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“What are you thinking about?” Nora asked as they settled into their compartment, barely in time to grab their seats before the train began to rumble down the tracks. “Family.” Grace smiled. “The acquired kind.” “My favorite kind,” Nora agreed with feeling, and Grace sat back in her seat as the train left the station, watching America roll past.
Mrs. Nilsson served a grudging late lunch of dried-out turkey breast and canned mashed potatoes and packaged rolls to Pete, Lina, and whoever among the boarders wasn’t visiting relatives, before going out for her usual Thursday evening bridge game. Grace had wondered, her first year at Briarwood House, what kind of bridge club met on Thanksgiving, and then she actually met the harridans: the meanest cluster of tightfisted crones imaginable, far more interested in making a few dollars at the card table than throwing a turkey in the oven for whatever family they hadn’t managed to alienate.
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eat when hungover or when life is in danger of spectacularly imploding in all directions, while listening to “Wanted” by Perry Como.
Garnish with a twist and drink to celebrate the departure of old friends or the arrival of new ones, while listening to “Come On-a My House” by Rosemary Clooney.
The whole house had, really—the entire atmosphere of the place had lifted. Pete wouldn’t admit it for worlds, but he sometimes caught himself talking to the house when there was no one else around. A Don’t you feel better now? whenever he fixed a loose banister spoke, or a There, isn’t that nice? when the sitting room flowers got freshened up. And sometimes he could swear Briarwood House give a kind of contented creak in response.
