The Ice Harvest by Scott Phillips Read Free Book Online Page A

Melissa leaped up onto the seat of her absurdly oversize chair, vaulted herself out of it, and raced squealing around the long, solid table and past her uncle Pete to slam full force into Charlie. He picked the little girl up and held her tight for a second, then set her down. She pressed herself into his pant leg, crying and holding on for dear life. Now the other adults were staring at him, puzzled and angry.
    “Hi, Spence,” he said to the little boy seated next to Sarabeth’s husband, trying not to play favorites. “Merry Christmas.”
    The boy stared him down without a word. Pete and Betsy’s kids looked at Charlie, not quite sure who he was.
    “Sorry to show up unannounced. Just gave Pete here a ride, thought I’d stop in and wish you happy holidays.”
    Again no one spoke. Charlie’s ex-father-in-law was twisted around in his chair, staring openmouthed at Charlie as though trying desperately to place him. Sarabeth’s husband, mouth full of mincemeat, looked as though he might stand up and bludgeon Charlie with one of Dottie’s silver candlesticks, and Sarabeth herself looked away. Betsy shot alternating disgusted looks at Charlie and Pete, as though she couldn’t decide which was the lower form of life. Finally Dottie broke the silence.
    “We’ve already eaten dinner, Charlie. Could I offer you a glass of wine?” She smiled more or less convincingly as she said it, possibly at Charlie’s obvious surprise at her unaccustomed civility.
    “Don’t mind if I do, Dottie, thanks.” He walked toward her end of the table, passing Sarabeth without looking directly at her.
    Dottie got up and poured him a glass of red wine and handed it to him. “You’re limping, Charlie. Did you hurt yourself?”
    “Just a little tennis hip,” he said.
    “I never heard of that,” Dottie said.
    He turned toward Sarabeth, who wouldn’t return his gaze. She wore bangs now, and her dark brown hair fell below her shoulders for the first time since he’d known her. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes moist. He had almost forgotten how pretty he’d always found that sad look of hers. She pushed her chair away from the table, and he was surprised to see as she stood that she was pregnant. He felt an odd twinge of nostalgia at the sight of her belly, a small but sharp pain he wouldn’t have thought himself capable of. He reminded himself that he hated her.
    “Sorry,” she said, pushing past Pete. Betsy looked over at Charlie, something close to a snarl on her curled lip. Charlie had always liked her, had in fact had a crush on her at one of the low points of his marriage, and even this attention from her still gave him a tiny spark of pleasure. She started to say something, then stopped herself, got up, and followed Sarabeth out of the room, stopping long enough at the door to give Pete a hard shove in the chest. “You shitheel!” she hissed quietly. Pete grinned, but he was a long way from the fun and fireworks he’d anticipated and promised.
    “How is your work coming along, Charlie?” Dottie asked.
    “Me and Tom Hagen here made a guy an offer he couldn’t refuse, that’s how come we’re so fucking late.” Apart from a small, involuntary wince, Dottie made no sign that she heard him.
    “Work’s fine,” Charlie said. Dottie had first turned on him in the course of a seemingly innocuous disagreement over whether or not Spencer was old enough for a bicycle. A shouting match had followed regarding Charlie’s decision to give up his only mildly successful law practice and go to work full-time for Bill Gerard and Vic Cavanaugh. After that day he had warily avoided her company, even on major family occasions, right up until the divorce. In the interim the phenomenon of the mostly absent son-in-law seemed to have become a Henneston family tradition.
    “Who’s he?” bellowed the old man at the end of the table.
    “You remember Charlie,” Dottie yelled back.
    “Not Charlie, him, ” he said, pointing at