P.S. I Still Love You

Usually a potato in some form as the side. Tonight I’ve mashed sweet potatoes and sprinkled brown
sugar and cinnamon on top, then put them under the broiler so the sugar burns like crème brûlée.
Kitty is in charge of setting the table and putting out the condiments: Texas Pete’s hot sauce for
Daddy, mustard for Kitty, strawberry jam for me. Chutney for Margot if she were here. “What kind of
sauce did Mommy like with her chicken?” Kitty asks me suddenly.
“I... can’t remember,” I say. We both look at Daddy, who is checking on the chicken.
“Did she like mustard like me?” she asks.
Closing the oven door, Daddy says, “Hmm. Well, I know she liked balsamic vinegar. A lot. A lot a
lot.”
“Just on chicken?” Kitty asks.
“On everything, actually. Avocados, with butter on toast, tomatoes, steak.”
I file this away under Misc. Facts about M.
“Are you guys ready to eat?” Daddy asks. “I want to get this bird out while it’s still nice and
juicy.”
“In a minute,” Kitty says, and literally a minute later the doorbell rings. Kitty springs into action.
She comes back with Ms. Rothschild from across the street. She’s in skinny jeans and a black
turtleneck sweater and high-heeled boots, a chunky black-and-gold necklace around her neck. Her
mahogany brown hair is half up, half down. She’s carrying a wrapped present in her hands. Jamie
Fox-Pickle’s puppy legs can’t get to her fast enough; he is sliding all over the place, wagging his little
tail.
Laughing, she says, “Well, hello, Jamie.” She sets her gift on the counter and kneels down and pets
him. “What’s up, everybody?”
“Hi, Ms. Rothschild,” I say.
“Trina!” Daddy says, surprised.
Ms. Rothschild lets out an awkward laugh. “Oh, did you not know I was coming? Kitty invited me
when she was over with Jamie today... .” She reddens. “Kitty,” she chides.
“I did tell him—it’s just that Daddy’s absentminded,” Kitty says.
“Hm,” Ms. Rothschild says, giving her a look, which Kitty pretends not to see. “Well, thank you
anyway!” Jamie starts jumping all over her, another of his bad habits. Ms. Rothschild sticks her knee
out and Jamie settles down immediately. “Sit, Jamie.”
And then he actually sits! Daddy and I exchange an impressed look. Clearly Jamie needs to
continue under Ms. Rothschild’s tutelage.
“Trina, what can I get you to drink?” Daddy asks her.
“I’ll have whatever’s open,” she says.
“I don’t have anything open, but I’m happy to open whatever you like—”
“Ms. Rothschild likes pinot grigio,” Kitty says. “With an ice cube.”
She turns even redder. “God, Kitty, I’m not a lush!” She turns to us and says, “I’ll have a small
glass after work, but not every night.”
Daddy laughs. “I’ll put some white wine in the freezer. It’ll get cold soon.”
Kitty looks pleased as punch, and when Daddy and Ms. Rothschild go into the living room, I grab
her by the collar and whisper, “What are you up to?”
“Nothing,” she says, trying to squirm away.
“Is this a setup?” I hiss.