Frosting Her Christmas Cookies - Alina Jacobs Page 0,40

do it, Jonathan,” Keeley complained.

I opened my mouth.

“Fair is fair,” Morticia said, shoving a bite in.

“Shit,” I mumbled around the pasta. “I need this in my life every day. How did you know how to make this?”

“My Italian grandmother,” she said with a small smile as I shoved another forkful into my mouth.

“I’m Italian!” Keeley insisted, butting in and grabbing the plate from me. “Mimi was my grandmother too.”

“You never visited her.” Morticia bared her teeth.

“Can I—” I reached for the plate. There were a few more bites of lasagna left. I needed them.

“Don’t eat that, Jonathan,” Keeley said, jerking the plate away. “I’m going to make you something better than this lasagna, just you wait.”

I didn’t want anything other than the lasagna. It was amazing. Of course, there was none left when I went browsing in the studio after the filming was over.

Jonathan: I will trade you anything you want for more of that lasagna.

Jonathan: A private jet to the Bahamas, a life-size doll that looks exactly like me, someone to serenade you at all hours of the night.

Morticia: No. I’m working.

Fuck. I felt slightly bereft.

I didn’t just want the lasagna because I was hungry; it had felt like home. Sure, my family had had its ups and downs: my two older brothers didn’t talk to my parents, and my sister had cut and run and gone with no contact for three years. But that was family, right? The Frosts needed someone to keep everyone together. I longed for a Christmas like those of my childhood, when all eight of us had been together in my immaculately decorated childhood home with candles and dinner.

Jonathan: Hey, how are you all doing? Just wondering how you were. Would love to see you.

I waited a beat. I had been texting my parents over the last few weeks but hadn’t received a response yet. I reread the message. Did it sound too whiny? My mother had always complained when my brothers or I acted too needy. Then she would tell my father, and he would give us a lecture about being a man.

Diane Frost: The ballet just let out. We have twenty minutes. You can come meet us at the Olive and Twist. Otherwise we aren’t free for another few weeks.

David Frost: Do not be late. You’re always late to everything.

Yes!

I had friends who hated their parents. Carl’s mom was constantly badgering him and his brothers for money. And the Svenssons’ dad lived on a compound with a handful of sister wives and was holding a number of their younger siblings hostage. I felt lucky by comparison. I loved my parents. My dad was a neurosurgeon, and my mother had two PhDs in science. My parents were always busy, but they were doing important work. Sure, that had meant they hadn’t had time for me or my siblings when we were younger, but I was sure that now that we were all adults, things were going to change. I just had to work at our relationship.

My parents were waiting impatiently at the bar when I walked in.

“What is it?” my mother asked. She was a tall brunette. I had my father’s coloring. With his platinum hair, ice-blue eyes, and broad shoulders, people loved to put him on medical magazine covers and have him headline conferences.

I stopped short. “I just wanted to see you guys.”

My mother sighed. “You made it seem like such an emergency. We do have other things on our schedule tonight.”

“Oh, sorry,” I said. “Just thought, you know, we haven’t caught up in a while. I thought maybe you’d want to hear about what I’m doing.”

“I know about what you’re doing,” my father said, signaling the bartender for another drink. He did not offer me anything.

“They’re using the alcohol from my company here.” I pointed to the top-shelf liquor. “Belle is working with Romance Creative and Dana Holbrook now. She’s helping me on my advertising,” I said in a rush.

My mother made a face when I mentioned my sister’s name.

“I don’t know why you had to start an alcohol company,” my father complained. “Of course Belle is encouraging you. Why couldn’t you be like Jack or Owen? He has a cybersecurity company. He’s working with the Svenssons.”

“I am too!”

“Not Svensson PharmaTech,” my mother countered.

“You like them?” I asked. “I could organize a meeting between Mace and you. He’s the CEO.”

“I know who he is. I spoke with him at the medical technology conference last year. He is very interested in my