His mother wanted him to come home for Easter dinner. He’d intended to go, to ask Abra to come with him. He’d been ready for it, primed for it—the family event, with Abra in it, the big ham Alice would bake and his mother would insist on glazing herself.
The baskets, the candy, the colored eggs.
The tradition of it. And the comfort of it.
Whiskey Beach
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It was a good day, though he ate enough candy that the idea of waffles for breakfast made him a little queasy. But he ate them anyway, and put everything aside to enjoy the moments.
His father in light-up bunny ears that made Selina belly-laugh. The pleasure on his grandmother’s face when he gave her a pretty bowl filled with mixed spring bulbs in fragrant bloom.
Waging war with water pistols against his brother-in-law and accidentally (mostly) shooting his sister dead in the heart when she opened the terrace door.
Surprising Abra with a vivid green orchid because it reminded him of her.
They feasted on ham and roasted potatoes, tender asparagus and Abra’s herbed bread, on eggs deviled out of their colorful shells—and more—in the formal dining room. Candles flickering, crystal winking, the sea singing its siren song against the rocky shore made the perfect backdrop for the very good day he’d predicted.
Whiskey Beach