Most Wonderful

Chapter 30 Nine Days till Christmas

30.

Nine days till Christmas

On Monday morning, Liz suggested she and Violet go on a hike. “The pitch is close to finished,” Liz pointed out. “I’ll leave it for a few days, then do the final polish. Also,” she added with newfound boldness, “I just want to. Life isn’t only about work.”

Violet’s surprise took several beats to melt into a smile. “I couldn’t agree more.”

The day was vivid blue and crisp, the sky as clear as glass. The scent of pine needles and woodsmoke and snow braided on the breeze as they set off.

Continuing the free-flowing dialogue they’d started over the weekend, they discussed parenthood and how Liz’s dreams had changed since her twenties. The social stigmas of mental illness and childless women. A deep dive into Violet’s medication (Lexapro) and how she handled having depression in her professional life.

“Does being on set make it harder?” Liz recalled the early mornings and long nights, pained by the idea that her drive could’ve been making Violet’s life difficult.

“Being on set can be hard for everyone, at times. But for me, having a schedule makes it easier.” Violet flicked Liz a smile. “Having people I can trust makes it easier, too.”

“Can you keep letting me know? How I can help?”

“Of course.” Violet squeezed Liz’s arm with one gloved hand. “Thank you. I always thought telling a…friend, about my depression, might scare them off. But you’re still here.” She tipped her head to one side, smiling. “Being so sweet.”

Liz had always believed she’d mapped out her own heart, understood its design. But new architecture was being revealed.

Violet went on. “I don’t want you to think I just have one bad day every now and then. Depression is…” She puffed out her cheeks, searching for the words. “Trickier than that. It can rob me of everything—all hope, all joy, all belief in good things. It can kind of make me a bitch. That can be hard to be around. It’s one of the reasons why I’ve never really dated a lot.” She paused, assessing how these words were landing with Liz.

“You’re right that I don’t have experience being close to someone who I know has depression,” Liz said. “But I want to know all of you. I like all of you. A lot.”

“You don’t really know all of me.” Violet didn’t sound defensive. It was stated as fact.

“You don’t really know all of me either,” Liz said. “How do we work on that?”

“We keep talking.” Violet gestured at the path ahead of them. The snow was fresh, unbroken by footsteps. “We keep going.”

Liz didn’t know this part of the forest. They’d discover it at the same time.

Together, they walked deeper into the cold, peaceful woods.

—

They returned to Belvedere Inn in the early afternoon, planning a decadent lunch to celebrate, well, everything. But Liz pulled up short when she saw Babs sitting at the kitchen island.

Liz had been quietly avoiding her mother, still annoyed at her shortsighted advice not to pursue Violet, a conversation she’d already confessed to Vi. The obedient, responsible side of Liz had no idea how to act around her mother after doing the exact opposite of what she’d suggested.

Babs also appeared caught out, not meeting Liz’s eye as she gathered up her teacup and cane, saying something about a workout with Jin-soo.

Violet stepped between them, her smile defiantly cheerful. “Babs, would you join us for lunch?”

Both women shot Violet incredulous looks. “I’m sure you don’t want me getting in the way,” Babs murmured.

“Nonsense!” Clearly that’s what Violet felt this mother-daughter standoff was. “I’ll whip something up.”

Violet did all the heavy lifting, which, Liz had to admit, was a pleasant role reversal from a typical lunch with her mother. In the dining room, Vi spread a floral tablecloth and set out the good china.

“Lunch with my girls!” Babs declared, as Violet presented steaming bowls of leftover French onion soup and a crusty baguette. “What could be better?”

Liz couldn’t help but smile. Her mother had never been one to hold a grudge.

“I’d love to hear more about your background.” Violet passed Babs a hunk of baguette. “Where did you grow up?”

Liz listened as her mom told the story of her early life: Born in New Jersey as Barbara “Babs” O’Brien. A precocious child, headstrong teen. Married a local tradesman in her mid-twenties, Pete Miller. Liz’s father.

“What was he like?” Violet asked.

“Tall.” Babs popped a piece of baguette into her mouth. “Loyal. Hardworking. Reliable as the sun.”

Violet slipped Liz a knowing smile. Liz had been relatively close with her dad before he passed five years ago from prostate cancer. At his funeral, they played Bruce Springsteen live albums and ate roast beef sandwiches.

“I started performing in local theater in my early twenties,” Babs went on, “then at all these underground gay venues that were in New York at the time. Bathhouses. Big business—full shows, with piano, for hundreds of half-naked men.” She twinkled at Violet. “Quite the scene.”

It was here Babs had honed her onstage persona. A sassy, sharp-tongued broad who relied on charisma and cheek. Pretty but not beautiful, quick with a comeback or a long side-eye. Always on, larger than life, as flamboyant and cheeky as the audience for whom she belted out show tunes and jazz standards.

Liz regarded her mother with equal parts pride and affection. “You’re an icon, Mom.”

“As are you. Both of you.” Babs’s expression was thoughtful as it passed from Liz to Violet then back to Liz.

Babs spent the rest of the lunch waxing lyrical about her life as an actress—handsy producers and dismissive directors. The sexist media and their double standards. Some things had gotten better for female performers, some things much worse. “Your people are the ones who’ll get you through,” Babs advised Violet. “The ones you can trust: the good ones. You’re lucky to be working with Liz.”

“I know,” Violet replied, smiling at Liz, who smiled back, unapologetically holding Vi’s eye contact.

Again, Liz felt her mother watching them. Liz returned her gaze to Babs. “Tell us more, Mom.”

And what was so pleasurable about all of this was not the chance for Babs to witness her and Violet’s connection or the way Babs seemed more relaxed and open than she had all month. It was the use of the phrase us. Tell us more. We want to know. How badly Liz wanted to be an us.

It was time to make that desire more intentional.

—

Liz waited until no one else was around, finding a window later that afternoon. The light was lemon-pale and pretty, the entire house at peace.

Violet was reading alone in the family room. Liz approached, buoyed by nerves.

“Hi,” Liz said.

“Hi,” Violet replied, looking up from her book.

A pause. Liz fumbled for her next line, regretting not writing something in advance. The silence between them stretched.

“Well,” Liz said. “Bye.” She turned away and kept turning until she was facing Violet again, completing a full circle. “Date?”

“Excuse me?”

Liz’s entire face scorched. “I’d like to take you on a date. Dinner. In town.”

Violet positioned her bookmark, closing her novel. “A…date.”

“Yes,” Liz said.

“With you?”

Liz suspected she was being teased. “Yes. Dinner. With me. And maybe some candlelight.”

Violet lifted a brow. “Sounds romantic.”

“Yes. Unless you don’t want romance. In which case, switch candlelight for fluorescents.”

Violet fingered the pages of her book. “What girl doesn’t like a little romance?”

“Confirming candlelight.” Liz nodded, then winced.

“You’re such a dork.” Violet looked like she was trying not to laugh. “When?”

“Whenever you like.”

Vi’s eyes sparkled. “How about Friday night? If it’s okay I stay till then.”

“Literally never want you to leave.” Liz’s nerves were replaced by relief, shot through with excitement. “Friday it is.”

“Well done,” Vi whispered, giving Liz a thumbs-up.

“I’m out of practice,” Liz confessed.

“Yes.” Violet nodded sagely. “I could tell.”