Patti Standard - His Perfect Family

Not his problem, he reminded himself as he lay on his back in a fine layer of dirt and began to connect the bathtub to the existing drainpipe. None of his business. He flexed his fingers again. Definitely none of his business. Besides, it wasn’t like he had any answers. If he’d learned one thing in his twenty years in the service, it was that he was not one to fix things. He’d learned that the hard way.

He remembered how proud his parents had been when he’d enlisted that summer day the week after he’d graduated. His father had been in the navy and recollected his two-year stint with a hazy fondness. Cutter was going to follow in his footsteps. Change the world. Well, in twenty years, the world had changed, all right, he thought as he gave a fierce twist to a piece of pipe, but it had nothing to do with him. Communism had crumpled with barely a whimper, and he and all his cohorts had stood there in their wrinkled trench coats with their suddenly obsolete codes and just as obsolete lives.

He thought of Lowenstein and Rush and Cadenza, all the agents killed over the years in the name of freedom. Freedom! His teeth clenched. Communism imploded from its own weight, making a mockery of all their cloak-and-dagger operations. All they’d had to do was wait, kick back on the deck of a ship in the warm waters off Guam and wait. He’d seen the signs during those last years; he’d tried to tell his superiors that if the Russians couldn’t manage gas for their cars or bread for their bellies, how were they supposed to launch a nuclear war?

Cutter heard the sound of the oven door shut and then water being drawn into a bucket in the sink. He followed the thump of Adrianne’s determined tread up the stairs and knew she was about to attack another room. So much for their friendly little chat. He’d had in mind pumping her for information, not the other way around. He didn’t expect to have to talk about Berlin or a war the world referred to as cold, a war he knew was the exact temperature of freshly spilled blood.

He’d come home when he could manage it, and each time he’d been shocked by the new twist to his father’s fingers, the increased swelling, the number of pain pills. Bit by bit, he’d given up fighting the system, slowly, assignment by assignment — and visit by visit, he’d watched arthritis wrench his father’s big, strong hands into helpless, painful knots. Then one day he’d returned to Little Rock after a frustrating assignment teaching formerly despised enemies, now esteemed colleagues, how to upgrade their navigation system. And that night, he’d stood helplessly by while his mother cut his father’s food into bite-size pieces. The man who had once fixed Cutter’s world could no longer fix his own food — and Cutter decided he was through trying to fix things, as well.

The world could get along just fine without his help. He’d turned in his commission that day and had since spent his time forming raw slabs of wood into coffee tables, buffets and bookshelves. Oak could be shaped, planed, sanded, slowly guided in the direction he wanted it to go.

Nothing else could.

Adrianne heard the front door slam in that aggravating way Lisa had of announcing she was home from school. She took a last swipe at the top shelf of her closet, then stepped off the chair she balanced on and dropped her rag into the bucket of cooling water. Blanche’s voice was audible from below, a high little laugh followed by Cutter’s deep, rumbling answer.

She started down the stairs, bucket in hand, in time to hear Blanche saying, “Oh, yes, I stop by almost every evening. I feel it’s important to eat supper here with my family.” She lowered her voice confidentially. “I’m a widow, you know, and now that Adrianne’s lost her husband, we need to support each other. We’re all the family we have left.”

Here she goes again, Adrianne thought. Her mother wrote her revisionist history as fast as it happened. She couldn’t help the sardonic snort that escaped as she turned the corner into the kitchen. “Mother, you eat supper with us maybe twice a week, if we’re lucky,” she said. “The rest of the time you’re busy with your committees and meetings — and your gentlemen friends.”

Lisa had taken a tub of frosting from the cupboard and was slathering it on the cake that cooled on the counter. Blanche stood in the center of the kitchen, teetering on the four-inch heels she insisted on wearing. Cutter leaned against the doorjamb to the pantry, a cordless drill in one hand, sawdust caught in his dark hair, looking extremely masculine—and sexy as all get-out, she realized with a start He smiled at her, and her stomach did an odd little flip-flop.

Unnerved, she crossed to the sink and emptied the bucket of gray water. “Mother doesn’t sit here crocheting with us in the evenings like some grieving widow, believe me.”

“Don’t exaggerate, darling.” Blanche sounded testy. “Widowhood is an extremely difficult state for a woman, and well you know it. Are you married, Cutter?”

He shook his head. “Divorced.”

“Ah. That can be difficult, as well.” She picked up her handbag from the table. “I hate to let you be right, Adrianne, but I do have a dinner engagement with Samuel Wagner this evening. A business dinner, of course.”

“Of course.” She turned the bucket upside down in the sink and draped the frayed tea towel she was using for a cleaning rag across it. “But I wish you’d given a call. I’ve got an enormous pan of lasagna ready to go in the oven.”

“sorry, love, I promise I’ll eat leftovers three nights in a row. But don’t try to make me feel guilty. You know you adore cooking and baking, all that grating and mixing and measuring. You’d do it whether I ate a bite or not.”

“She’s got you there, Mom.” Lisa had more chocolate on her fingers than she did on the cake. Big chunks of the moist top had pulled loose to mix with the frosting, and she was trying to pat the crumbs into place with the back of a spoon.

“Okay, you’re right.” Adrianne went to the stove and turned the knob to preheat the oven, aware of Cutter’s eyes on her as she moved. “I’m guilty. I love to cook. You know, I remember when your father was alive, I’d make these big theme dinners and we’d all sit down and —”

“When was this?”

Adrianne turned her head to stare at her daughter, shocked by the cynical, too old tone of her voice. “Well, lots of times. We’d —”

“When was the last time we all sat down?”

“Why, it was —”

“Besides Christmas, I mean.” Lisa threw the sticky spoon into the sink. “Daddy was out of town so much the last couple of years we never ate together — maybe once a month.”

Adrianne could only blink in surprise. Had it really been that long since they’d been happy together? A family doing family things? Didn’t Lisa remember those early years, before Harvey had started taking so many out-of-town clients, before things had gotten so very, very bad?

“I...I guess you’re right,” she said, stumbling over her words. “I must have been thinking about when you were little.”

Lisa shrugged. “Whatever.” She licked a blob of frosting from her thumb, then looked up, her green eyes, so like Harvey’s, ingenuous. “By the way, did they ever find that money?”

Adrianne froze. Even Cutter, who’d turned to go back to work, stopped short in the doorway. Blanche put a hand to her chest and gave an audible gasp. The moment lengthened, past the point of no return, but Adrianne did her best to pretend those sharp green eyes didn’t see right through her.

“What do you mean, dear?” She walked quickly to the refrigerator and bent to pull out the heavy dish of lasagna.

Lisa’s tone was casual, which made Adrianne even more worried. “A man came to see me at school. He said one of Dad’s clients was missing some money. He asked a lot of questions.”