Page 48 of Songs of Summer
“I did not.”
“Let’s get chopping.”
“Can I put on the stereo?”
“It’s not my house.”
“It’s not mine either.”
They both laughed again. The small house across the street where they’d grown up sharing a bedroom would always be their house—even though it was now occupied by another family.
Veronica set all the ingredients in need of chopping on the kitchen table with two cutting boards and a big silver bowl in the middle. The two women began chopping and mincing and dicing—and with each motion of the knife, more conversation slipped in.
Bea told V all about Paul and their life in Ohio. Veronica seemed mesmerized by her tales of the academic life, the energy on campus, and the boast-worthy success of her former students—one had been shortlisted for the Booker Prize, another was editing theKenyon Review, and a third had published a debut novel that made the list. Even Veronica knew that meant theNew York TimesBest Seller list.
V told Bea all about her life in LA, the pressure to keep up her looks, the loneliness of her ten-thousand-square-foot home with a pool and a tennis court, and how the highlight of her day, after completing Wordle, was picking flowers from her garden and arranging them in vases all over the house.
Beatrix expected to be annoyed by her sister complaining with two loaves of bread in her hands, but she felt for her. Her days sounded empty compared to her own, a fact she never would have imagined. And with Veronica’s kids grownand flown, she seemed to have little of interest on the horizon. She knew it was awful, but Veronica’s unhappiness made it harder to hate her. She certainly never wished bad things for her sister, but it did cut at the anger a bit.
Veronica asked Bea a million questions about the kids they grew up with, where they lived now, what they did, their marital status. When Bea visited Fire Island, she made sure to catch up with everyone she could, while Veronica did the opposite.
“Too fair for the beach, and too sober for the bars,” as she described herself, Veronica mostly hung by the pool and read under an umbrella.
“When did sober happen?” Beatrix inquired.
“I got my seven-year chip last week. After an unfortunate incident at a pool party, Larry said it was him or the gin. I sometimes wonder if I made the right choice.”
Bea laughed. “You did. I’m proud of you. You never could hold your liquor.”
“Back then was far worse—back then I couldn’t hold my quaaludes and my liquor.”
Bea had an uneasy feeling that the conversation was taking a dangerous turn, and right before it was time to cut the onions no less. She changed the subject.
“Remember that Labor Day party when that neighbor in the white dress jumped into the pool?”
“Yup, and she did a handstand.”
“Yes, and she wasn’t wearing any underwear!”
“Oh my God, how old were we?”
“You were like six and I was ten.”
“Do you remember she had a giant vagina?” Veronica asked, making the biggest V shape she could with her hands.
Their laughter filled the room. Veronica continued, “I’m sorry to say, I think it’s my earliest memory. I can still picture it. It was covered in so much black hair; it looked like Uncle Lenny’s Jew-fro! I swear that scarred me for life.”
“Me too. Remember that other party, when Dad threw that guy in the pool, and he got so mad?”
“ ‘Dogs get mad, people get angry,’ ” Veronica intoned in her best British accent. They both laughed at the perfect imitation of their mother.
Bea pulled out a large skillet and sautéed the onion and garlic in olive oil on medium heat. They added the mushrooms, zucchini, carrots, bell pepper, bay leaf, paprika, and saffron and cooked them for five minutes before adding the wine and cooking them for five minutes more.
Veronica read the rest of the instructions slowly, while Bea performed them.
“Add rice to the skillet and cook for two minutes. Pour over broth and shake pan to make sure the rice is in an even layer.”
Next came the most important directive, according to their mom. Veronica broke out the accent again to do it justice.
