Rush (13 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Priscilla

“Oh my God. What
is
that?” Chloe asks, tilting her nose upward and inhaling a long, tall hit of turkey-laced air. My sisters, Chloe and Cate look nearly identical, except Chloe’s hair is straight, chestnut brown, and usually flipped off her forehead with a headband, and Cate’s is a blonde bob of spiral curls.

My arms circle her shoulders and squeeze. “That’s the smell of a real family holiday. It’s turkey. I woke up early and got it started.”

“How do you know how to do all this?” she asks, hoisting three grocery bags onto the counter as I tie on the vintage apron Jace gave me as a gift.

“Preston told me,” I reply, grabbing two red peppers and cradling them against my chest.

“Who’s Preston?”

I pause and drop them in the strainer, flipping the water on. “My boyfriend.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“Mom must be thrilled.”

“Mom is going to pee herself when she sees him. This morning she even suggested he could stay the night so he wouldn’t have to drive home late. I about fell over with shock. I was too enticed by the thought to tell her he only lives twenty minutes away.”

“Hey, hey!” A baritone voice sings out from the front of the house.

“Ben’s home,” Chloe says, dropping a bag of potatoes and spinning out the door. I turn the water off and follow her. Ben sets Chloe down from a bone-crushing hug and sweeps me up. I kiss his cheek and move to hug his girlfriend Devi.

“How was the drive in from New York?” I ask. Devi unloops her scarf and shakes the sleeve of her jean jacket off of her arm.

“Beautiful. Sunshine all the way.”

“Where’s mom?” Ben asks.

“She’s getting a massage and a mani-pedi at the club.”

“On Thanksgiving?”

“Yep, it’s a special thing they do in the morning to relieve the holiday stress. You know, it’s stressful for those country club moms. All those decisions on Thanksgiving morning—what should I wear, what should I make my kids wear, who are we all going to avoid when we get to the club.”

“Not this year, though,” Ben’s voice booms, smiling at me. “Got everything under control?”

“Of course. Dinner will be ready and on the table when mom gets here so she won’t feel the need to ‘help’ us,” I say, making air quotes.

“Cate home yet?”

“Nope. She’ll wait until most of the work is done, then make her grand entrance,” Chloe says.

“She had rehearsal this morning,” I add, hanging Devi’s jacket in the closet.

“Hello,” a deep voice echoes from the front porch, and my heart soars. Preston. The screen door casts a light shadow over his handsome face. He steps in with his gaze fastened on me, and I want to clap and jump like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Looks like I’m in the right place,” he says, panning an appreciative look over the frilly edges of my apron.

He
is
in the right place. I fold my hands and time seems suspended as I overdose on the image of him, standing in my house, here to celebrate a holiday with me and my family.

Ben’s wide gaze is shifting between us. He steps forward, extending a hand and introducing himself. “Ben Winslow.”

“Preston Rush. I’m Priscilla’s…”

“Boyfriend,” I interrupt, moving to his side and linking my fingers through his.

He smiles down at me as Ben repeats, “Boyfriend?” His tone is a mix of disbelief and lotto-winner hysteria.

Devi steps up, trying to loosen the look of apoplectic shock from my brother’s face with a firm tone. “That’s what she said, Ben.” She shakes Preston’s hand and introduces herself, and Chloe does the same.

Ben raises his hands to his hips and angles toward Devi. “Do you know who this is?” he asks, raising the decibel on his enthusiastic tone. Oh God, here we go.

“Preston plays football for SEU. He’s their starting quarterback. Perhaps you’ve heard—they’re undefeated, and he’s likely a first round draft pick.”

“Well, if all that’s true, he’d probably like a day off from football to enjoy Thanksgiving without you man-crushing on him,” Devi purrs.

Ben turns back to him. “Oh no, I’ve got to man crush.” He smacks Preston on his back. “Come on, brother, let me get you a beer.”

“Love one,” Preston responds. Ben takes his coat, hands it to Chloe, and walks him toward the basement stairway where our game room and big screen TV are, mumbling something about how nice it is to have another guy in the house, and how he’s waited all these years “and now she brings
you
home.”

“Uh, you’re going the wrong way toward the kitchen,” Devi calls, disguising the laughter in her bright eyes with an annoyed tone.

Ben raises a big hand in the air. “We’ll be right there, babe. Go ahead and start. I’m gonna give him the heads-up on how to deal with the Winslow show. I don’t want him to get scared off.”

Probably not a bad idea, considering he’s about to meet the mother of all “someday this could be your mother-in-law” mothers. Maybe I should have a beer.

Half an hour later, my brother and his new bestie saunter into the kitchen, laughing. Chloe is setting the table in the dining room, I’m peeling hot potatoes, and Devi is moving a rolling pin over a circle of dough.

“What can I do to help?” Ben asks, leaning over Devi’s shoulder and stealing a crescent-shaped piece of apple.

“Well, not that.” She smirks.

Preston’s fingers graze my back and he leans close. “How ya’ doing?” he asks, kissing my cheek. “Anything I can do?”

“Ben!” Devi shrieks, raising her rolling pin against his chest as he chomps another slice. “Don’t make me take you down again.”

“Again?” I raise a brow.

“Yeah. It’s a long story,” Ben says, scratching the back of his head and smiling at her. “I let Devi kick my ass one night in the ring, and now she thinks she can take me anytime.”

“
Let
me?” She questions him with a riled tone and her eyes pan his oversize frame. “I
can
take you anytime. I just don’t want to embarrass you in front of your family.”

“Mm hmm,” he murmurs, stretching for another piece of apple. She deflects his reach, sweeping it away with a straight arm. He distracts her with a kiss and reaches the opposite hand in.

“You guys could work on the turkey,” I suggest. “Check to see if it’s done. Then it needs to cool and be carved.”

I hand them a meat thermometer and a pair of oven mitts. Preston opens the oven door and inserts the needle as Ben peers over him. “You know what you’re doing, man?”

“More or less,” he says, pulling the rack out. “It’s ready.”

“I got it, I got it.” Ben reaches in, drops the oven mitts on each end of the bird and lifts. Preston casts him a worried look and takes a hesitant step back.

“You’re supposed to leave the bird and lift the pan.” I’m pointing my potato peeler at them and shaking my head as Ben’s torso shifts left and right, streaming turkey drippings over the floor as he searches for empty counter space.

“It’ll cool faster this way,” he says, speed-walking to my mother’s teacart and setting the bird on a white serving tray.

“Are you sure that’s strong enough?” Devi asks, stretching to examine the cart with a concerned look.

“It’s fine,” he replies, wiping his forehead with an oven mitt and leaving a streak of caramel colored grease. “What’s next?”

“Gravy,” I respond.

“I got it,” Preston says, pulling the turkey pan from the oven with two dishtowels.

“Flour’s in the pantry,” I say, nodding to the back wall. When he returns with the small white bag I lift my pot and move it to work beside him. My wrist twists as I smash the steaming potatoes under a handheld masher, brushing his shoulder. Milk gurgles over chunks of butter as I pour, watching him whisk teaspoons of flour into the turkey drippings.

“Thank you for coming,” I whisper. His head dips toward me for a kiss, and I return it full-on, savoring the taste of him for as long as I possibly can without getting busted by my siblings.

The lines of his forehead crease as his brows rise. He leans in, kissing me again. “I think I like being your boyfriend,” he says. I return his smile and steamy heat fills my face as I resume the mashing.

Dipping my fork into the pot of creamy spuds, I taste, pursing my lips. I skim another forkful and direct it to him. “More salt?” I ask. His lips close around the tines, moving slowly.

“I’d go with more butter. And the gravy is done. I just need something to strain the lumps.”

Ben reaches back, grabs a colander, and sets it in the sink. “Here,” he says, lifting the pan. “I got it.” He swings it to hover over the steel basin. Preston stiffens against my arm. Bubbly brown liquid waterfalls into the colander and slides through the holes in the bottom, leaving a basket of white lumps. I gasp and reach for Ben’s wrist as the last of the gravy snakes down the drain.

His neck telescopes toward the sink. He blows out a breath and raises a fist to his mouth. “Uh, I don’t think I did that right. My bad. Sorry, man.”

Preston shifts, giving his shoulder a conciliatory grip. “Gravy’s overrated. Let’s carve the turkey.”

“Table’s all set,” Chloe says, entering the kitchen. She stops and sniffs. “Something smells funny.” She sniffs again. “Kind of like shoes or something overcooked.”

I check the oven, close it, and shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Oh well, I’ll pour the water,” she says, heading for the china cabinet.

“You can carve it on the cutting board on the island,” I inform Ben as he’s approaching the turkey.

“Ready?” He nods to Preston.

“Bring her on,” he responds.

Ben lets out a small
hup
and lifts. He raises the huge bird chest level, and the white tray it’s been sitting on along with it. He shakes once, then shakes again, trying to dislodge the plastic rectangle “What the…” he exclaims, tilting his head over the carcass.

“Just bring the tray,” Preston instructs him, but as Ben’s setting it down, I realize what Chloe was smelling. The hot turkey melted the tray, and now it’s stuck to the polyurethane. I smack my forehead, just as the echo of my mom’s post-spa voice rings through the foyer like Glenda the Good Witch calling to her munchkins. “Hello kids, wherever you are…”

I turn panicked eyes to Chloe. “Do
not
let her in here. We need fifteen minutes.” She bolts out of the kitchen as we gather around the bird and inspect the bottom.

Ben lifts and Preston wrestles the tray, holding the edges like a steering wheel and jerking it loose. Long swirls of polyurethane stretch up, like chewing gum, refusing to release. “Shit,” Ben growls, setting the bird down. He drums his fingers on the counter and fists a hand against his waist, thinking. Preston rubs his jaw.

“Whelp,” Ben chirps. “Guess I’ll go get the chain saw.” I gape, speechless, and Devi casts him a “you can’t be serious” look as he pivots for the side door. “Everyone up to date with their tetanus shots?” he calls, smacking the garage door opener on his way out.

“That’s something you don’t hear every Thanksgiving,” Preston murmurs.

Twenty minutes later, we’re seated at the dining room table. Preston is on my left and Chloe is on my right. Ben and my mom bookend the table, sitting in the upholstered wingback chairs, while Devi sits beside Ben, and my sister Cate next to her. She slid in as we were setting the table, kissed everyone’s cheeks, and apologized for being so late.

Inhaling the scent of roasted meat, I ignore the faint bouquet of melted plastic. My turkey-shaped Pinterest cheese ball is sitting proudly among the steaming platters of white and dark meat, mashed potatoes, stuffing, and green bean casserole. Heaven. A warm feeling washes over me.

“What a lovely idea, Priscilla,” my mother says, and my heart swells as I survey the Norman Rockwell smiles of my family. My focus settles on my boyfriend, and he squeezes my hand under the table. I smile despite the prick of tears behind my eyes.

Ben raises a triumphant glass. “Just like real families do it, except without the gravy.”

“Or the chainsaw,” Devi mumbles against the edge of her crystal goblet. I choke down a laughing swallow, and I’m coughing into my napkin when the doorbell rings.

“Who could that be on Thanksgiving?” my mom asks, setting her linen napkin beside her plate.

I jump up. “I’ll get it. I’m pretty sure it’s Cate’s date.”

“My date?” Cate echoes, scrunching her nose.

“Uh-huh.” The payback moment I’ve been waiting for has arrived in the form of a six foot five Hispanic man named Armando. Take a bow, Priscilla.

“You remember Armando, Cate,” I say. “He’s the guy you gave my number instead of yours, because you didn’t have the guts to tell him you weren’t interested. When he begged me for a chance to see you, I thought Thanksgiving would be the perfect opportunity for the two of you to get to know each other better.”

Her features take on an owlish expression as she stammers. “What? But…”

It’s a “Snow White singing to her birdies” kind of happy I feel as I spin out of the dining room. Cate’s footsteps click fast behind me and then slow as I yank the door open.

“Armando!” I exclaim. “I am so thrilled you could make it.”

I pat his shoulder and he kisses my cheek. Olive skin, warm brown eyes, and wavy hair slicked back into a man-bun—he’s nowhere near Cate’s type, and yet so utterly perfect. His big hands are covered with green oven mitts, and he’s holding a casserole dish—something smothered in yellow cheese and red sauce, dotted with scallion shavings.

“Oh my God, that smells delicious.” I untie my apron and wrap it under the dish. “Let me take that from you so you can give Cate a huge hug. Huge.” I wink at him.

“Thanks,” he says, staring down the foyer at my mortified little sister. Her hands are folded against her waist, and the blonde curls that usually bob around her heart-shaped face have lost their will to bounce.

I whisper as I pass her. “Paybacks are a bitch, little sister.”

“And so are you, Sil,” she replies, putting on a doll-like smile and moving forward.

I sashay into the dining room. “Look what Armando brought.”

My family stands as Cate introduces her “date,” and I pull a mental fist pump. I’ve just scored the best payback in the history of Winslow sibling rivalry. Ever.