Rm W/a Vu (41 page)

Suppressing my feelings of desire as much as I can, I place my hands on the armrests of Greyston’s chair, leaning over to kiss him softly. “I’m going to go see if I can lend a hand in the kitchen. You boys behave.”

Kicking off my insanely warm new winter boots, I pad barefoot to the kitchen, where Mom, Gran, and Jocelyn are busy working on a few things for dinner. I pass by Dad and Daniel, popping up on my toes to kiss my father’s cheek, and continue on my way.

The closer I get to the kitchen, the stronger the inviting smell of the turkey is; I’m instantly transported back in time to happy memories of countless Thanksgivings and Christmases with my family. The holidays have always been my favorite time of year. There’s just something about being together with my family, sitting around the table, our dinner plates full in front of us as we talk, laugh, and share stories of years past.

This Christmas is fast becoming my favorite of them all, having my family and Greyston’s all together under one roof. Sure, I was a little afraid that neither of our mothers would relinquish their hosting duties, and we’d be forced to split the holidays between houses. It was such a relief when they agreed, and it was an even bigger relief when Gran showed up this morning and accepted Greyston right away—not that I should have been too surprised, I suppose; I talked about him enough the other day in the car as the driver took us to my parents’ house.

Naturally, Gran asked all sorts of questions about my relationship. At first, she didn’t seem too keen on the idea that we were living together already, but I was quick to explain that I was renting a room in his house before we even realized there was something between us. The expression on her face was proof enough that this wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She wasn’t upset about it, but she was concerned because the situation had the potential to become complicated. I understood where she was coming from, but after talking to her about him a little more, she started to understand and told me that she only mentioned it because she wants what’s best for me.

I stand in the doorway to the kitchen, watching them all fuss over different things; Jocelyn is busy putting various kinds of tarts and squares on the festive platters Greyston and I had left out this morning, Gran is skinning carrots and potatoes, and Mom is basting the turkey. They work together like a cohesive unit, and it only further cements this as my favorite Christmas so far; I’d like to think they’ll only get better as the years go by—though, I suppose this one might be hard to top since I got a trip to the mountains.

The minute my mother notices me hanging out in the doorway she closes the oven and motions for me to join them. “Come on in, honey. Lend a hand.”

Not wanting to step on any toes, I smile and shake my head. “No, that’s okay. Greyston and I said that you could carry on with your yearly traditions. I’m okay to just hang out.”

 “Don’t be silly, Juliette,” Gran admonishes as only Gran does—which is in a tone that should never be taken too seriously. “Get in here and make yourself useful.”

I grab a paring knife from the knife block, stand next to Gran, and pick up a potato from the counter in front of her to peel. I’ve just made the first slice when Gran leans closer to me, speaking her next words in a low, hushed voice. “Besides, judging by the way that boy looks at you, you’ll have to start building your own traditions.”

My cheeks burn, and I can only imagine the shade of red they are as I laugh nervously. While I know how I feel about Greyston—and I’m pretty sure he feels the same way—it seems like I’d be tempting fate to think that far into the future so soon.  It’s too late, though; Gran’s playful comment has me imagining Greyston and I sitting together on our couch as three smiling children tear open brightly wrapped gifts near the Christmas tree.

“What’s got you grinning like a court jester?” Mom asks, bumping her hip against mine as she sidles up next to me.

Clearing my throat, I shake my head. “Nothing,” I lie, my voice cracking slightly—a sure sign of my guilt. Thankfully, my mother doesn’t press the issue, instead wrapping an arm around me and hugging me close.

“Thank you for suggesting we all celebrate together,” Mom says, resting her head against mine as I continue peeling potatoes. “It’s wonderful to have everyone here.” When her voice quivers, my eyebrows pull together in concern, and I set the knife and potato down so I can focus on her.

“Mom?”

Quickly, she pulls her arm from around me and dabs at the inner corners of her eyes with the pads of her index fingers. “Sorry.” She laughs. “The holidays always make me a little emotional.”

While I know this to be true, I also know that she’s never
this
emotional. First, she got more than a little choked up when she opened the necklace I got her, and now, she’s crying… I get the feeling that something deeper is going on, and my stomach knots when I begin to fear the worst: that maybe she’s sick.

I need to know, but I know that now is probably not the time to ask, so I try to push it to the back of my mind. It’s completely unsuccessful. When I almost cut my thumb for the fifth time, I throw in the towel and excuse myself. “I’m going to step outside for a minute,” I tell them, heading for the patio doors.

Once outside, I walk toward the pool and stand along the edge, looking out toward the desert. It’s a little chilly, and the cool breeze bites through my light sweater, so I wrap my arms around myself in an effort to warm up a bit. My mind races, trying to find some other explanation for my mother’s odd behavior. I’m unable to think of anything that could be taken in a positive light—especially since her mother died of cancer ten years ago. That alone brings me right back to the absolute worst scenario possible.

My eyes begin to burn, and I blink back my tears, afraid of anyone seeing how upset I am. Logically, I know I shouldn’t be this upset without confirming my fears, but I’m finding it hard to remain rational.

“Here you are.” Greyston’s soft voice rolls over me, granting me a momentary reprieve from my distress. He drapes the jacket he keeps by the patio door over my shoulders and wraps his arms around me, resting his chin on my shoulder and kissing my neck. “What are you doing out here?”

I think about telling him what’s bothering me, but I don’t want to sully his mood as well until I know for sure. So, instead of unloading my thoughts on him, I smile and turn in his arms. “Just…taking it all in,” I tell him breathily, wrapping my arms around his waist and snuggling into his chest. When he doesn’t say anything, I wonder if he suspects I’m keeping something from him. If he does, though, he doesn’t allude to it; instead he presses his lips into the top of my head and runs his hands up and down my back, causing a current of heat to move within my body.

“It’s a little cold out here,” he whispers against the top of my head. “Why don’t we go back inside?” I look up to find him smirking. “I’d hate for you to catch a cold before we go on our vacation.”

Attempting my most genuine smile, I nod. “Yeah, that probably wouldn’t be good.”

Taking me by the hand, Greyston leads me into the kitchen. I hang up his jacket and smile at our mothers and Gran as Greyston continues to lead me through the house. Confused, because I should probably help out with dinner a little more, I look up at Greyston. “Where are you taking me?”

Without answering, Greyston turns down the hall before the foyer—out of sight from both the kitchen and the living room—and presses me against the wall. His hard body is hot against mine, and his lips find mine, firm and insistent. It doesn’t take long before my troubles are mostly forgotten, and I pull his hips closer by his belt loops, my body softening in his arms. His tongue sweeps across my lower lip once, and just as I’m about to deepen our kiss, he pulls away, smiling.

“There you are,” he whispers, kissing the tip of my nose lightly and pushing a loose strand of hair away from my face, the tips of his fingers ghosting down the side of my cheek. “What’s bothering you?”

I knew it was silly to think he didn’t pick up on my anxiousness; he’s always been so perceptive of any sudden changes in my moods. “It’s probably nothing,” I tell him quietly, and when he doesn’t say anything, I know he’s waiting for me to continue. “It’s just…my mom’s been acting a little…
strange
.” I take a deep breath, feeling my tears threaten again, but I hold them back. “She was more emotional than I thought she’d be when she saw the necklace, and just now in the kitchen, she thanked me for suggesting we all share Christmas together, and then cried.”

Instead of feeding my fears, Greyston smiles and runs his hands up and down my arms in an attempt to comfort me. “Sweetheart, I’m sure she’s just happy to be here with everyone.”

“I know,” I tell him, letting his voice of reason stand in for mine. Dropping my eyes to his chest, I nod and repeat his words in my head a few times, letting them sink in until I believe them myself. “You’re right. I’m probably being ridiculous… It just seems odd, is all.”

“Well, there’s no sense getting yourself upset until you find out, right?” he reasons, and I give him a little shrug in response. “And
if
your mother has anything to tell you, she’ll tell you when she’s ready. You can’t force it.”

He’s right, of course, so my head bobs in agreement once more. “Okay.”

Taking me by the hand, Greyston and I head back to the living room. Our fathers are talking about football as Greyston takes his seat in the chair, and instead of letting me sit on the floor, he pulls me down onto his lap. Dad glances up at us, and I expect his gaze to be disapproving, but instead he smiles and returns to his conversation with Daniel, allowing me to relax into Greyston’s embrace. His left hand rests on my thigh, and I glance at his watch again, sitting a little loose around his wrist.

“We should take this in to get properly sized,” I suggest, tugging at the loose links.

“Maybe I’ll do that tomorrow while you’re out doing…whatever it is you’re doing.” His tone is playfully pouty, making me giggle.

“Sure. I actually just have to go to the mall, so maybe we could ride together and split up for a bit before meeting for lunch,” I suggest.

Having just secured our afternoon plans for tomorrow, our mothers and Gran return, taking their seats on the couch. The next few hours are filled with stories from my and Greyston’s childhoods—both adorable and embarrassing—until the timer for the oven can be heard throughout the house.

Mom and Jocelyn jump up, and I turn, kissing Greyston softly. “I’m going to go and lend a hand in the kitchen.”

I’ve barely made it out of the living room when my father speaks, stopping me dead in my tracks. “Greyston, why don’t you go and carve the turkey?” My head snaps toward the couch, and Dad looks up at me like I’m watching him grow two extra heads. “What?”

“But
you
usually carve the turkey.” I look to Daniel, assuming that he is usually the one to carve the turkey in their home, too, and he only smiles.

“True,” Dad says, pulling my attention back to him. “But this is your house, and maybe Greyston wants to start his own traditions.”

I look to Greyston again, and the corners of his lips are slowly turning upward as he stands from his chair. “Sure.”

Greyston and I make our way to the kitchen, and just as we enter, Mom’s placing the turkey onto the island counter. “Juliette, honey, would you tell your father the turkey is ready to be carved?” she asks without looking up at me.

“Um, actually, Greyston’s going to carve it this year. Dad and Daniel seem cool with it,” I inform her. Now, I’m honestly not sure how I expected her to react, but glistening eyes wasn’t it. Wanting him to understand why I’ve been thinking the way I have, I nudge Greyston, and he gives my hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Well, come in, you two!” Jocelyn exclaims. “Let’s get dinner on the table before your fathers get grouchy.”

While Greyston carves and plates the turkey, I take my place beside him and begin mashing the potatoes, and Mom and Jocelyn are at the stove working on the gravy and vegetables. When all is said and done, Greyston and I extend the kitchen table so we can put the food on it while Mom goes to the living room to tell everyone else that dinner is served.

“Dinner smells amazing,” Dad praises, finding his seat.

Nodding, Daniel is quick to agree. “I’ll say. You ladies outdid yourselves.”

With everyone at the table dishing up, I grab the wine from the counter and bring it over to fill everyone’s glasses. I start with Greyston’s and work my way clockwise around the table. After filling Dad’s glass, I reach between him and Mom for hers, but before I can grab the stem, she holds her hand out and stops me.

“Oh, none for me, honey. Thank you,” she says softly, glancing up at me.

While her turning down a glass of wine isn’t exactly unheard of, I still find myself a little stunned; family dinners are the only time she really ever drinks.

“What?” I ask, momentarily thinking I misheard her. “Sorry, did you want white? We have white.”

Something flashes in her eyes, and it takes me a second to recognize it as apprehension. She shakes her head, dropping her gaze from me, and turns back to the table. “No. No wine for me today, thank you.”

My confusion grows, and I look around the room. Dad’s eyes are on his plate, his posture rigid and his hands flat on the table. Jocelyn and Daniel look at me, their expressions telling me they don’t know anything. Gran avoids my gaze also, and Greyston’s eyes are wide with what looks like realization.

Every thought that something might be wrong with her suddenly dissipates, and all the pieces come together in my mind like a jigsaw puzzle: getting teary-eyed over my gift to her, being emotional about us having everybody together for Christmas, and now her refusal to drink.

“Holy shit,” I blurt out, not thinking clearly enough to harness the profanity in front of my parents or Gran. “You’re pregnant.”

Mom’s silence is answer enough. Nobody else in the room says a word, instead choosing to look at anything but me as I absorb this news. While I’m relieved that she doesn’t have some terminal illness, the fact remains that my forty-four-year-old mother is pregnant. I may not be a doctor, but even I know that she’s no longer in her prime child-bearing years, and that this pregnancy might very-well be more difficult than when she was in her twenties. But, on the flip side, I’m going to have a little brother or sister.