filled the old house where laughter rang, the piano was played, and, after a flurry of opening of presents, dice were tossed when board games were played . . . a far cry from what her children were experiencing. “I’ll make it up to you,” she promised, her throat suddenly thick. “I swear.”
“We had a big dinner last night at Dad’s,” Bianca said, uncaring.
“Michelle cooked?” Pescoli imagined the Barbie doll–like woman in her pink, strappy high heels and a tiny embroidered apron that barely covered her tight dress as she glazed the Christmas ham.
Jeremy barked out a laugh, as if he’d seen the same image in his own mind’s eye. “Michelle’s mother cooked a goose. I think it’s their family tradition or something.”
“It was gross!” Bianca pulled a face and stuck out her tongue. “I tried to eat some, really . . . but . . .” She shuddered violently. “Ick!”
“A protein bar was better?”
“Tons!” Bianca said, nodding. “Oh! But Michelle got me a string bikini for Christmas.”
“A bikini? In Montana in the winter?” Pescoli inwardly sighed. What was wrong with Lucky’s wife?
“She had to order it online, and she also bought me a round-trip ticket to Phoenix for a girls’ spa weekend!” Bianca’s blue eyes were bright with anticipation.
“She’s going, too, I take it?”
“Uh-huh, and we’re going to get all-day massages, manis, and pedis, and then lay around the pool, oh, make that pools. She and Dad have a time-share and there are six pools on the property!”
“And when is this trip planned . . . ?”
“Spring break!”
“And you?” she turned to Jeremy.
“Luke got me a new rifle.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah,” Jeremy said, and he, too, grinned widely. “It’s really cool. And airline tickets too. Spring training. Luke’s already lined up a couple of games!”