|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Fri Nov 29, 2013 5:33 pm
Thursday, November 28th, 2013
There'll be other parts to this, I just have to get around to finishing them. orz
All Gallos borrowed with Guine's permission and input! Word Count: 5160
“s**t, what am I going to wear?”
Everything else was perfect.
She'd planned obsessively for three weeks (but then when Paris actually took the time to plan something, it was always done obsessively; naturally this would be no exception). The house was clean, the renovations as complete as they could be in the time they'd been allowed, with not a decoration out of place. More importantly, the food was prepared—and if it wasn't, she had the last remaining dishes and the finishing touches planned down to the very last second. If anything went wrong, it would only be after she'd exerted her best effort.
But somehow her plans had not gone quite this far. During all of the evenings she'd spent pouring over recipes and jotting reminders down in her day planner, the subject of her attire had not come up once.
Paris stood on the lower level of her closet, staring ahead of her as a feeling of immense dread consumed her.
“Paris?” Chris called from somewhere behind her.
She did not answer, but continued in her silent panic.
“Paris?” Chris tried again, poking his head around the door jamb.
“What?” she asked, somewhat dazedly.
Chris took a couple of hesitant steps into the closet, with a towel around his waist and a toothbrush in his mouth. His hair was still damp and dripped water onto his shoulders.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“I have no idea what I'm going to wear,” Paris told him. She was surprised by how emotionless her voice sounded, considering the manner in which fear and anxiety tore through her.
“Oh...”
“What do you want?”
Awkwardly, Chris ran has toothbrush over his teeth a few times before pausing to speak around it. “Uh... I was going to ask you... what you wanted me to wear.”
“s**t.”
“But I can just... uh... figure something out.”
Paris waved one of her hands at him. “Just let me think.”
As Chris grew silent, Paris began pacing around her closet, moving from section to section and riffling through her clothes in the hopes that she'd find something appropriate to wear for a Thanksgiving dinner around all of the Gallos. Of course, she had countless things that might work, but being the sort to relentlessly plan these sorts of occasions down to the last detail, she felt lost without any sort of previous decision made on the matter. There were simply too many options. She drew a blank with each section she approached, and ended up huffing and flailing in distress as she wore a path between the dressing area and the stairs leading up to the second level.
Out of the corner of her eye she could see Chris standing there watching her with a sort of hazardous concern.
“I don't know what to wear,” she said, and did not bother hiding her distress.
“Okay,” Chris said. “Do you want me to help?”
Waving another hand at him, Paris continued her pacing; she hoped that if she stared around enough, something would finally jump out at her and pronounce itself suitable.
Chris took a few more cautious steps into the closet but came to a stop when his eyes settled on the stairs. He tilted his head back to look up toward the second level and quickly adopted an expression of utter helplessness, before his eyes seemed to loose focus and his face froze in a mask of confusion and unease.
When one considered what Paris had argued against in renovating their house (the needless expense of hydraulic cabinets, the refurbishing of an elevator that had already proved useful when injured, and whether or not to have hardwood throughout the house or use carpet in the many bedrooms—perhaps their worst fight to date, embarrassingly enough), one would assume that Paris would think a two-story closet too ostentatious for her tastes. And it was, but with the space available and Chris so sweetly insisting upon meeting her needs, the closet and dressing room had been one argument Paris had chosen not to enter into.
It was an area of the house that Chris had worked on himself, but since its completion he'd had no need to set foot in it. Now the presence of clothing and shoes in such a large space that had previously been empty seemed to throw him for a loop. His face was that of one who realized what he'd done too late, and now stood staring in discomfort and horror.
“Uh...”
“Now you see my problem,” Paris said.
“Yeah...”
“We have an hour until your family starts arriving.”
“Uh... okay... uh... what about... that thing you wore... before...? A couple of weeks ago.”
“I wore a lot of things a couple of weeks ago,” Paris said.
“Yeah, but...” Chris tried, looking around ineffectually, as if twisting and turning on the spot would help him find it. “You wore it to church. It was... uh... blue. It had the straps, like... sort of like suspenders. And you had on a shirt with a bow.”
Paris paused to look at him, surprised that Chris (who usually had such a poor memory for those sorts of details) would actually be able to recall what she'd worn to mass more than a week ago. She took a moment to think back and go through her mental catalogue of all of her clothing, and then approached one of her well-organized racks to remove a dress and a cream blouse with red and pink floral print that fit Chris's description.
“This?” she asked.
“Yeah!” Chris said, and looked pleased with himself.
Paris just stared, bewildered.
“I thought it was cute,” Chris tried to explain. “I can't remember what shoes you wore, though.”
“It's fine, I'll worry about the shoes.”
“I was... uh...” And here Chris looked sheepish, though he grinned all the same. “I was too busy looking at your legs.”
Paris tried to look exasperated but failed utterly. Instead, she melted and shuffled over to Chris for a quick snuggle, and a kiss once he'd removed his toothbrush.
“Do you remember what you wore?” she asked.
“Nope,” Chris said. He sounded amused, and didn't bother with sheepishness this time. “I think there might have been a red sweater.”
“Cardigan,” Paris corrected him. “Wear it with black or gray slacks. And find a tie with some navy in it.”
“So we can match?”
Paris gave him a look.
Chris laughed and leaned down for another kiss. “Okay, okay. I got it from here.”
“Good,” Paris said.
The temptation to remain right where she was nearly stalled her a little longer, but time was ticking away and Paris was dead set on keeping to her schedule. She claimed one more kiss before pulling away to set her clothes aside and leave her closet for the bathroom.
“I'm taking a shower,” she said. “Get dressed and make sure you're listening to the door bell. If anyone gets here early, distract them with champagne. And don't touch anything in the kitchen!”
Chris shrugged and followed more sedately, shoving his toothbrush back into his mouth to continue brushing. Around it he said, “Then how'm I s'pposed to distract 'em with champagne?”
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Nov 30, 2013 11:26 am
After she'd showered and dressed, styled her hair and put on her make-up, Paris hastily slipped on a pair of nude pumps and trotted out of the room to take the stairs down to the kitchen.
She entered to find Momma Gallo already bustling about in an apron, with Chris and Michael sitting at the counter bar with a beer apiece, and Peter rolling first his eyes then his head in a dramatic fashion to show his boredom as he slumped in the corner, listlessly petting the dog. Of the entire image, the thing that looked most out of place was the sight of Admiral Gallo, not sitting and drinking with his older sons but deftly hoisting one of the turkeys into the oven.
Recalling another instance in which one of the Gallo boys appeared so confident in the kitchen seemed an impossible feat.
Paris stopped at the sight of them and felt her heart give a few strong, anxious thuds as the presence of other people disrupted her careful planning.
“Good morning, Precious!” Momma chirped, skipping over to hug Paris tightly and press kisses to her suddenly feverish cheeks. “I thought we'd come over and help before Nana gets here. Shhh, it'll be our little secret,” she whispered that last bit conspiratorially.
“Hello, Momma,” Paris responded weakly.
Their thoughtfulness was touching, but as Paris suddenly found herself needing to rearrange her schedule she was unable to respond to it with the immense gratitude she would have otherwise felt.
“Here,” Beau said, and handed Paris a glass of wine. “You'll need it.”
The thought that Chris's straight-laced, Navy Admiral father was offering her a glass of wine and encouraging her to drink underage did not even seem strange to Paris in her nervousness. She took it from him gratefully and drank it as he gave her a one-armed hug and dropped a quick kiss onto her temple.
Either the wine helped as intended or the support from Chris's parents strengthened her determination. When the glass was empty Paris set it on the counter and reached for her apron, tying it around her waist and rolling up her sleeves to get to work.
Though she'd not planned to have assistance, it proved to be immensely fortifying to have Momma and Beau there to help with setting up the hors d'oeuvres. Chris and Michael were, of course, utterly useless (Chris because he had no idea what to do and Michael because he was too busy working his way through a couple of celebratory bottles of beer), and Peter insisted upon sulking and complaining of boredom (“You mean you don't have any video games?”) before trudging off to find some means of entertainment (and a nice hiding place for whenever Nana arrived and insisted upon pinching his cheeks and generally doing everything in her power to make everyone feel uncomfortable at least once), but as Paris had expected to handle almost everything herself the company was more than welcome.
Unfortunately, her nerves started to fray a bit with each chiming of the doorbell. Chris took this as a signal to abandon his drink and ambled out of the kitchen (with Michael in toe; it seemed he had no desire to be roped into helping by being the last brother remaining). Paris could hear voices drifting back from the foyer but chose not to listen carefully enough to pick out any of the individual words; she wasn't entirely sure she'd be able to handle hearing any conversation when the thought of the crowd to come left her quite sick to her stomach.
One voice she could pick out among all the rest babbled happily, and the soft pitter-pat of fourteen-month-old feet heralded the arrival of Paris's mother and baby sister.
“Put some clothes on, Mom,” Paris said, sparring her and her exposed cleavage only a momentary glance before returning to the baked brie she was removing from the oven.
Marissa merely looked unimpressed and said, “I seem to remember one summer when you wore nothing but mini-skirts, all of which had their disturbing lack of any decent length in common.”
“Yeah, well, I grew out of that, didn't I?”
“Don't twirl around in that dress or your in-laws'll get a nice look at your cute little bloomers.”
Paris frowned and adjusted her apron as a means of disguising her efforts to ensure that the skirt of her dress covered what it needed to. Satisfied that everything was in its proper place (and that her dress really wasn't that short), Paris assumed that her mother had merely made a lucky guess as to the current style of her underwear.
“Where's Cal?” she asked.
Lilah toddled around by her mother's legs in a pink dress and matching coat scattered with little white polka-dots, with white tights and black patent leather shoes, and a big bow in her still short baby hair. Considering their mother's aversion to cutesy things and the color pink, Paris assumed her sister had been dressed by Lilah's ever-doting sperm donor father.
Rhiannon sidled in quietly behind Paris's mother, gave Lilah a brief pat on the head and hopped up into one of the chairs by the bar that Chris and Michael had previously vacated.
“He's talking to one of Chris's uncles,” Marissa said. “William or... Thomas, maybe?”
“Vince?” Momma Gallo supplied.
“Possibly,” Marissa allowed.
She and Paris seemed to be of a like mind—Chris had entirely too many relatives.
Slowly but surely the kitchen filled with people. Chris managed to distract many of his relatives with champagne and tours around the house, but a few trickled into the back to bid Paris their “hellos” and even offer her their help, so that by the time most of them had arrived she'd been joined by Momma, Beau, her own mother, Rhiannon, Chris's aunt Elizabeth with her daughter Ruby, and Chris's cousins Connor and Johnathan (with Johnathan's two-year-old daughter Kylie keeping company with Lilah in a pair of highchairs scattered with cookie and cracker crumbs).
The happy chatter and celebratory atmosphere almost had Paris forgetting that she'd previously been so nervous about their arrival. Of course, she had not yet faced the rest of Chris's family, who wisely kept out of the way (or were else too busy passing judgment upon the rest of the house to bother much with the scene taking place in the kitchen). She was certain, when the time came for dinner, that the level of anxiety would increase again.
And the arrival of Chris's grandparents had a way of heightening the pressure.
With all the help Paris was getting, most of the remaining preparations were completed (or well on their way to being completed) by the time Chris's grandmother and grandfather actually got there. When the doorbell rang, Momma and Beau slipped out to mingle with the others and fall into comfortable conversation, as if they hadn't spent the entire morning helping Paris in the kitchen; Aunt Elizabeth and Ruby made their escape into the garden where some of the others had gathered around the fire pit; cousins Connor and Johnathan busied themselves with the drinking of champagne and a conversation about their respective toddlers; and Rhiannon buried herself in a book she produced from the depths of her purse while Marissa focused on cleaning up Lilah's mess.
Nervously, Paris removed her apron and slipped out of her kitchen sanctuary to find Chris welcoming his grandparents in the foyer. Nana's face was firmly set, but at least her eyes looked warm—or at least they did when she approached Paris to hug her and kiss each of her cheeks.
“You're looking well, Dearest,” Nana said.
“Thank you, Nana. How was the trip?”
“Fine, fine. Just a little snag with airport security. Honestly, the way they accost people these days, I've never been so offended in my life. They should know better than to harass a poor, old woman.”
Paris was almost certain it had been the other way around, with Nana harassing security instead, but she merely smiled indulgently. Nana eyed her carefully, as if expecting Paris to say something, but when Paris kept her mouth shut Nana returned her smile and nodded in satisfaction.
“And how have you been holding up, Dearest?” she asked.
“Everything's fine, Nana.”
“When can I expect dinner to be served?”
“Three o'clock.”
“Good, good. Excellent,” Nana said. “You've done wonderfully, Dearest. I'd have expected you to be a nervous wreck by now. I remember when it was poor Claire's turn to host. I found her sobbing in the pantry.”
Paris glanced around quickly and found Momma Gallo standing nearby, smiling as if she had no idea what Nana was talking about.
“And Olivia thought she could trick her own mother by serving cheap wine. I thought I'd taught her better than that. Always destroy the evidence, Olivia. Ah, yes, speaking of wine. Christopher!” she called over her shoulder.
Chris turned from the coat closet once he'd hung her expensive winter-wear. “Yes, Nana?” he said as he approached.
“A glass of champagne, if you please. I expect it's going to be a long day for all of us. Come, Ned, you must be starving. We can sample the hors d'oeuvres in the meantime.”
As Chris broke off to fetch Nana's champagne and Nana began making her way through the house in search of the hors d'oeuvres, Chris's grandfather shuffled forward in his quiet, dignified way. He smiled benignly at Paris, his blue eyes twinkling in amusement as he briefly took one of her hands in greeting.
“We're very pleased to see you've survived,” he said, and though it sounded as if he might be joking, Paris sensed a note of apology in his tone.
“We're happy to have you, Granddad.”
“Not horrified?” he wondered, and arched a silvered brow.
“Maybe a little,” Paris amended.
Ned chuckled softly and released her hand to give her a consoling pat on the back. “You're a good girl,” he said.
Though Paris felt warmed and heartened by the praise, her gut continued to twist nervously. She watched Ned follow after Nana with increasing anxiety, and again went through her mental schedule to make sure everything really was proceeding accordingly. So far the day had gone better than she'd expected, but that could just as easily change.
Beau met her as the others began to filter out of the foyer.
“Almost over,” he said, and handed her another glass of wine.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Feb 04, 2014 1:03 pm
Well, this took a ridiculously long time to finish. It's also not great, but oh well, done now. Dinner, Paris knew, was the true test.
Repeatedly she reminded herself that this whole event had nothing to do with her, and that no matter how the day turned out it was unlikely that Nana's opinion of her would change. After all, Chris was the undisputed favorite, and Paris had never felt any inklings of dislike or displeasure being sent her way from Chris's grandparents. Nana was simply having her fun, reveling in her control over her own family, and the wariness her pen and legal pad caused around the dinner table.
Nana was already taking notes. She'd settled herself at the head of the table with Ned seated quite comfortably on her right. The rest filed into their seats with little comment, Beau beside his father and Claire beside him, Peter sandwiched between Claire and Michael, whose posture seemed lazy and whose expression appeared uninterested. With dinner set Paris could make no more excuses to escape, and she sat in the chair Chris pulled out for her, to Nana's immediate left.
No one spoke or moved an inch.
Nana looked up from her scribbling and stared down the table.
“Well,” she said. “What are you waiting for? Paris went through so much trouble to feed you. Eat, eat!”
And everyone ate. Many of them complimented Paris on the food. A few of them joked about Chris's uselessness in the kitchen, which earned a “hmm” from Nana as she jotted down more notes. Conversations commenced all the way down the table, from family affairs to business, to silly gossip about people Paris didn't recognize by name.
Paris sat very still and occasionally touched the prongs of her fork to bits of her food, but aside from a few bites she hardly ate anything. Every once in a while she glanced in Nana's direction out of the corner of her eye and tried to make out some of what she was writing, but Nana's handwriting appeared small and cramped and Paris soon gave up in favor of poking at her stuffing.
Chris's elbow nudged her in the side. He didn't say anything when Paris looked over at him, but he nodded toward his plate and tried to speak with his eyes.
Eat something, that look said.
Paris made an effort for Chris's sake. She ate a forkful of stuffing, two forkfuls of carrots, and another forkful of turkey before deciding her stomach was much too unsettled to handle any more.
Dinner lasted over an hour, edging toward two. Gallo holiday dinners always lasted longer than those Paris remembered from childhood, but then there were many more Gallos than there'd ever been LeFays. Those small dinners with her parents, and sometimes her aunt and cousin, could hardly compare to this table full of finely dressed people, and this room full of conversations Paris was unable to keep track of. She tried to be an engaging hostess; she tried to smile, tried to offer a word or two here and there, tried to make it seem as if she were paying attention, but for the most part she stared at her plate and felt as if she were in a room full of strangers.
And she was. Three holidays together didn't make these people family, not that way Momma and Beau and Peter and Michael were. Not the way her mother was, or Cal and Lilah.
Not the way her father had been.
Eventually Paris's sister decided she'd spent enough time strapped in her high-chair. Paris felt grateful for Lilah's fussing, and before her mother or Cal could rise to take care of it, Paris jumped from her seat and beat them to it. She gave Lilah a quick pat down to dislodge a pile of crumbs from her dress, then hoisted her onto one hip and escaped with her back into the kitchen while everyone else carried on without her.
It wasn't that she felt entirely out of place. It wasn't even that she worried about what Chris's family thought of her; even Chris's aunts and uncles and cousins had always been kind to her, and welcomed her into the family with enthusiasm.
But this wasn't her. This wasn't what she was used to, and while she could adapt, and likely would with more time, so seamlessly she expected she'd look back on this day and think about how silly she was for behaving this way, it was no easy feat at present. And in doing so she felt as if she were losing a piece of herself, one that had broken off with her father's death and drifted further away the more time passed without him.
Paris forced herself to focus on Lilah rather than continue to let her thoughts drift toward sad memories. She grabbed a cloth to wipe gravy off of Lilah's face and hands, and did what she could to salvage the pretty pink dress Lilah's father had dressed her in that morning.
Chris made his way into the kitchen ten minutes later. Paris didn't have to look into his face to note his concern.
“Your mom's worried about you,” he said.
“She could have come back here herself,” Paris bit back.
“She thought you needed some time alone.”
“Guess she knows me better than you do,” Paris said. She meant it to sting, but Chris didn't respond with the hurt she'd expected.
“Nah, I'm just too stubborn to sit back and let you beat yourself up,” he said.
“This was a mistake,” Paris told him.
“Why? Everyone's having a good time.”
“I don't know what I'm doing,” she admitted.
One of Chris's hands stroked her hair, and his mouth pressed a warm kiss to Paris's forehead.
“Just relax,” Chris said. “No one's going to give you a hard time. Except maybe Nana, but you know she doesn't really mean it.”
And then, when Chris leaned in for another kiss, this time to Paris's lips, he said, “You should eat something.”
Paris allowed the kiss but made little effort to return it, and when Chris pulled back she turned away to busy herself with Lilah again. She said nothing to respond or acknowledge the comment, though her silence on the subject was likely acknowledgment enough.
“Paris...”
“Please, don't,” she said.
“You need to eat.”
“I don't need to do anything.”
“Paris...”
“I asked you to stop.”
Chris heaved a frustrated sigh. Paris heard him moving behind her but didn't turn to witness his reaction. When another few moments had passed without anything spoken between them, Paris heard Chris walk out.
Five minutes later, two sets of feet returned to invade her sanctuary. One stopped in the doorway; the other moved about with calm assurance. A cabinet door opened, the refrigerator was riffled through, the toaster oven began to tick away, and a knife scraped over toasted bread. Paris sat at the counter bar with Lilah in her lap, stubbornly refusing to look up, until a small plate with an English muffin covered with strawberry jam slid onto the counter in front of her.
Finally she lifted her eyes and saw Beau watching her expectantly, Chris standing helplessly in the doorway. No one spoke, and Paris, previously so recalcitrant, was suddenly overcome by shame.
“I'm sorry,” she said, and lowered her head to hide her wet eyes and brought one half of the English muffin to her mouth.
Beau hugged her briefly and said, “You're doing fine.” Then he took Lilah from Paris and left to return her to her mother.
Chris slowly sidled closer and cautiously hopped up onto the stool next to Paris. He said nothing to her, and Paris could think of nothing to say in return. She had no explanations, no further apologies.
But she ate the English muffin one-handed; the other rested on the counter-top, and soon found itself cradled in Chris's palm.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Feb 04, 2014 1:04 pm
The Gallos left by ones and twos, threes and fours, starting at nine o'clock.
By then the house was filled with talk and laughter and music, and Paris had managed to pull herself back out of the kitchen hours before with a little more food in her stomach and minimal damage to her make-up. She stayed close to Chris and touched him often, her hand on his arm continuously apologetic, his hand at her waist solidly reassuring. No one commented on the hour she'd been missing, but Peter whined a little less, Momma made a noticeable effort to take over as hostess, and Marissa passed by with Lilah every so often as if to present Paris with another means of escape.
It was a tempting offer, but a diaper change seemed far less appealing to her than cleaning Lilah up after dinner.
When all that remained were Chris's parents and two brothers, Paris's mother and cousin, Cal and Lilah, and Chris's grandparents, who planned to stay a few nights before flying back to Boston on Sunday, Paris excused herself and wearily climbed the stairs up to the bedroom. Nana was reviewing the notes she'd made and had taken to discussing what effects today would have on the contents of her will, and Paris had been through enough stress without having to take part in the conversation that was to follow.
She slid out of her shoes and kicked them in the direction of the closet door, hardly caring whether or not they were immediately returned to their proper place. She hobbled into the bathroom to wash the make-up from her face and let down her hair, avoiding a good look in the mirror. She brushed her teeth mindlessly, and looked longing toward the bath but was too tired to draw one for herself.
Instead she walked back out into the bedroom, stopped to consider the pile of her pajamas at the end of the bed, but made no move toward them. She climbed onto the bed with every intention of remaining there until well into the afternoon the next day.
“Paris,” came the sound of Chris's voice.
Paris could not determine exactly how much time had passed, but she knew she'd fallen asleep, and a look at the clock on the bedside table showed it to be 11:14.
Still early by her old standards, but she wasn't that same careless teenager anymore.
“What?” she mumbled into the pillow.
“What are you doing?” Chris said.
“Sleeping.”
“In your clothes?”
“Don't care,” Paris said.
“You will in the morning.”
“'S not morning yet.”
Chris sighed and seemed to think better of arguing. Paris heard him shuffling around the room, no doubt littering the floor with his nice clothes, before he too made a trip to the bathroom prior to joining Paris in bed.
Then his warm hands helped her out of her dress and blouse, treating them as carelessly as he'd treated his slacks and cardigan as he tossed them over the side of the bed. Paris was little help and simply laid there and let it happen, opening her eyes every once in a while to spear Chris with a look when his jostling disturbed her from a comfortable position.
“I don't want to do this again next year,” Paris said when Chris finally settled onto the mattress beside her. He hadn't bothered helping her into her pajamas, but Paris was much too tired to care.
“Don't worry, someone else'll host next year,” Chris reassured her as he slipped an arm over her from his comfortable place at her back.
“I don't even want to go,” Paris insisted.
“You don't want to do Thanksgiving at all?”
“I don't want to do the family thing,” she said. “Let's do something else. We can go to the cabin, or go on a cruise or something.”
Chris laughed lightly. “A cruise?” he said, but didn't seem as if he disliked the idea.
“Or just have Thanksgiving with our friends,” Paris amended. “Or by ourselves. One or the other. I don't care. I just don't want to do this again.”
“Okay,” Chris allowed, and then, as if out of nowhere, said, “I'm really proud of you.”
“Why?” Paris asked.
“For doing this. You didn't have to.”
“I wanted to.”
“Do you regret it?” Chris asked.
Paris was too exhausted to spend much time thinking it over, but the truth required very little thought in the first place.
“No,” she said, and she meant it. “Just wish everything was easier.”
“It will be one day,” Chris said. Then he pressed a kiss to the back of her hair.
Paris didn't know whether or not she believed that, but chose not to say anything about it.
“Love you,” she said instead.
With her eyes already closed she drifted off to sleep fairly quickly, but not without hearing Chris's whispered, “Love you, too.”
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
