Chapter 4 - The Three Tier Cake By The Fire
The woman in green didn't look at the coats again. She looked at the cake.
It sat on the side table by the fireplace, three tiers high and perfectly white, with little red sugar balls clustered around the frosting like holly. The garland above the fire made the light flicker on it. None of the guests had touched it. It was supposed to be the center of the picture.
She smoothed the front of her dress with both hands and her voice went bright, like she was hosting again.
"We're cutting the cake," she said. "We're going to have a real Christmas photo. Everybody's been waiting."
No one moved at first. The air still felt tight. I could hear the snow melting off my boots onto the marble.
She turned to my sister. My sister was standing by the arm of the couch, her hands tucked up into the sleeves of her cream sweater. The woman pointed toward the cake with a sharp little flick of her fingers.
"Come on," she said. "Smile. Serve. Show them what a sweet hostess you are."
My sister didn't smile. Her mouth was a straight line. She glanced at my grandfather, then at me.
My grandfather hadn't let go of my shoulder. His coat was still dusted with snow on the shoulders and his burgundy scarf was crooked. He was breathing slow and steady. He didn't answer the woman right away.
My sister took a half step toward the cake table but stopped. The knife was already there, a silver cake server laid straight beside the bottom tier.
"I don't want to," she said. It came out quiet. "We were told to answer the door and take the coats. While everyone watched."
The woman's smile tightened. "Don't be dramatic. You offered to help. Now help."
My grandfather shifted his weight and slipped his hand into his overcoat pocket. He took out his phone. It was an old flip phone at first glance but it was the kind with a camera on the back, the screen a little scratched.
He didn't make an announcement. He just lifted it.
He took a photo of the cake first, the three tiers with the fireplace behind it. The click was loud in the quiet room. Then he turned a little and took a photo of the pile on the marble floor — the wet coats heaped together, the bright red scarf on top, the puddle spreading underneath with gray snowmelt.
One of the guests by the drinks table cleared his throat. The woman noticed.
"What are you doing?" she said.
My grandfather crouched just enough to get level with my feet. He took a third photo. My boots, the white trim soaked through, my socks damp inside them, a little ring of melted snow around my heels.
"Documenting," he said. His voice was low and even.
I looked down at my boots. I'd been standing in them so long my toes had gone numb. I hadn't realized how wet they were until I saw them through his phone.
The woman stepped closer to the cake, as if standing beside it would keep it perfect.
"You're being ridiculous. It's Christmas Eve. We have guests," she said. She looked over at the two couples near the fireplace and tried to laugh. "He came in from the cold and decided to make a scene."
My sister's hands came out of her sleeves. She was holding them together hard.
"We didn't offer," she said. Her voice got a little stronger. "She told us to stand by the door before you came. She said, 'You stay with the dirty coats.' To him. To my brother. She made him hold them all while people came in. She said not to drip on the rug."
The woman stared at her. "That's enough."
My grandfather straightened up and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He didn't look triumphant. He just kept his hand on my shoulder.
"Thank you," he said to my sister. He meant it the way grown-ups do when something costs them.
My dad had been standing back by the drinks table the whole time, in his dark suit and tie, holding a glass he hadn't drunk from. He finally set it down. The ice clinked.
He looked at my grandfather, not at me or my sister or the woman in green.
"Let's not do this in front of everyone," he said. "Can we step outside for a minute? Just you and me. Out by the front door. Talk like adults."
It was the first time he'd spoken since my grandfather had come in. His tone wasn't angry. It was tired, the way you ask someone to keep things quiet.
My grandfather's hand tightened just a fraction on my shoulder. I felt it.
He looked at the open front door. Cold blue light was still coming through it, and I could see snow falling past the porch light outside. The warm light from the fireplace didn't reach that far.
He looked back at me, then at my sister.
"I'll step to the doorway," he said. "I won't go out of sight. The boy stays with me. In my sight line."
My dad nodded quickly, like that was enough. "Sure. Right there. Just the doorway. So we can breathe."
The woman in green exhaled and reached for the cake server, picking it up like if she held it people would look at her hands and not the floor.
"Good," she said. "Cut the cake, honey. Smile."
May you like
My sister didn't pick it up. She stayed where she was, half a step away from the table, watching my grandfather.
My grandfather started to turn toward the door, guiding me with him, his body between me and the room. I could feel the heat from the fireplace on my back and the cold coming off the marble ahead of us. He didn't let go.
