Strangers at the Feast by Jennifer Vanderbes Page A

adrenaline crack through his veins. “That’s the one.”

DENISE
    Denise set out the hummus and crackers on the old trunk being used as a coffee table. When hungry, her children were like hyenas. She was not taking chances. She dipped a cracker, took a bite.
    “Chow time, kids! You snooze, you lose.”
    But Laura and the twins were marching along the perimeter of the room, a rash of Eleanor’s pink lipstick on their foreheads, Laura at the end dragging her tablecloth.
    “We are an exploring party!”
    “Hark, I hear a rustling in the forest yonder. Be still, explorers!”
    “Who is this strange creature? Does she speak our language?”
    The children had paused in front of Eleanor, who was straightening Ginny’s antique bric-a-brac on the mantel: a wooden butter churn, two copper candlesticks, a brass compass. She worked a handkerchief over a granite mortar and pestle. A red headband fastened her hair, an attempt at girlishness compromised by her halo of gray roots. She wore her Thanksgiving sweater, an orange wool pullover with a giant red maple leaf in the middle. Denise thought it looked unfortunately like the Canadian flag.
    “From where do you hearken, strange woman?” Brandon asked.
    “Westport!” Eleanor answered excitedly.
    “She is of the Wesportonians,” said Brian.
    “What is she doing?”
    “She is dusting. Note this in the expedition logbook. The Wesportonian is dusting.”
    “Shall we string her up by her ankles?”
    “The Westportonians are known as a peaceful people. They are gardeners and stargazers and drinkers of wine. Let down your weapons, explorers!”
    “Oh, my,” said Eleanor, touching her heart. “You children were very convincing. I was quite scared.”
    “Aw, Grandma, we wouldn’t hurt you,” Brian said, wiggling his index finger up his nose. “We knew it was you . Did you know a human being sheds a complete layer of skin every three weeks?”
    “How utterly interesting.”
    “Most dust is dead skin,” said Brandon.
    “Really!” Eleanor tucked her handkerchief back into her purse. “Well, I am pleased as a peanut you children are here. Denise, how wonderful you prefer to spend the holidays with our family. It’s such a treat having everyone together.”
    “It’s nice being with you all.” Which was vaguely true. But also, when they visited Denise’s family, her mother flirted wildly with Douglas and her father spent an hour asking Douglas for investment tips before insisting he join him on the back porch for a cigar, then pleading for investment capital. It broke Denise’s heart. It mortified her. Her father had worked at U.S. Steel until the mill closed and for the past twenty years had picked up odd jobs welding and painting houses. The loan Douglas had given him when they first married—at Denise’s urging—to start an auto repair shop, had not been repaid. The shop had never opened. And Denise believed it was a testament to her husband’s character that throughout their own financial struggles, Douglas had never once mentioned her father’s unpaid debt. Nonetheless, Denise had come to the difficult decision that they would not loan her family money and would not, unless necessary, visit.
    “Did I miss the turkey?”
    It was Gavin, late as usual, a newspaper wedged under his arm.
    Everybody went silent at his entrance; the man had a way of sucking the air out of a room.
    “Well, look what the cat dragged in.” Eleanor snatched his newspaper and coat and tucked them in the entry closet. “You’re not going to read that here. This is family time.”
    Gavin was nothing like Denise’s father. Gavin had worked for the same insurance company for thirty years, but looked more like a mountaineer than a company man. He was broad-shouldered and ruddy-faced and had run marathons until age fifty. He dressed conservatively, but almost always wore sneakers, which lent a boyishness to his otherwise solemn demeanor. In the last few years, however, he’d been