“I don’t know,” said Nick. “The fog’s still pretty thick. It’ll be at least another hour before we can take off.”
Abby looked around the kitchen. Everything was ready. All the chopping and mixing and arranging had been done. She just had to pop things into the oven or microwave. Her parents and her Aunt Penelope would be arriving in a few hours. All that was missing was the head of the household. He was fogged in on the east coast.
“Okay, I guess there’s nothing we can do about it,” said Abby, wondering if they would ever get the ‘homecoming’ thing right.
“I’m sorry,” said Nick again. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. At least we’ve got the time zone thing working for us. That’s an extra hour.”
Abby agreed that yes, it could be worse, he could be on the other side of the country. “Be safe, that’s all I care about,” she added. “If it’s too dangerous to fly, then don’t. I’m on the pilot’s side in this one. I can handle my parents on my own. I’ll wait dinner as long as I can. Call me when you’re going to take off and we can judge better from there. Okay?”
“Okay, that’s a plan. I can’t wait to see you and meet your aunt. And your parents too, of course.”
“Of course,” laughed Abby. “And you’ll be happy to know that I look way, way better than I did the last time you came home.”
Nick laughed. “Now how is a guy supposed to answer a statement like that?”
“You’re learning, Mr. Carter. You’re learning,” laughed Abby.
They disconnected after only a tiny gap.
Abby looked around her. Why couldn’t life be like the movies? In the movies, Nick would sweep through the door on time and they would make passionate love in the afternoon. Then Abby would serve a perfect dinner; there would be scintillating conversation and hardly any criticism from her mother. Then the folks would leave and she and Nick would make love again. Why couldn’t she have that?
Of course, she said to herself, in the movies these days, Nick would probably sweep through the door and sink an axe into her head…or beam her up to a distant planet…or vote her off the island. No, wait a minute, that wasn’t the movies, that was television. Those so-called ‘reality shows’. Which had absolutely nothing to do with reality. Abby couldn’t stand them.
Those shows defined the first half-decade of the new century, she thought. People talked about the 60’s as the Hippie Years and the 70’s as the Me Decade. The first decade of the twenty-first century should be called the Unreality Years. People couldn’t get enough of that kind of show. Survivor. Big Brother. The Bachelor, Bachelorette, the Big Ugly Fiancé… The Great Race, Fear Factor, the Mole. American Idol and all its spin-offs. Abby didn’t watch them but she couldn’t get away from them. They were mentioned constantly by people she knew and by the media. Abby was willing to bet that if you went into a restaurant and did a survey, that at least ten percent of the people there would be talking about one of them.
And what did it say about American civilization…that you didn’t have to work hard to be a star or to find love or earn money. You just had to be conniving and sneaky, willing to stab others in the back to get ahead. You had to put up with some humiliation, whether it be eating bugs or listening to a pompous ass decry your talent. You had to win America’s heart to win the recording contract. And even then, while you were doing all that, they might turn the tables on you. While you thought you were fooling everyone else, really they were fooling you.
Abby knew that most of America did not share her opinion. She had turned her radio off in the car in disgust earlier in the week when she’d heard the DJ say, “and tonight…The Bachelorette, followed by American Idol and The Apprentice.” The entire lineup for the station was this kind of show. His sidekick announced that tomorrow there would be an all-new Survivor. If you missed last week’s you could watch it tomorrow before the new one. Abby couldn’t believe it. They were showing reruns of shows before the series was even finished.
And why couldn’t people get it that it was television? It wasn’t real life. It was made up, filmed and edited. The hours and hours of filming on the island or wherever, were distilled down into an hour-long show, with the bits carefully chosen for ratings value.
The absolute worst, in Abby’s opinion, was a piece of trash called The Simple Life. Two rich airheads in the least amount of clothing legally possible went to live on a farm. The whole concept was insulting to the American public, thought Abby, especially the farmers. The clothes were designed to look rural, tiny bits of denim and gingham. We’ve really reached the bottom of the barrel this time, had been Abby’s reaction when she first heard about the show. She shook her head in dismay when it became hugely popular and there was talk of a second season.
Even at the committee meetings, she couldn’t get away from it. One or more of the shows was always the topic of conversation while they waited for the meeting to be called to order. Not one person in the room would ever have to choose whether or not to eat a cockroach for money, and yet they had strong opinions on those who did or did not make those choices. The only person who seemed to agree with Abby was Ronni.
Ronni.
Abby walked through the apartment, straightening cushions and picture frames. Ronni. And Nick. Ronni and Nick. Was there such a thing? Nick never mentioned Ronni to Abby. Why would he? He knew that Abby didn’t like her and he knew that Abby knew about their past together. So yeah, why would he mention her?
Abby went out onto the balcony. She looked down at the beach. It was a hot day and there were many people out. Abby felt the warm sun on her face. She closed her eyes and turned her face up, letting the sun erase the chill that went through her.
What was Ronni up to? And how involved was Nick? Abby knew Ronni was up to something. The comments had become more and more blatant and yesterday she had come right out and said that she was exchanging email with him. Abby thought back to the phone call she’d had with Nick when she was in New York. Did this explain the bizarre Philip Randall conversation? Was Nick telling her that it was okay to have a correspondence with a former lover because he was involved in one? And did Abby have a right to be upset about it if he was?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~“Well, when will he get here?” Sharon Fremont asked.
“As soon as he possibly can,” responded her daughter. "They’re in the air, as we speak.”
Sharon shook her head. What was wrong with the world these days?
“It’s not his fault, Mother. He can’t control the weather. Even you can’t do that.”
Sharon narrowed her eyes at her daughter. Don’t start with me, they said. I’ve already had enough of your crazy aunt.
The crazy aunt in question stepped forward and hugged Abby with all her might. She whispered congratulations.
“Thanks, Aunt P. I’m so happy to see you,” answered Abby. “I’m so glad you could make it home for the party.”
“Like I would miss it!” declared her aunt, letting her niece go, but keeping hold of her hand.
Abby walked them through the apartment, giving them the tour. Her father commented on almost every piece of furniture and work of art by saying it was “nice”. Her mother didn’t say much at all, except to sniff and turn up her nose at some of Penelope’s comments. Aunt Penelope commented on everything, how it all went together, how that picture really caught the eye, how comfortable it all looked.
She stopped talking in the den, as she stood in front of the painting. Her eyes filled with tears as she ran her fingers over the words. A Princess Penelope story. She turned to Abby, “I can’t tell you how flattered I am…” She couldn’t go on, just grimaced at her show of emotion.
“I don’t know why you’d be flattered. The girl is a bit of a flibbertigibbet,” snorted Sharon. She turned and left the room.
Abby and her aunt looked at each other and smiled through their tears.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Finally, Abby could wait no longer and she served the soup. She had dragged out cocktails and hors d’oeuvres as long as she could. She tried not to look at her watch every thirty seconds, but it was hard. She kept thinking, okay, he’s landed, now he’s getting his luggage, now he’s in the limo…but still he wasn’t there.
Abby had wondered about the seating arrangements. She put Nick at the head of the table, of course, and herself at the other end. She couldn’t decide about the others. Her parents on one side and her aunt on the other? Her father and her aunt together across from her mother? Her aunt and mother side by side? Which would be worse…to have them glaring at each other from across the table or to have them both so handy to cutlery and each other’s throat?
Abby wasn’t worried about her aunt. She was very low-key, let Sharon’s comments roll right off her. It was her mother Abby was worried about. Abby would not tolerate it if her mother was rude to her aunt in her presence, in her home.
“That’s Nick’s seat, Daddy,” she said softly. John Fremont stood at the head of the table.
“Of course, it is, Honey,” he said with a smile. “Sorry, force of habit. Where do you want me?”
“Anywhere is good,” answered Abby. Let her father be the one to decide.
“Why don’t I sit here with Penelope?” he suggested, touching the back of a chair.
“Good idea,” said Abby.
When everyone was seated and had commented on the soup, conversation dwindled as people ate. Sharon couldn’t tolerate that for long and began to discuss the wedding party, giving her sister-in-law way more details than she would ever want or need.
Penelope listened politely and commented whenever Sharon paused to draw breath. Abby’s aunt didn’t give a rat’s ass about wedding arrangements but she cared a great deal for her niece. She knew that Abby was on tenterhooks as it was and she was determined not to exacerbate the situation by getting into a catfight with Sharon. But, my lord, the woman was pompous, thought Penelope, fighting back the urge to comment sarcastically. Shades of yellow, for heaven’s sake! The flavor of the cake! Nobody ate the damn cake anyway. Penelope was tempted to ask why Sharon was having another dessert served (Raspberries Chantilly, no less) if the cake was so important.
The dissertation on the place cards nearly pushed her over the edge. They were just starting on the main course and Abby was getting more tightly wound by the second. Her mother didn’t even seem to notice, just kept blathering on. And John was John, blithely unaware of any drama going on around him, eating his Chicken Kiev and telling his daughter how wonderful she was. Abby smiled weakly at him and thanked him, but she wasn’t eating anything, her aunt noticed. She was just pushing the food around her plate.
Suddenly, Abby leapt to her feet. The others hadn’t heard anything, but Abby recognized the sounds of her home and she knew she’d heard the front door open. She excused herself with a smile and tried not to run as she made her way to the front hall. Nick was home!
