A/N: This is a prequel to Addicted to Love, taking place four years before that story. Thus it is in the same AU world, but it will concentrate more on Cobert rather than the others – although they will all appear at various times and to various degrees. This is also my Cobert Holiday Exchange contribution, and it will be updated throughout the month. Please enjoy!
P.S. The title is a line from "Birds of a Feather" by The Civil Wars, a song which goes with this fic beautifully.
Thanksgiving Day
They always spent Thanksgiving in New York.
And at about nine am Cora and her father – supplied with mimosas and French toast, wrapped up in blankets even while soaking up the warmth emanating from the heater close by – sat on their 5th Avenue apartment balcony. It was a tradition of theirs, ever since they'd gotten the apartment ten years before, when Cora begged her parents to watch the parade with her. She'd largely outgrown the parade, but she and Isidore still went outside to enjoy their father-daughter tradition. Martha, eschewing the "pleasure" of the parade, kindly made them breakfast every year before getting down to seeing about the Thanksgiving meal they'd eat in late afternoon. Harold, hating parades – and being a nuisance to his mother if in the kitchen with her – tended to sleep in until it was time for his own tradition with his father: watching football.
Cora sipped her drink and ate her French toast, chewing thoughtfully. Leaning back, finishing his breakfast first, Isidore stroked his mustache to make sure there were no crumbs and then got out a cigar, watching his daughter the whole time.
"Out with it," he said finally, puffing at his cigar to get it started, the smoke curling around their heads.
"What, Daddy?" Cora looked up from her plate, her brow furrowed.
Isidore tilted his head to the side, raising his eyebrows. "Clearly you've got something rolling around in that head of yours, Princess."
With his use of his pet name for her, she realized her father was concerned. Clearing her throat, Cora placed her fork carefully down on her plate, wiped the corners of her mouth with her napkin, and looked him in the eye. "What would you think about my going overseas for six weeks?"
Taking a long drag from his cigar, Isidore's eyes followed his daughter as she took another sip of her mimosa, and he thought about his answer. He tapped the ash off the end of the cigar and met her expectant gaze. "I know it's about time for some sort of trip. You're twenty. And, although your brother seems to have no desire to leave the States – for any reason – I know you have different interests from Harold." He reached a hand over to pat hers, smiling.
Cora snorted, laughing, almost inhaling her drink the wrong way. She put it hastily down, chuckling, "You can say that again, Daddy."
Isidore grinned at his little girl, proud of the woman she'd grown into. In many ways Cora favored her mother with her deep blue eyes, slender curves, and her delicate features. She favored the Levinsons with her dark hair, height, and soft voice and manner. Her fine mind she received from both parents, and they did everything they could to nurture both it and her sweet temperament. She went to a college not far from home, and she'd done very well there.
"Princess, when would you want to go on this trip?"
Even though her cheeks were already pink from cold, they reddened slightly more, and she looked down at the hand in her lap. "December first."
Isidore leaned forward now, eyebrows having risen even farther up his forehead. "But that's over Christmas, Cora."
Meeting his eyes, Cora nodded slowly once, her lips pursed slightly.
"You would want to be away for Christmas? New Years?" He shook his head, a trifle confused. "But you love spending the holidays with us. You always help your mother decorate and bake and wrap gifts."
"Daddy," Cora sighed softly, "it's not that I don't want to be here. It's simply that the art history department has seen my work and nominated me for a study abroad program. It happens to take place over Christmas, in England." She shrugged, already knowing what he would ask. "I don't know why it's over the holidays. They do things strangely over there. But I… I want to go, Daddy. I won't get this chance again." She turned her hand over under his, grasping it, her eyes wide as she kept them on his face.
Balancing his cigar on the edge of the ashtray, Isidore took her hand in both of his. "What about Christmas, Princess? How will you spend it? Where?"
She shrugged. "I don't know yet. I'll figure it out later. But I really want to go. Please, Daddy? I won't go unless you say I can."
Isidore sighed deeply, his breath visible in the cold air. He, too, shrugged. "If you really want to go, Cora, I won't stop you." Moving one hand, he touched her face, smiling softly. "But I don't know what I'll do without my princess around here for the holidays."
"I'm just missing one year, Daddy. And I'll call you every day."
"Promise?" At her nod, he pulled away from her and sat back in his chair again, picking up his glass and cigar. "One condition."
"What's that, Daddy?"
"You have to also get your mother's permission." His eyebrows lifted again.
Cora paused, her hand up in the air on its way to her glass. "Fuck."
Everything seemed to go wrong for Martha as she prepared Thanksgiving dinner. "Why did the caterer not deliver any mashed potatoes? The only thing I have them do is the turkey, the stuffing, and the mashed potatoes! Why can't they do that simple thing? Now I have to make them!" Her voice was nearly a screech and could be heard over the football game.
"Momma!" Cora put out her hands. "Please, calm down. I'll make the potatoes."
"What about the apple pie? You always make apple pie!" Martha darted from counter to counter, moving things around, her red hair flipping wildly.
Flicking another apple peel into the garbage, Cora shifted on her stool. "Momma, you're making coffee nervous right now. And I can do both. Just concentrate on the casseroles and cranberries and I'll make Harold do the rolls."
Martha stopped and laughed, Cora grinning. "Baby, you said that just to calm me down, didn't you? Because you and I both know that he can't make anything – but a good drink."
"Then he'll make the drinks and I'll make the rolls. Just do what you normally do, Momma. I've got the rest." She pushed the apple corer down through the peeled apple, chucking the core and slicing the pieces a bit more before throwing them in the bowl.
"Alright." Martha sighed, then rolled her eyes at the menfolk's yelling at the television. "Music," she said, popping a cd into the kitchen player. Soon she was singing along to "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" while Cora frowned and worked faster.
It wouldn't be easy to convince her mother to let her go away during Christmas.
"Mother, that was the best yet, I think," said Harold. He let out a loud belch as he sat back in his chair.
"Well, that's a compliment then, since you rarely even comment on dinner, Harold." Martha knocked back the last of her wine and held out her glass for Isidore to refill.
As Harold shrugged and got up to pour himself and his father a postprandial whiskey, Isidore put down the wine bottle and looked at his daughter pointedly. She hadn't said a word about her trip to her mother, so far as he could tell, and it would be better to get it over with, he knew.
Cora drew her brows together, starting to shake her head, but when Isidore turned his head to his wife, his mouth opening, Cora shook her head harder. She had to be the one to tell her mother; it would be much worse if it came from anyone else.
She waited until Harold sat back down, then addressed Martha. "Mother, I need to ask you something."
"What's that, Cora?" She smiled at her daughter. "By the way, I think the potatoes were better than the ones we usually get from the caterer."
"Thank you, Momma." Cora took a deep breath, grateful that her mother appeared relaxed now that they'd gotten through dinner. "I wanted to float an idea by you." She rushed on without waiting for an answer, her eyes fixed on the centerpiece of flowers in fall colors. "As you know, I'm doing well in my art history major, and the department thinks I could go on to do graduate work at some point. But they want me to have some more things on my CV, to help with my application, to set me apart, and there's a study abroad program that's intensive and would let me see famous works all over England, and I really, really want to go." Her eyes finally left the centerpiece and went to her mother's face.
Her expression was hard to read. "When would this be?"
"I would leave December 1st." Cora bit her lip.
Martha's brow furrowed. "And what about your exams?"
"My professors all agreed to let me take them early – or after I return – so I could go."
Isidore watched both of them, and Harold piped up, "England? Why the hell would you ever want to go there?"
"Shut up, Harold. I want to go places and see things. I don't want just to smoke weed and drink and sail yachts and party. I want to see the art I'm studying and learn from people who are experts in the field." She shot her brother a scathing look, then turned her attention back to her mother.
Her red hair bounced as Martha shook her head a bit at her children. "Cora, how much will this cost us?"
"Nothing, Momma. It's also sort of a prize I've won, a fellowship. So the only thing I would need is pocket money. And I have plenty of my own."
"Well, we'll have to upgrade you to first class, at least. I'm sure they won't pay for that." Martha's brows drew together in thought, and Cora started to hope. But her father shook his head and let out a little sigh.
Cora chewed on her lip nervously when she saw her father's expression. And then Martha asked the question that would be the deciding factor.
"So how long is this study anyway? Two weeks? Three?" Taking a sip of her wine, she looked at her daughter questioningly.
"Six," Cora said simply.
Martha sat there a minute, then repeated, "Six? Six?" She blinked hard. "Cora Catherine Levinson, are you telling me this program is over Christmas? That you won't be here?"
Letting her eyes fall to her empty dessert plate, Cora nodded. "Yes, Mother." She looked up. "But I still want to go." Her chin protruded defiantly.
"No. No – absolutely not. You are going to be here for Christmas like you always are. And that's the end of it." Martha's eyes flashed. Rarely did she get truly angry, but she was now.
Cora's voice went up half an octave. "But Daddy said –"
Rounding on her husband, Martha inquired, "You thought I would say yes, Isidore? You said yes to her gallivanting across England over the holidays? Our treasured time together?"
"Martha, please, calm down. It's only one time. She should have these opportunities. It's not as if she chose when to go. This is when it's offered. Don't you want her to have this enrichment?" Isidore put a gentle hand on her forearm.
Her mouth set into a hard line. "Why should I have to choose – holidays with my daughter or her enrichment?" She pushed his hand off her arm and stood. "No. You can't go, Cora. That's all."
Cora watched her mother's retreating form, rigid with irritation. Then she turned her eyes to her father.
"I'll go talk to her," he said.
"No, Daddy. Let her calm down first. You know she has to think about it. Let's clean up. She'll be in a better mood if she doesn't come out to a bunch of dirty dishes."
"Leave me some turkey out for a midnight sandwich," Harold drawled, having already topped off his whiskey again, starting to slur. "I'm going to watch more football."
"As if we thought any differently," Isidore muttered, sharing a glance with Cora and rolling his eyes.
Cora couldn't help giggling as she rose and started piling dishes together. She stopped when she felt her father beside her, his hand on her arm like it had been on her mother's earlier.
Isidore's face wore a soft smile. "She'll come around, Princess. She wants what's best for you too. She just doesn't want to give up her special time with you."
"I know, Daddy." Leaning up, she kissed her father's cheek, the end of his mustache tickling her face. "I don't want to either, but I can't let this pass."
Nodding, he smiled wider and picked up the platter with the last of the turkey. "Time to get this dining room and kitchen cleared away. Your mother's going to want to decorate tomorrow." Isidore chuckled and winked, hoping that Martha would change her mind as he said she would. He would hate for Cora to be disappointed.
Darkness enveloped the living room when Cora stepped into it. It had taken her and Isidore several hours to get everything clean, put away, and ready for their day after Thanksgiving brunch. He'd gone off to bed, and Cora went to see if Harold was still awake, but the television was off, the room unlit.
But a few small lights caught her attention, and she realized that her brother was out on the balcony. Turning on one small light, Cora made herself a whiskey and soda before opening the door and slipping out. The dim light of the heater was more visible once she stepped past it to the edge, standing next to Harold.
Cora coughed a bit. "Jesus, Harold, how strong is that weed?"
She could make out his shrug in the bright lights of the city, and the tip of the joint glowed as he took another hit. "I thought I'd smoke the really good shit – you know, in gratitude. Being Thanksgiving and all."
"Well, I guess I can't deny that logic." Cora rolled her eyes and leaned on the edge of the balcony, looking out at all the Christmas lights already strung up, at the trees visible in windows and even on balconies. She had a long drink of her whiskey.
"Mother will calm down." Harold pushed an elbow into her arm, poking her. "She'll give you what you want. She likes you better than she likes me anyway."
Laughing softly, Cora shook her head, turning it to examine Harold's profile as he exhaled smoke. "Ludicrous. You're the favored elder child, the golden boy who can do no wrong. Well – who can do wrong but is always forgiven."
Harold glanced at her. "I would never want to leave America – what can Europe have that we don't? But you know she'll let you go."
"You sound like Daddy." She moved her eyes to her glass, swirling the liquid around, then tossing her head back to down a good third of it in one gulp.
"He's right, though. But, you know, I get that seeing her angry over it would upset you. Whatever you might say." He offered her the joint. "Here. Have some. It'll make you forget for a while."
Cora peered at him curiously. "Harold, did you stop drinking or something? You're usually not this nice to me. Or this lucid on a holiday evening."
"Shut up, Cora, and take the toke." He laughed. "I've been trying something new."
"Oh god, you've got a girlfriend?" Cora had one drag and coughed.
Patting her on the back, Harold took the joint back and had a drag himself. "Sort of. Don't know if it will work. She thinks I should be 'responsible.'" He rolled his eyes. "I think I'm too young to be responsible yet. But I really like her."
Cora giggled.
"Damn, Cora, it really doesn't take much, does it?" He stubbed out the last of the joint and put the butt in his pocket as his sister finished her drink. "Come on, lightweight. Time for bed." He draped his arm around her shoulders – Cora couldn't remember him ever doing that, but, then again, her head was rather cloudy now – and pulled her into the house.
"You must really like her," Cora said, giggling again.
"Shut up," he repeated, pushing her into her room somewhat roughly.
"You're blushing!" Stumbling slightly, Cora grabbed her dresser and hung on, watching Harold in the doorway. "Harold's got a girlfriend, Harold's got a girlfriend…" she said in a singsong voice.
"I should never have been nice to you. Go to sleep, Cora. Tomorrow it's back to the usual." Harold slammed the door, grumbling all down the hallway.
Cora climbed up into bed, giggling, and wrapped herself into her covers, not even bothering to undress.
She dreamed of London and the British Museum and grand country estates – and art.