Lydia's Party: A Novel by Hawkins Margaret

Author:Hawkins, Margaret [Hawkins, Margaret]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2014-01-23T00:00:00+00:00

Celia

Poor Lydia, Celia thought, wrapping cellophane over the big turkey platter she’d mounded with chopped vegetables. She had no real family. Though in some ways Celia envied her, too, having that whole house to herself. Or at least she would have it to herself, Celia thought, when she finally kicked Spence out.

Celia was organizing herself to leave the house. Peter had already wrapped two loaves of herb bread and put them in the car, side by side on the passenger seat, bundled in dish towels and smelling of flour, like newborn twins. He’d turned on the engine so the bread would stay warm.

“One should be plenty,” she’d said.

“Tell her to freeze the other one, if it doesn’t get eaten,” he’d said. He meant it was a gift. Celia liked this about him, his generosity. It was clearer to her now, now that they had less. Before it had sometimes seemed like showing off.

The ragged remains of Celia’s grocery store epiphany had followed her home and settled around Peter. Now that she was leaving the house for the evening, she’d started to miss him. Poor Lydia, Celia thought again. She had no idea what a happy home life was.

“What are you going to do tonight?” Celia said.

Peter was standing at the kitchen counter reading the newspaper. Griffin was at some kind of overnight retreat and Peter had the house to himself. On the kitchen table was a stack of movies he’d checked out of the library, on the way home from dropping off Griffin, all choices he knew didn’t interest Celia—three James Bond titles and underneath those something called Bicycling the Wine Country of France.

“Making risotto,” he said. A bag of arborio rice and a little pile of oyster mushrooms sat on the counter, along with two neatly peeled cloves of garlic and a hunk of pecorino cheese. He was waiting for Celia to leave before he started cooking. Adam, Peter’s big white cat, was skulking back and forth on the counter, rubbing against Peter’s sleeve. Ever since Eve died, from feline leukemia last spring, Adam had been keeping close to Peter. Male bonding, Celia supposed.

“Have fun,” she said, postponing her exit. She wanted him to look at her, but he’d started making a salad now, and Adam had stopped his skulking and was sitting on the counter staring at the radishes Peter had scrubbed and lined up in a neat row. He seemed distracted, and Celia could tell from the way he was acting that there was something he wasn’t telling her. His evident impatience at her slow departure made her hang around longer to try to tease it out of him. Finally he said, “Don’t you have to get going? The roads are icy.”

“I suppose I do,” Celia said, buttoning her coat and giving him a peck on the cheek. As she leaned over to kiss him she saw the telltale package from the deli, which he’d pushed out of sight, behind the olive oil. He’d bought prosciutto and he was hiding it.

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