Chapter 14: Chapter Thirteen

She remembered why not the minute they arrived.

“Patrick!” Marina’s smile was as wide as her arms as she raced to envelop Patrick. “Ah, I did not believe it at first when Anita told me, but then I realized I must have known.” She took his hands in hers and leaned in, whispering conspiratorially. Great, now they were allies. Perfect. “I made pastitsio.”

Patrick groaned. “I have missed you so much, Mrs. Goodman.”

“Bah.” She threw the compliment away with a carefree wave. It had been a smart move on Patrick’s part. Her mother loved nothing more than a compliment on her cooking. “You must call me Marina. After all these years, we are friends, no?”

“As you wish, Marina.” He winked, actually winked, and offered her mother his arm to lead her into the house.

Anita stalked in behind them, slamming the door. They did not notice.

“Oh, it is so chilly tonight! Smells like snow.” Her mother practically glowed under Patrick’s attention. Her father must be in absentia, as was becoming usual.

“I doubt it’s going to snow, Mom.” Anita felt nauseous and sullen and distinctly like she was the unfavored child. After the experiences of the morning, her day had significantly gone downhill. “It was sixty-five degrees at lunchtime.”

“You never can tell here in Pennsylvania.” Marina flipped her recently blown-out hair over her shoulder.

Anita fought the urge to go home. She had no interest in watching her mother flirt with Patrick. It had been difficult enough sitting beside him in the car on the way here.

“You must tell me how you are doing, Patrick,” Marina gushed. “You are like a son to me. You know, Bill and I tried and tried to have a son”—she winked at him wickedly—“the trying is the fun part, after all.”

“Mom!” Anita said sharply. She slipped out of the heels that had been a mistake. Her bathtub at home called to her.

If Patrick really wanted to spend time with her—

Nope, shutting that right down. Anita swallowed a wave of bile.

“Anita?” Marina stared at her from the kitchen, two glasses of red wine in her hands.

Great. She was standing barefoot in her parents’ foyer, daydreaming about Patrick and bathtubs. Or decidedly not daydreaming about Patrick and bathtubs.

She must be coming down with something.

“Everything okay, love?” Marina asked.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve just, you know, lots going on lately.” Anita cursed herself for stammering. Her stomach turned over, and she tried to swallow the heat creeping through her body. It would be easier if Patrick wasn’t leaning against the doorjamb of the kitchen, his body languorous and that wicked dimple calling out to her like a homing beacon.

“Poor dear,” Marina cooed, moving toward her daughter. “Come, have a glass of wine and eat. Good food will make you feel better.”

God, yes, wine. Anita followed her mother into the kitchen. At least her dad wasn’t there to put the cap on the evening.

****

“What’s wrong?” Patrick asked. Marina had gotten up to put away the dinner plates and fetch the dessert, leaving the two of them alone, if only for a moment.

“Nothing.” Anita sipped again at her wine. It was only her second glass. He did not need to make a federal case of it. It was not like she had needed to contribute much to her mother and Patrick’s conversation.

She wanted to be home. Home in bed. Alone. Definitely—probably?—alone.

It would help if her body stopped flushing every time Patrick looked at her, though right now she was freezing and half wished he would put his arm around her. Seriously, did her mother always live with the house this cold? She could barely drink her wine for her lips chattering.

“Who would like cheesecake?” Marina announced, carrying in a large, clear glass cake stand bearing a beautiful four-inch-high cheesecake drizzled with chocolate glaze and adorned with fresh raspberries.

Anita’s stomach flipped. Oh no.

“Wow, Marina, you are absolutely a gourmet.” Patrick accepted a large slice from her. Anita gulped, holding a hand to her mouth.

“Oh, please, Patrick, your mother’s cooking is also excellent.”

Her mother offered her a slice of cheesecake, but Anita held up a warning hand. Marina cocked an eyebrow at her daughter but said nothing.

Good. Marina tended to force food like a love language. She was too full of wine and pasta and her body too exhausted trying to fight its attraction to the man sitting beside her. The man charming her mother, which was possibly the most attractive thing she had ever seen.

“She is vegetarian, yes?”

“Mostly,” Patrick said, a large piece of cheesecake on his fork. “But on special occasions she will make meatloaf. The things she can do with a carrot are inspiring. You know me, though. I never could give up a good cheesesteak.”

Patrick smiled sideways at Anita, which literally made her stomach flip. Seriously, what was going on with her? He was just a guy, just her oldest friend in the world. Exactly. Yes. She really should ask Toni about dating apps because she clearly—

Her stomach flip-flopped again dangerously.

Oh no. No, no, no, no.

She raced to the bathroom, hand clutched over her mouth, and just made it.

It was a good thing she had not taken the cheesecake.

Sweat pooled on her forehead. She ran cold water over a washcloth to drape across the back of her neck. Anita sank onto the floor, the A-line skirt of her light-blue dress fluttering around her. She closed her eyes and cooled her forehead against the chilly porcelain sink.

A gentle knock. “Anita?” Marina called through the door. “Are you all right?”

No problem. Totally normal. “I’m fine, Mom!” Good. Project confidence.

Her stomach flipped again. If only her body would cooperate.

“Can I come in?” Her mother did not wait, just nudged open the door. Anita could not meet her gaze but took the glass of ice water and pressed it to the nape of her neck. “What’s going on?” Her mother’s voice was soft. Tears pricked in Anita’s eyes.

“I don’t know. Maybe the salad I had for lunch was contaminated or something.” She melted into the familiar warmth of Marina, the well-loved scent of cinnamon and vanilla and clove. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

“Don’t be silly,” Marina replied. She swept tendrils of hair off her daughter’s face. “You’re sick. I hope it wasn’t the pastitsio.”

“I doubt it. You and Patrick seem fine.” She had not eaten much that day. There had been the weird bitter coffee from Amore, but that couldn’t be it. She had barely sipped it, and whoever heard of salmonella from coffee?

“I’m sorry you do not feel well, my dear. But I am glad you brought Patrick.”

“I can tell.” Anita sipped at the ice water. Thank goodness her stomach was finally settling.

Her mother opened her mouth to say something, but Patrick interrupted.

Anita’s hackles raised at the sheepish way he had his hands stuck in his pockets. “What’s wrong?”

“Umm, sorry, but the thing is, it’s kind of snowing.”

****

Snowing was an inadequate term. The blizzard had come on with gale-like ferocity, the wind whipping the fat flakes into loops and whorls. Anita watched the world opacify from her spot on the couch.

“I hope Dad’s okay.” She needed a new cold washcloth, but her limbs were leaden. She might die on that couch, simply leach into the white fabric where she had once perched in a very uncomfortable prom gown. A fitting end for a professional ballroom dancer.

Marina paced the floor. It looked exhausting. “He texted me twenty minutes ago. He will stay in Philadelphia with Dr. Stearns this evening. The roads must be terrible.”

Despite the regularity of its inclement weather, southeastern Pennsylvania did not manage it well. The potholed freeways froze with black ice, drifts piled on the thin shoulders, or freezing rain would solidify old pipes and bring down electrical wires. The thought of driving in a blizzard like this—Anita gulped again.

Marina finally paused in her rapid pacing. “I will find you clothes. You will stay here tonight.”

Heat rushed through her like a whip of adrenaline. Patrick? In the room down the hall?

She was definitely going to be sick again.

“Mom.” Anita struggled to get into a seated position, dislodging her cool washcloth in the process. “We can wait an hour or so. Maybe it will clear up.”

Her mother scoffed. As if she could have expected anything else. “Don’t be silly. It will be a fun sleepover, like old times.”