Full-time.
Full stop.
Forever.
“Spuds chopped, chef,” Seth says, presenting me with a cutting board of potatoes sliced with such precision they’re nearly translucent.
“Beautiful work.”
“Is it weird that I’m sad we’re not making green bean casserole? Are you sure we don’t want green bean casserole?”
“I told you. No beige, cream-of-mushroom-soup-based foods are allowed.”
He sighs tragically. “Your loss, McMarkson. What else can I do?”
“We’re good for now.”
“Mind if I explore around the property? I’m a little antsy since I didn’t run.”
“Of course.”
I focus on assembling the layers of the gratin, adding dots of butter and sprinkles of flour and pepper and salt and thyme and Parmesan. It’s meditative, and I feel content.
I put it in the oven. That’s the last of my prep, so I decide to call my mom.
“Hello, darling daughter!” she trills into the phone. “I’m hosting lunch for Bruce’s family and we have a houseful at the moment. Can I call you back in a few hours?”
“You little scamp! You didn’t tell me you were meeting his family!”
She giggles. “Surprise!”
She finally introduced me to her boyfriend when I was in Florida for Jon and Kevin’s wedding. He’s a soft-spoken retired financial advisor with kind eyes who dotes on my mother and told me about all her latest sales achievements with so much pride and excitement I wonder how she ever fell for my dad.
Look at us. The Marks women, in healthy relationships with men we love.
“Okay, Mom,” I say. “Let me know how it goes. Love you.”
Just as I end the call, I get an incoming one from my father.
Well that’s out of character. He usually doesn’t even text on Thanksgiving, let alone phone me. Things have been polite, if a bit strained, since the scene at the airport, which we’ve tacitly agreed to pretend never happened. When I saw him in LA we stuck mostly to business—him not asking about Seth, me not inquiring about Celeste.
I did not try to hug him.
But he’s had surprisingly detailed notes on my drafts of the screenplay, and I can’t help but take a certain satisfaction in his close attention to my work. Apparently, it took a script to get me a seat at the table when it comes to receiving his respect. I wish simply being his daughter would have conferred that privilege. But he is who he is.
“Hi, Dad,” I say. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Thanks, toots. Same to you.”
“What are you doing to celebrate?” I ask.
“We sailed down to Key West. We’re not turkey people.”
I’m not sure if he means Celeste or Savannah, so I just say, “No, me neither. I’m making Cornish game hens.”
“Will you be serving it with Kathy’s artery-clogging gratin?”
I breathe through this dig at my mother. “And a shitload of wine.”
We can at least agree on wine.
“Well, listen, toots,” he says. “I wanted to give you a quick update on Busted.”
Ah. That would explain why he deigned to call. Trust Roger Marks to materialize with demands at the rudest time possible. At least I can stop worrying about it.
“Hold on, let me grab my notebook,” I say, brushing flour off my hands.
“No need,” he says. “I’ll make it quick.”
I get a bad feeling. When it comes to his vaunted work, he’s never quick. “Okay. What’s up?”
“Scott has decided to go in a different direction.”
I relax. Just more revisions. I don’t mind. Editing is my favorite part of writing.
“No worries,” I say. “Should we set up a call to discuss it, or will he send notes?”
“Top-line is he thinks your version is too feminine. So you can stand down.”
