Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters 5)
I’m just the uncle, and Moffy could’ve easily cut me out if he fucking desired.
When my hand falls, I nod to my nephew a few more times, peace exchanged between us. “You like the book?”
He sniffs loudly, rubbing his face dry before he talks. “It’s cool.” He opens it. “I like this line so far…” He passes me the philosophy novel and points.
“If you don't know, the thing to do is not to get scared, but to learn.”
Yeah.
I like that fucking one, too.
[ farewell ]
April 2028
The Cobalt Estate
Philadelphia
ROSE COBALT
Connor grins at me from the head of the dining table, his fingers to his conceited lips. I envision his elbow slipping and his face falling into the bowl of mashed potatoes.
Do not smile, Rose. Don’t offer him the satisfaction.
Ankles crossed, chin raised, I sit poised at the other head of the table. Equal distance. No chair larger than the next.
I inhale the extravagant atmosphere. Crystal goblets, a roasted goose, two dishes of cranberries, green beans and potatoes rest on an elegant tablecloth, the chandelier twinkling above.
It’s not a holiday.
We prepare the same meal every Wednesday night, and most of our children forget to eat by the end of dinner, goose becoming Thursday leftovers.
I return my focus to Connor.
His burgeoning grin tells stories of self-importance and superiority in mind and spirit. It’s as attractive as it is obnoxious. “Are you ready, darling?”
“To carve out your heart and stick a knife through the center.” I rise to my feet at the exact same time as him. My eyes blaze. I wanted the height advantage for at least a second. “I’ve been ready my entire life to defeat you.”
He clasps his goblet of red wine, again at the same moment as me. “I hate to disappoint, but your triumph will come another day.”
Translation: I always win.
If we were on the same team tonight, I’d say that his win is my win, but we’re pitted against one another in an arms race that I plan to win.
“Say goodbye to your heart, Richard.” I confidently pick up my knife, about to clink my goblet.
“You already have my heart,” he says so smoothly. “So your goal is pointless.”
“Then I’ll take your eyes and your brain and shave your head.”
Our seven children burst into applause by pounding the table with fists, some silverware, others with goblets.
The room rumbles to life.
Every dining chair is occupied. The table is so very full.
I almost smile, but as soon as Connor sees the glimmer, he grins like he won something already. I raise my hand at his face, and with this, the children settle.
Connor arches a brow. “So you love my sight, my mind, and my hair.”
The children roar in delight, pounding the table once more.
“Mother and father look so beautiful,” Audrey, just three, nearly swoons. Her red hair peeks from beneath a Victorian hat, everyone dressing as extravagantly or as plainly as they prefer. She’s also our only child who calls us mother and father.
I thought it’d remind me of my own mother and I’d bristle at the title, but Audrey speaks with robust sighs. Not stilted or icy like when I mention Samantha Calloway. And I refuse to imagine this table without Audrey—or without any one of our little gremlins.
They’ve all acquired their own equal, profound, and endless place in our hearts.
I lift my chin, not denying my love of Connor’s sight, mind and hair. I clink my goblet with my knife. “As with every Wednesday, it is what you make it.”
“And someone will win.” Connor sips his wine and seizes my gaze.
That someone will be me, Richard. I channel the promise through my glare and then state, “Opening remarks have commenced.” Connor and I take our seats.
Eight-year-old Eliot raises his hand before his brothers and sisters. Whoever captures the moment first goes first. It’s always been this way.
Eliot covets this role nine times out of ten.
Empty pipe in his mouth, his old-fashioned black suit snug and tailor-made, Eliot chooses to sit on the frame of his chair, shoes on the cushion.
I hide my smile in a sip of wine, not in the least bit horrified at the dirtied chair. I don’t fixate on the little things because I refuse to control the setting like my mother tried to control mine.
I let everyone be who they want to be, and I love my children more than a fucking chair.
Eliot stands on the cushion. When he was seven, he fell backwards to the floor. Connor used the moment to remind him that freedom of expression, like most things, comes with consequences.
Now he’s found a way not to fall.
His eight-year-old brother Tom—slouched and plainly dressed: black ripped shirt, daggered-heart print—grips the frame of Eliot’s ornate wooden chair. All to keep Eliot from tumbling backwards.
Knowing what’s to come, my gremlins swiftly grab their goblets. As do we. Just then, Eliot sets his foot on the edge of the table with a loud thud. Dishes rattle, and silverware clanks.
Our littlest gremlin is too slow. Audrey’s cup quickly tips over as the table shakes. Water soaks the tablecloth.
“Oh no,” she sighs, nearest me on her booster seat.
I easily help mop up the spill with my cloth napkin.
Jane, now twelve, leans forward across the table, adorning cat-ears and a sequined sweater and smiling wide at her little sister. “Take note, Audrey, this one likes to step on the table like it’s the bow of a ship and that one”—she motions to Tom—“will forever and always be his accomplice.”
Audrey looks entranced by all of Jane’s words. Whether she understands—no one could know. Not even my narcissistic husband. We might have seven children, but babies are still unintelligible little monsters. They absorb what they can, and that’s enough for us.
I clasp Audrey’s hand in affection, and she places her other tiny palm on top of mine. My iced-over heartstrings tug. She’s our last little one. If they slowed down from growing older—for just a second or two, maybe even three—I wouldn’t mind.
“Accoomplace?” Audrey tries to pronounce.
“Accomplice,” Jane says clearly, stroking a purring Lady Macbeth on her lap.
Audrey mouths the word and then nods.
Jane laughs, love flushing her cheeks.
I have to press my lips tight together to smother my smile. Connor is watching me out of everything around us. My eyes flit more subtly to him, and then I sip my wine.
Eliot removes his empty pipe, never filled. “Gentlemen. Ladies.” He gestures to the entire table. “‘This above all.’” He pauses dramatically. “‘To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day. Thous canst not then be false to any man!’”
After this passionate monologue from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, he returns to the top frame of his chair, pipe in his mouth.
Dear God.
My smile is betraying me. Stay poised. Connor is beyond grinning at this point and we’ve only just started.
My pride for Eliot arches my shoulders and lifts my head. He has memorized far more than just that scene. No one is allowed books, computers or cellphones at the table.
Connor has told them many times before, “You bring your minds. That will always be enough.”
Tom raises his hand next. Like Eliot, he stands on the chair, mischief clinging to their vivacious souls. Then he looks over to Eliot and says, “Dear brother.”
Eliot grins. “Dear brother.”
Tom plops back on the cushion, seated and slouched.
“Was that it?” Audrey gapes, as though he’s insane for not occupying more of his time.
During opening remarks, they can bring up literally anything they want and for as long as they want, which fascinates Connor more than they even realize. I enjoy learning about their week in open remarks, but not all are willing to share.
Eliot points his pipe towards his sister. “He’s a boy of brevity, little Audrey.”
Before confusion crosses her face, Connor says to me, “Brevity, darling.”
“Shortness,” I define.
“Conciseness,” he adds.
I burn a hole between his eyes. “My love towards you.”
Charlie Keating laughs, ten-years-old, and the most amused when Connor and I argue. I recognize as well as my husband that Charlie is one of the only ones who can mentally keep up. Jane, too. Charlie is also the only one who is consistently kicked back in his chair, polished black loafers on the table, dressed in a dapper, modern suit.