Fatty Patty (A James Bay Novel) (19 page)

This is even better than that kiss in the basement!

“What are you doing?”

Sam abruptly pulls away. I stuff a cracker in my mouth and glare as Priscilla ventures into the kitchen. Just wait till I get her alone tonight. The two of us are going to have a little talk about her rotten sense of timing.

“I’m sorry, Sam.” Priscilla’s face is as red as the cranberry sauce in Mama’s fancy crystal serving bowl. “I’m really sorry.”

“No problem.” His face is redder than Priscilla’s.

I munch my cracker in frustrated silence. Some sister she turned out to be. No concern about the fact that she’s embarrassed me, too. No, it’s all
Sam, Sam, Sam
. How would she like it if I walked in on her and Dr. Brown?

Priscilla shuffles past me, between the stove and counter. “It’s two o’clock. I need to put dinner on the table.”

I cram another cracker in my mouth. If she thinks I’m going to volunteer to help, she’s got another think coming.

“Need some help?” Sam ventures.

I throw him a scowl. If he really wants to help, he should kick Priscilla out of the kitchen and start kissing me again.

“You’re sweet to offer but I think we’re all set.” She stops suddenly, gives me a hard stare. “Patty, are you eating crackers?”

“Blame Sam. He made me eat them. He said they would soak up the wine.” I pop the last bite in my mouth and lick the salt from my fingers. “You said I was drunk, remember?”

“You were.”

“Well, maybe I was.” I shrug. “Maybe I still am. Who cares?”

“You’re right, Patty.” Her voice carries a hard edge. “Who cares?”

Suddenly all my resentment sloshes together in one huge wave of guilt. What am I saying? What am I doing? This isn’t the way Priscilla usually acts. I think hard, cringing as vague memories of my living room debacle return, how I blathered on. And then I remember Dr. Brown and his moustache.

Oh God. No wonder she’s mad.

“Priscilla, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” My head drops. “Is Dr. Brown upset?”

Priscilla refuses to look at me as she steadily ladles gravy into a serving bowl. “He left.”

Oh, God. Me and my big mouth. Now she’ll never forgive me.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. Do you think if I call and apologize, maybe he’ll come back—”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Her eyes narrow and she shoots me a dark look. “He didn’t leave because of you. The hospital paged him out for an emergency.”

I take a deep breath. At least it wasn’t anything I said. Still, I owe him an apology. I probably owe everybody an apology.

“I’m sorry he had to leave. I didn’t hear his beeper.”

She shrugs. “Obviously you didn’t hear the doorbell, either. He’s in the living room.”

I snatch another cracker, nibble the edges. “Who?”

“Nick Lamont. He showed up five minutes ago.”

The cracker sticks in my throat. “Nick came?” I choke out.

“That’s right.” Priscilla stares at the serving bowls heaped high with food and crowding the counter. “And I hope he brought his appetite. Mine is gone.”

“I’m not too hungry myself,” Sam says quietly. He stares at me. “I’ll help Priscilla out here. You go play hostess to your friend.”

I hesitate. Leave the kitchen? But I don’t want to go. And it’s not the tantalizing aroma of the roasted turkey, Priscilla’s homemade stuffing, or her crusty dinner rolls urging me to stay.

More like the look of longing disappearing from Sam’s eyes.

“Go on.” He gives me a little push. “Nick’s waiting.”

I glance back and forth between the two of them. For once in my life, I could care less about food. “You’re sure you don’t need me?”

“He’s your guest, not mine,” Priscilla says. “You need to greet him. Sam can help me get dinner on the table.”

I pull myself away and head down the hallway. The sound of easy laughter floats from the living room. I pause just beyond the doorway, sink against the wall, listening to Nick chatting with Jack and Ruth. My feet feel like lead but my heart feels even heavier. Something’s definitely wrong. I’m the one who invited Nick. Shouldn’t I be happy that he finally showed up? What’s wrong with me? I should be able to figure this out. I’m smart. I’m a fifth-year-in-a-row Finalist for Teacher of The Year. And Teachers supposedly have all the answers, right? But this is beyond any instructor’s manual. There’s no magic answer key at the back of a book to explain the way I feel.

Torn at being kicked out of the kitchen.

Reluctant to greet Nick.

What’s the problem, Patty?

Maybe the problem is something I’m not willing to admit.

Maybe deep down, I already know the answer.

Taking a deep breath, I screw up my nerve and step into the living room.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I stare around the table at the remains of our Thanksgiving feast. I’m not sure if my attitude of gratitude was sucked away with all that wine or if it’s the men responsible for my bad case of heartburn.

What in God’s name was I thinking, sitting Nick and Sam across the table from each other?

“Having Patty next door in the other classroom is great. I don’t know what I’d do without her.” Nick’s lazy smile makes my insides melt like the soft butter slathered on the flaky dinner roll Sam just crammed in his mouth.

“She deserves that nomination as Teacher of the Year,” Ruth says. “And you, too, Nick. Being selected is quite an honor. Not every first-year teacher at our school makes it.”

I catch his easy shrug, the modest look on his face—and across the table, the glower on Sam’s. My stomach tightens as I remember that wild kiss we shared in the kitchen. Sam doesn’t look so enamored now, shoveling in bite after bite of turkey and dressing.

What was I thinking? I’m putting myself on a self-induced diet starting right now.

No more men.

“Only four more weeks till Christmas,” Ruth says. “This year is going fast.”

Christmas. Celebrations. Cocktail parties. And that little black dress hanging in my closet. I force my eyes away from the dish of candied sweet potatoes. It’s one of Priscilla’s traditional holiday dishes and one of my favorites, but I don’t dare indulge, not even one bite. I still have another five pounds to go. That dress
has
to fit.

“Do you have plans for Christmas, Sam?” Priscilla folds her napkin across her empty plate.

“I’m flying out to spend the holidays with my sister and her family.” He helps himself to another slab of moist, dark meat from Mama’s antique turkey platter. “But I’ll be back before New Year’s. Tax season starts January first.”

“Taxes. Now there’s a dry subject.” Nick fingers his wine glass. “Don’t you find it boring crunching numbers all day?”

“Got to admit, I’m with Nick on that one.” Jack settles back in his chair. “I wouldn’t want your job, Sam, no matter how much they paid me.”

“I like accounting. Numbers don’t lie.” He spears a bite of turkey on his fork. “Besides, it’s a good business, especially in this economy. You know what they say: two things in life are guaranteed—death and taxes.”

“They ought to do something about the tax code,” Ruth says. “It’s much too complicated for normal people to understand.”

“Thank God Patty and I have Sam,” Priscilla says. “I don’t know what we’d do without him. He’s been a big help.”

Big
being the operative word. If Sam eats any more of those sweet potatoes, he’ll pop.

“He’s been helping us get our finances in order. And not only is he good with money, he’s very good at fixing things. He comes over for dinner every Friday night and he helps around the house…” She breaks off and glances around the table with an uncertain smile. “I guess it’s obvious how I feel about Sam. I think he’s wonderful.”

“The feeling’s mutual, Priscilla.” He chuckles, shoves his plate aside. “And you’re a great cook. When I was a kid, I always thought my mom made the best sweet potatoes in the world, but yours are even better.”

Priscilla beams while my own stomach growls. Steamed broccoli can’t compare to the leftover sweet potatoes and homemade dressing in the crystal bowls. Not to mention the sideboard groaning with pies begging to be sliced. “Can we please talk about something besides food?” I eye Nick, next to me. “What about you? What are you doing for Christmas?”

“Why? You thinking of inviting me to Christmas dinner?” He refills his wine glass and winks at me. “Though I’ll probably be going home,” he concludes. “Not sure yet.”

“Where exactly is home?” Sam presses.

He shrugs. “I’ve moved around some.”

“East Coast? West Coast?”

I shoot Sam a warning look. What is his problem?

“I grew up in Arizona, but we’re scattered across the country now. One of my sisters will give me a call once they get the holidays plans straightened out. Until then, I’m not going to sweat it.”

“Nick has five sisters.” The words slide out of my mouth. I’m not sure why I feel the sudden need to defend him or why the sudden anger toward Sam. He has no reason to grill Nick.

“And where exactly do you fit in the family hierarchy?” Sam eyes him over the cranberry relish. “Oldest? Youngest?”

Nick’s eyebrows rise and for one brief moment I catch the glint of a scowl hovering on his face. But then he laughs. “Guess you could call me the baby, seeing as I’m the youngest.”

Ruth touches Jack’s hand. “Sound familiar, sweetheart?”

“You’re lucky you’ve only got sisters, Nick,” he says. “I’m the youngest of three boys. My older brothers never cut me any slack.”

Nick drains his wine. “I can relate. I’ve got a couple of brothers, too.”

I stare hard. Brothers? Nick never told me that.

“They’re older than me and we’re not close. I get along better with women.” He sprawls back in his chair and shoots me a lazy grin. “Right, Patty?”

Suddenly I’m aware of all eyes on me. As God as my witness, I will never invite a man to dinner again. My stomach’s upset and my heart is confused. This isn’t worth it. Why doesn’t everyone eat their pie and go home? This holiday dinner is giving me a headache.

“Would anyone like dessert?” I ask weakly.

Priscilla brings pies from the sideboard, places them in the center of the table. “I made pumpkin and mincemeat, too.”

Sam leans forward. “Pumpkin sounds good.”

“Ruth? Jack? Nick?” She glances around with an expectant air, hesitates, then finally looks at me. “Patty?”

I stare at the slice she’s placed in front of Sam. It has an extra dollop of whipped crème. Would one little piece of pumpkin pie hurt? I’ve been so good. And it
is
Thanksgiving. Why do I have to deprive myself? Don’t I deserve to celebrate?

Nick drapes his arm across the back of my chair. My stomach does a slow, lazy flip-flop as I feel his fingers trace my right shoulder, dancing lightly over the black velvet.

Priscilla’s eyebrows lift. “Patty?”

“No pie for me, thanks.” I shiver as his fingers trail the nape of my neck. My face is burning and my body feels like it’s on fire. I press my knees together, fight back the surge of desire. What if it had been Nick, instead of Sam, with me in the kitchen? What if he’d been the one feeding me crackers and kissing away the crumbs? I close my eyes for a minute, visualizing that little black dress hanging in my closet. What will Nick think when he sees me wearing it?

What will he do once the party’s over?

Priscilla lifts the serving knife. “Last call.”

“Just another sliver.” Sam holds out his plate. “And maybe a piece of the mincemeat, too.”

“Nick? Sure you wouldn’t like a piece?” Priscilla asks.

“No, thanks. I’m all set.” He winks at me as forks scrape in unison against china.

And suddenly I’m very glad I held out. Who needs pie? Who needs the extra calories? Not me.

I’ve got Nick Lamont.

# # #

“Here’s the rest of the stuff from the table.” Nick’s hands are stacked high with plates.

“Thanks for helping out.” Ruth and I unload his arms and find space in the cluttered kitchen amid the aftermath of a holiday feast. “I thought you’d be in the living room with the guys.”

He slouches against the counter. “I’m not much for football.”

Unlike some people I could mention. Sam is currently camped out with Jack in front of the television, watching the game.

“I’m good at drying dishes if you need an extra hand.” He watches as Priscilla squirts pink dish soap into the sink. “My sisters have me well trained.”

“Have a towel.” I toss it at him, laughing as he easily catches it. “You’re scoring major points, Mr. Lamont.”

“That’s my goal in life. I aim to please.”

“Where’s Mama’s turkey platter?” Priscilla’s hands swish through the steamy soap suds. “I want to wash that next and put it away.”

I glance around the counter littered with dirty plates, but no turkey platter. “It must still be in the dining room.”

“And we’re missing some serving bowls, too,” she says. “Would you get them?”

Nick glances up from the wine glass cradled in his dishtowel. “Need some help?”

“Stay where you are, Nick. I’ll help Patty.” Ruth grabs my arm and hauls me toward the door.

“What was that all about?” I sputter as the door swings shut behind us.

“Why didn’t you tell me what was going on?” Ruth demands.

“What are you talking about?”

“He likes you.”

Is it that obvious? My tummy does a slow flip, remembering Nick’s arm draped across my chair during dinner… his lazy grin, his soft flirty laugh, the secret wink he gave me. I’ve never been good at reading signals put out by men but if Ruth thinks it’s true, maybe there’s hope after all. Maybe I’m not simply chasing rainbows.

“Do you really think Nick and I could—”

“Nick?” She rolls her eyes. “For heaven’s sake, Patty, where did you get that idea? No, I’m talking about Sam.” She nods toward the living room. “Anyone with eyes in their head can see how he feels about you.”

“Sam? But he isn’t… I mean, he’s not the one…” I stumble over the words as I reach for Mama’s platter. Ruth has things all messed up. “Sam’s only our accountant. He’s simply helping us get our finances in order.”