Christopher Nicole - Her Name Will Be Faith

“You’ve made your point; the girl’s obviously a nut. Now shut up and listen to the news.” Mike commanded more volume and concentrated on the Washington reporter’s latest political scandal.

The door opened and Jo hurried in, following by Owen Michael and Tamsin. “Hi, Babs. Hi Dad. Dale.” She kissed each in turn and laid a big bunch of mixed flowers on the counter.

“Hey, aren’t those beautiful! Where did you get them?” Babs asked.

“I just picked them from your garden,” Jo admitted.

Babs laughed. “I’ll get you a vase and you can arrange them for me. Hi, Owen Michael. Have you got a kiss for your grandmother? And you, Tamsin? Where’s Michael?’

“Oh… er… he sends his apologies. He’s had to stay in Newport a while longer because he’s got problems with the boat, but he hopes to join us later.” Jo smiled brightly, but her mother-in-law detected the shadow in her eyes, and her heart sank. She was very aware of Jo’s disappointment — and her own.

“They nearly lost the mast,” Owen Michael announced.

“Holy shit!” Big Mike remarked, ignoring his wife’s frown of disapproval. “How the hell did they manage that?”

“I’m sure Michael will tell you all about it when he gets here.” Jo finished her flower arranging and Babs removed her frilled apron to join the men, immediately switching off the set.

“Hey,” Big Mike protested. “What did you do that for?”

“Neal and Meg are due here in half an hour. You haven’t opened the wine yet. And those pants are filthy. Anyway, you don’t usually watch NABS.”

“Yeah? Well I wanted to see this new whizz-kid weatherman they’ve got.

“Oh, Richard Connors,” Jo said.

“That’s the guy. You remember watching him last year when we were in Eleuthera, Babs. He was with WJQT in Miami then. Big, good-looking guy.”

“I remember,” Babs said. “He seemed to know what he was talking about. What’s he doing in New York?”

“Working for NABS,” Mike told her, with heavy patience.

“I’m to interview him next week,” Jo said.

“Is that a fact?” Big Mike switched on the set again. “Shit! We’ve missed him. I didn’t know he was that famous.”

“NABS is working on it. Seems their manager, Kiley, called Ed and suggested it.”

“Well, you can watch him tomorrow,” Babs said. “He can’t tell us anything about the weather tonight we can’t find out for ourselves by looking out of the window. Come on, Mike, be a doll.” She blew him a kiss as she passed his chair and he grabbed her and sat her on his knee.

“Say, will you old folks cut this horsing around and attend to your visitors?”

“Marcia!” Babs jumped up and ran to the door to greet her younger daughter. “How are you, sweetheart?”

“To what do we owe this honor?” Big Mike held out a hand and pulled her down for a kiss.

“New York is hot and sticky, so we thought we’d drive up and beg dinner and a bed for the night.”

“We?”

“There’s someone I want you to meet. He’s parking the car.”

Big Mike and Babs exchanged glances; Marcia went through young men like a dose of salts — but every one was the man, for as long as he lasted.

“Now,” Marcia said. “What’s for dinner?”

“The Robsons,” her father announced.

“Oh, hell. Look, we can go…”

“No, you cannot,” Babs said. “You’re staying right here. I’ve set the table but we can easily place two more chairs.” She opened the crockery cupboard.

“Here, let me.” Marcia took the plates from her.

“You really only need to set one more. I doubt if Michael will be here much before ten,” Jo pointed out.

Marcia glanced at her, one eyebrow raised as she identified both the irritation and the probable cause, but said nothing. What was there to say? In her opinion, if Michael wanted to fix the boat before coming home to see his parents — so what? Did that give Jo the right to look so pissed off? Why didn’t she do her own thing, while he did his?

“Mommy, can I stay up until Daddy comes?” Tamsin asked.

“Depends on what time he comes and how sleepy you are,” Jo called from behind the kitchen door. They’d had a long day and were both tired.

It was a bit rough on the kids, though. Marcia thought back to her own childhood and the weekends with Big Mike and Babs. At the time she hadn’t always wanted to go sailing, or skiing, depending on the season, and would have preferred more time for sketching and painting. She had been thankful for boarding school and then college to take her away from what she had called ‘cloying family’. Only recently had she begun to appreciate all the loving and caring her parents had offered their young family. She was always keen, nowadays, to find excuses to ‘come home’. And tonight was extra special. When she heard the knock on the door she ran to open it, and pull the dark young man proudly into the room. “This is Benny,” she announced.

The party became noisy. But the children were beginning to yawn and the meal had not yet started.

“They’re late,” Jo observed, glancing at her watch.

“They’re always late,” Dale retorted. “They’ve never been on time for anything in their lives.”

They were referring to the Robsons, but Babs was quite pleased about her guests’ lack of punctuality on this occasion; it had given the family a chance to get to know Benny. And appreciate him. He was quiet and good-humored, and he certainly seemed to worship Marcia — which was reciprocated. How grand it would be if Marcia could finally settle down… but Benny was also an art student, so it didn’t look likely to happen for a while yet.

Nor would he gain a good idea of his possible future mother-in-law if his first dinner at Pinewoods were spoiled, especially with Marcia carrying on about the spaghetti Bolognaise Benny’s mother made. But just as Babs was despairing, there was a ‘cooee’ from the front of the house. “Hope we’re not la-ate?” Margaret Robson’s head appeared round the kitchen door.

“Not more than usual.” Big Mike left his chair to kiss her.

“Oh, good.” She hugged Babs. “I was so worried, and kept nagging Neal. Jason couldn’t make it, Babs; he sends his regards, and apologies.” Jason was the eldest of her two sons. “James is just shunting the car around that great big Mercedes in the yard. Whose is it…? Oh, yours, Josephine,” she said as Jo came down the stairs. “My dear, how nice to see you. Is Michael still racing?”

“He’s in Newport.” Jo determined not to get irritated; Margaret Robson was the only person in the world who still insisted on calling her Josephine. “He had to…”

“Well, never mind. Where are those lovely kids of yours?”

“In bed. I’ve just kissed them good night.”

“Not ill, I hope?”

“No, Meg, not ill,” Babs interrupted. “Just sleepy. It’s nearly nine, and…”

“No! Is it? We are late. I knew it. Neal! We are late. I told you…”

“Never mind, Meg.” Mike handed her a gin and Martini. “Get yourself outside that and we’ll go eat.”

Meg was Babs’ total opposite. Slim — skinny, Mike called her — nervous and excitable, she exuded energy and tensions. Her black hair would have been grey without help, but her blue eyes were as lively as they had been thirty years before. Meg worried about everything. She loved her children, and worried for them; loved her husband, worried about him. Her home, business, elderly mother, tomorrow’s lunch… everything was of vital importance and a big problem.

Neal adored her. Not much taller, smooth, smiling features belying his white hair, he was one of those quiet, calm, confident men who make nervous women feel safe. Meg felt safe, most times. Except when he’d gotten some idea, some project in mind, like now. She knew he was dying to tell his friends about it, but he was waiting until they were all assembled.