The Perfect Recipe for Love and Friendship Page 5

  “Is that the key to getting over losing your husband?” Bridget asked. “Highlights?”

  “Bridget Marie, do not get fresh. I’m merely trying to help you. The longer you stay stuck, the deeper the mud gets.”

  “I can’t believe this. My husband has been dead for two weeks, Ma. Two weeks, not two years.” Bridget threw up her hands and backed away, hitting the table as she did, which jostled her wine and spilled it down the front of her sweater. She cursed under her breath and dabbed at it with a napkin, but that made the crimson stain spread.

  Her mother crossed the kitchen and peered into her daughter’s eyes. “You are a mess,” she said. “You should get cleaned up before dinner and let me soak that in some club soda. Lord knows if I can get the stain out.”

  Instead of acknowledging what Bridget had said or apologizing, her mother had found yet another fault to pick at. “Good Lord, Ma, it’s just some wine. I’m not going to change. It’s not like the Pope is coming to dinner.”

  “No, but someone else is.” Her mother gave her a little shove. “So go. Get a sweater from my dresser. Not the orange one—that makes you look all washed out. Get the green one. It brings out your eyes.”

  In answer, Bridget swallowed the remaining wine in the glass and refilled it. She debated arguing but knew the outcome. Her mother would sigh and pout and mention the wine stain a thousand times, until Bridget finally caved. It was far easier to change her shirt than to argue. Hadn’t she perfected that long ago? Go along, and get along, and let peace reign.

  Just as she emerged from the master bedroom, in a Kelly-green sweater with a too-tight boatneck, the doorbell rang. Father McBride stood on the doorstep, his black fedora in one hand, pressed to his chest like an apology. “Bridget. So nice to see you. We’ve missed you at Mass.”

  Bridget shot a glare in Magpie’s direction, but her little sister just put up her hands and mouthed I didn’t know. “Come in, Father McBride,” Bridget said. “My mother made stew.”

  “And a very fine stew it is, I’m sure. Colleen, you have the most exemplary culinary skills.”

  Her mother came down the hall, wiping her hands on her apron and blushing like a schoolgirl. “Why, thank you, Father. I’m always so honored to have you at my house.” She ushered him toward the table and nodded at her daughters. “Girls, please welcome Father McBride and then sit down so we can eat dinner.”

  Nora glanced over at Bridget, and they exchanged the why-does-she-still-treat-us-like-children look. “Nice to see you, Father McBride,” Nora said.

  “Yeah, hi. It’s like bringing church home,” Magpie added. “Only without all the Latin.”

  “Margaret!”

  “I must agree with Miss Margaret.” A wisp of white hair danced on top of Father McBride’s mostly bald head when he nodded. He had thin-rimmed glasses that perched on the end of his nose, but his blue eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief. “And I promise to only speak English tonight.”

  The girls took their seats around the table with Nora and Bridget on one side, Magpie next to the priest, their mother at one end, and the empty plate at the head of the table. “Father, would you say grace for us?” Ma asked.

  “Aren’t we waiting for one more?” He nodded toward the extra place setting.

  “Only if you’re waiting to die,” Magpie muttered.

  “My late husband, God rest his soul,” Ma said with a stern glare in Magpie’s direction, “is always honored at this table. I could never love another man the way I loved my Michael.”

  Whereas Bridget was getting the lecture about moving on. She might not have paid the electric bill or cleaned out the drawers, but at least she wasn’t still setting out a plate twenty years later.

  “That is a noble gesture, Mrs. O’Bannon. I’m sure Michael is looking down on you with love. Now, let us pray.” Father McBride bowed his head, waited a beat, and then said a short grace.

  Bridget shifted in her seat. Sitting across from the priest was as bad as sitting under the accusatory Jesus painting at church. She mumbled an Amen and reached for the bowl of biscuits, taking one before handing them to Nora.

  “So, Father, how are the renovations going?” Ma asked. “It will be so nice to see Our Lady Church restored to its original glory.”

  “With a modern touch.” Father McBride winked. “Everything is proceeding right on time and budget, thank the Lord.” He handed the soup tureen to Magpie and glanced up at Bridget. “Your mother tells me you are looking to get more involved in the church. Filling these difficult days with meaningful work.”

  Magpie choked on her water. Nora dipped her head and acted like putting butter on her biscuit was a job. Ma went on as if nothing had happened, ladling stew into her bowl.

  “I haven’t decided what I want to do yet, Father.” Which was a whole lot better than saying, Hell, no, I don’t want to fill these difficult days with church.

  “We are in need of a Sunday school teacher for third grade. And someone to plan the senior ladies’ bus trip to New York City.” Father McBride set a roll on the edge of his plate. “Both are worthy causes to donate your time to. Spending more time with the Lord will help ease your pain.”

  “Right now, I’m using this,” Bridget said, and raised her wineglass. Then she tipped it back and finished it off in one swallow. Her head was woozy, her thoughts a liberating whirl. “Yup. Works just fine.”

  Father McBride’s face paled. He glanced at Ma.

  “Bridget Marie, you have had too much to drink. I should have stopped you before you opened that devil’s brew. What possessed you to bring it to family dinner?”

  “I brought it, Ma, not Bridge. Because frankly, I figured we could all use a little alcohol.” Magpie got to her feet. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m getting a wineglass.”

  Bridget leaned back in her seat. “While you’re in there, Mags, pour me a shot from that tequila Ma keeps in the back of the cupboard.”

  Bridget had seen her mother angry before. Had heard her yell. But never in her life had she seen her mother’s face go from pale to purple so fast. Father McBride clamped a hand over his mouth, covering a laugh. Ma had her fists on the table, the knuckles white.

  “I raised you better than this, Bridget Marie. I’m going to allow this one slip because of your recent circumstances, but I expect you to behave with decorum and grace for the remainder of the meal.”

  “Decorum and grace? My husband died, Ma, at thirty. I don’t know how to behave when I wake up in that empty bed every morning. How the hell am I supposed to know how to behave here?”

  Her mother gasped. Nora’s jaw dropped. Magpie raised a little fist of You go, sister. “You will not use this language in front of Father McBride.”

  The priest shrugged and reached for another roll. “Doesn’t bother me. I use the word hell on a daily basis.”

  “You’re cooler than I thought, Father,” Magpie said, and passed him the butter.

  The red in Ma’s face deepened and her lips thinned. “You are in my house, Bridget. And you will respect my rules.”

  “Rules like not talking about Abby?” Bridget threw up her hands. All that wine on an empty stomach spun in her head, pushing words out of her mouth before her brain could throw down some brakes. “She’s like brussels sprouts at Thanksgiving. Everyone pretends she doesn’t exist.”

  “Your sister made her choices.”

  “No, Ma, you did. She dropped out of this family because you couldn’t fit her into one of your neat little boxes of how a good Catholic girl should behave.” Anger pushed at Bridget, a tidal wave she’d held back for so long, but now it crashed over the walls of obedience and polite talk that had ruled her life. The judgment, the criticism, all the barriers that had shoved Abby out of the family and kept her on the outside. “You know who that empty seat should be for? Abby. She’s alive and well, and the one who isn’t here. You keep telling me to move on, and you’re still setting a place for a man who died so long ago, I barely remember his face.”<
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  Her mother drew in a long breath and then drew herself up, her spine as straight as a steel beam. “You are not yourself, Bridget. Calm yourself.”

  Bridget shook her head. She was tired of calming down, of behaving, of living by the rules she’d learned long ago. Where had that gotten her? Alone and widowed and being served up like a sacrificial volunteer to Father McBride. “I came here for stew, Ma, not some crazy grief intervention with my sisters and the local priest.” She got to her feet so fast that the chair teetered on its back legs. Then she turned on her heel and started out of the dining room, with Magpie hurrying after her and digging her car keys out of her pocket. At the last second, Bridget turned back and grabbed the last bottle of Merlot for the road.

  SEVEN

  The quiet meant success.

  At least, that was what Bridget told herself when no one came by and her house stayed quiet and still for the next two days. So still, it was as if the air stopped moving and everything sank into suspended animation.

  She finished Orange Is the New Black and House of Cards, moved on to Stranger Things and some show with Harry Potter playing a doctor, but none of it took away the quiet. The TV droned and the picture flickered and Bridget tried to make herself do something other than lie in bed.

  If she counted going to the kitchen to dish up yet another serving of a mystery casserole left on her doorstep by well-meaning neighbors, then she could almost say she’d gotten some exercise.

  Mostly, she lay there in that cold, empty bed and watched TV and thought about her life. Thought about the primroses and the hope she’d once had and the reality she’d been left with.

  Death always seemed to twist the truth a little, making jerks nicer in afterthought, elevating the man who tithed once at church to sainthood. In those dark hours when Bridget awoke alone in her bed, she forgot about the fights she’d had with Jim, forgot about the little annoyances that came with living with another person, and ached for his presence beside her. The warmth of his body, the touch of his foot when he rolled over, the soft sound of his breathing. Echoes of their arguments would flutter through her memories, but she pushed them away. What good would it do now to recall all the times they had fought? All the disagreements about their budget, their jobs, their future? She let her mind curl the truth into something palatable and melancholy because it eased the loneliness of that empty bed.

  Her phone buzzed, and she considered letting it go to voice mail, another message piling into the digital box. Then Magpie’s face showed up on the screen, the one where she was standing in the shadow of a volcano in Machu Picchu or someplace like that. Considering calls from Magpie were about as frequent as meteor showers, Bridget broke her no-calls rule and answered it. “Hey, Magpie. Where are you?”

  “Heading to South Africa. I’ve got a story to do on this little remote village where they harvest these beans that are supposed to make you look ten years younger. Or at least, that’s what the editor at Glamour thinks. So that’s the story I’m writing. While you, big sister, have pissed off everyone. My phone hasn’t blown up this much since we found out Uncle Carl was arrested for pissing on the side of Artie Lennon’s packie.”

  Bridget sighed. That little liquor store adventure had even made it into the papers. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize. It’s about fucking time you did something other than say yes. So do me a favor.” Magpie paused, yelled something into the wind, then came back to the phone. “Get the hell out of that house and do something wild. Unexpected. Hop on a plane or jump in the ocean or kiss a stranger. Just leap, Bridge.”

  Bridget let out a long breath. It wasn’t that easy. She had bills to pay, calls to return, decisions to make. She couldn’t just flit into the ether like her little sister. “Have a safe trip, Mag—”

  But the phone had already gone dead, and Magpie was gone. Bridget started to roll back into the covers when something caught her eye. She slid out of bed and crossed to the window.

  The hummingbird—maybe not the same one but it sure looked the same—hovered above the shrubs outside her bedroom window. Its wings beat so fast that they were a gray blur, but its dark round eyes seemed to hold Bridget’s gaze. Like he was expecting something from her.

  She blinked, and he was gone. The wee bird was a sign, Bridget dear, she could hear her grandmother say. A sign from the heavens above. You best be listening.

  Listen to what? If there was some cosmic message she was supposed to get, then maybe it should be announced by bullhorn. Maybe it was as simple as the message Magpie had given her—

  Get your ass out of that bed and do something. Something other than eat and pee.

  Outside, the hummingbird was back at the window, this time darting from the bedroom to the corner of the L-shape of the house, to the dining room, over to the kitchen. It hovered over the greenhouse window, a boxy bump out that had come with the house. Bridget had loved the window, but Jim had said it was a leak waiting to happen.

  Bridget slid her feet into a pair of slippers, wrapped a silky robe around her pajamas, and padded down to the kitchen. The sun streamed through the windows, bright and harsh, and it took a second for Bridget’s eyes to adjust. The hummingbird zipped from the top of the greenhouse window to the bottom and then crossed to the other side, up, down, side to side.

  “Hey, little guy,” Bridget said. “Whatcha looking for?”

  The bird flitted back and forth, seeming to make a circle around the bright pink plastic flowers sitting in the window, barred to him by glass.

  “You’re hungry? These aren’t even real though. I’m sorry.” The bird, of course, didn’t answer. He darted away, probably giving up and leaving for more flowery pastures.

  Bridget glanced at the fridge, stuffed to the gills with casseroles she’d never finish eating. Her gaze landed on Jim’s briefcase and a two-week-old tri-folded Wall Street Journal sitting on the tiny corner desk, covering his laptop. Her phone buzzed, yet another text from her mother asking if she was home.

  Good God, the last thing she needed was her mother hovering over her like she would a sick toddler. Bridget texted back, Just heading out to run an errand, and then realized chances were good her mother would drive by and check to see if she’d lied.

  So she took a shower and got dressed and got in the car and drove through Dorchester, taking each step like eating baby food, slow and steady, without looking back or looking ahead. Just concentrating on the shower, the clothes, the steering wheel, the traffic.

  For a while, she drove aimlessly. The supermarket looked too busy, too bright. The park was stuffed with kids and moms. The traffic on I-93 was beginning to choke, filling with people hurrying to lunch appointments.

  Across the water, she could see the brick boxes that housed UMass. A little farther south sat Castle Island, just past the pricy condos in Marina Bay. The space between the two was anchored by a massive rainbow-swashed gas tank, with its rumored image of Ho Chi Minh inked into the blue stripe running down the center.

  But on the other side of the highway, a small sign seemed to be lifted into the air by huge wooden birds, drawing Bridget off the exit and down a small side road. She parked and looked up at a giant, bright orange birdhouse with a canary-yellow roof. Wind chimes and bird feeders dangled from the eaves like icicles, swaying in the slight breeze from the traffic whizzing by on I-93 beside it. Little hand-lettered signs in the window promised things like GET EVERYTHING TO MAKE YOUR BIRD FRIENDS HAPPY! MAKE YOUR YARD “SING!” BRING MOTHER NATURE CLOSER!

  The door let out a little tweet-tweet when Bridget entered the shop. A bright green parrot called out a croaky hello from a perch set at the end of the first aisle. Then he reached down and flicked a sunflower seed in her direction.

  “Petey, you stop that. Be nice.” A buxom woman came bustling toward Bridget. She wore a floral maxi dress that bloomed around her hips and skimmed across the floor, and bracelets that sang a happy song. “Good morning! Oh, no, wait, it’s afternoon. Good afternoon. How
may I ch-elp you?” The woman laughed at that. “Get it? Chirp and help in one word? That’s what makes us Unique Wild Birds! So please, look around, and if you need any ch-elp, just…”

  “Chirp?” Bridget supplied.

  “You’ve got it!” The woman laughed and turned away to help another customer, her skirt creating a wake of fabric as she walked.

  Bridget wandered the aisles, past the stacked bags of birdseed, the elaborate concrete birdbaths, enough binoculars to stock a Peeping Tom convention, and hundreds of birdhouses, in every imaginable shape, size, and color. There were mini replicas of the White House, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and even Windsor Castle.

  “There’s enough here that you’d never have to leave your house to visit the seven wonders of the world.”

  Bridget turned. A tall man in a dark suit stood beside her. He held two different bird feeders and had a book tucked under one arm. But it was his smile she noticed—nice, warm, friendly.

  “How do you know which one to buy?” she asked.

  “I don’t. That’s why I got two.”

  “You could have asked the saleslady for help. She seems…enthusiastic.”

  He shook his head. “I refuse to chirp.”

  Bridget laughed, the sound still feeling foreign and wrong. She sobered and turned back to the long row of bird feeders. They all looked like different versions of the exact same thing. Birds of all shape and feather were pictured on the boxes, but none of them looked like hummingbirds.

  “What are you looking for?” he asked.

  “I’m good, thanks.” She worried her bottom lip and reached for one box, and then another. There were more choices here than in the panties section of Victoria’s Secret.

  “I don’t know much, but I have plenty of opinions.” He shifted into her line of vision and smiled again. “And you don’t even have to chirp to get my attention.”

  Wait. Was he flirting with her? Bridget caught her reflection in one of the tiny mirrors. Her face was drawn, her eyes shadowed, her hair flat and limp. She’d whisked on some powder foundation and swiped on a little mascara, just to keep from scaring people, but she certainly wasn’t going to win any beauty awards. The late Joan Rivers would have been appalled at Bridget’s choice of a pale pink sweater and black palazzo pants with flats. No way this guy was flirting with her. And why was she even thinking that? Jim was barely dead.