Page 6 of Feels Like the First Time
Ali gave a stern look. “Who else is coming, Dad?”
Marty lifted a hand in surrender. “I can’t answer what I don’t know. With you girls, I never know who’s going to show. I just man the grill and hope for a good time.”
“It will be a good time, no matter who comes,” Ali said softly, not wanting her dad to be disappointed over cooking for a family, when the odds of Bridget actually coming through were slim.
Every Saturday, Marty hosted a family dinner, and every Saturday he invited Bridget to come. Until she’d married Hawk, she’d never once shown an interest. And since their divorce, she’d appeared only a handful of times. So even though this wasn’t the ideal dinner for her sister to crash, for Marty’s sake, Ali hoped Bridget came through.
“But just in case, maybe you should make up some extra of that special honey butter of yours. You know how Bridget loves it,” Ali said.
“Bridget doesn’t do honey butter or corn bread,” a voice sweet enough to cause a glycemic overload said from behind. “She’s gone Paleo.”
“Since when?” Ali asked, turning to find her sister, Bridget, standing in the doorway. Her dress was couture, her shoes designer, and she had enough bling to accessorize the Kardashians for the Grammys. Her sister looked ready to walk the red carpet or have cocktails with the mayor. Not a family BBQ on the patio.
“Since I learned how important it is to only eat things that once had a soul,” Bridget said, tossing her purse on the counter.
“Butter comes from cows and honey from bees. Both murdered souls,” Ali pointed out.
“Great, then I will spread it over my steak.” She crossed the room and gave Marty a kiss on the cheek. “Hey, Dad, sorry I missed our sail. I got caught up in a meeting.”
She said it as if her meetings didn’t include mimosas, a country club, and the latest “cause” of the moment.
“That’s okay, we’re all here now,” Marty beamed, pulling Bridget into his arms. “All of us together again, and with so much to celebrate.”
“That’s why I brought the bubbly.” Bridget pulled a bottle of champagne from her purse. Correction, not champagne. Cristal.
“Isn’t that nice,” Marty said, giving Ali the sameJust go with itlook he’d given her every birthday when she opened her present from her sister and mom to find a doll or tutu or, the worst, a new dress.
Unless it was Jack and Coke, Ali wasn’t all that big on drinks that fizzed. But her dad was right—the idea that her sister had thought to bring a present was kind of sweet. “Thanks, B.”
“Are you kidding? This kind of news requires a toast. I was just excited that we could all make time to get together.”
“Me too,” Ali said, a little confused by her sister’s genuine excitement. “Here, let me put that in the fridge so it gets cold.”
“Thanks.” Bridget handed over the bottle and took a seat at the counter. “I’ve been dying to post about it on Facebook, but we wanted to toast with you guys first.”
Ali and her dad exchanged looks. “The pastor’s wife, Bitsy, already told her quilting group about it, and that almost acts like a press release around here, so I don’t care if you tell anyone. But speaking of we, who else is coming?”
“Mom, of course,” Bridget said with a bright smile. “Oh, and perfect timing, she’s here.”
Ali’s heart slammed against her chest, each pound bringing a clarity to the situation, and everything hit Ali at once. Marty’s panicked expression, the way her heart pinched with insecurity, the reality that she was wearing Converse high-tops that saidBALL BUSTERSon the toes, and that her mother was there. At her celebration.
And no one had warned Marty.
Gail never came with a warning. She came with a sweet smile, big dreams, and left with your heart. So Ali secured hers then turned to her sister.
“Why did you invite her?” she hissed.
Bridget rolled her eyes. “Because I knew she’d want to be here for this.”
Somehow Ali doubted that. Gail was about as supportive of Ali’s chosen field as she was about her fashion choices. When she’d gone off to art school, Gail had envisioned easels and watercolor landscapes, not abstract steel structures and welding equipment. “But it’s Dad’s house. You should have asked.”
“Don’t get mad at you sister,” Gail said, walking through the front door as though she still lived there. “Proper dinner party etiquette states that everyone is allowed to bring a plus one. She was only invoking her right.”
Forcing a happy smile, an emotion Ali had become a pro at faking, she turned around. “Mom? What a surprise.”
“You say that like I’d miss this big moment,” Gail said as she waltzed into the kitchen, a long scarf draping over her shoulders and billowing behind her.
Gail Marshal-Bowman-Stevens-Marshal-Goldstein-Fletcher looked like a cover model forSerene and Sexy After Sixty. Her hair was still fire red, her dress sleek and black and designed to cling, and her attitude was dialed tocougar on the prowl.
