Just like my mother should have done while she had the chance.
17
Sterling
“Turkey time!” Francie calls in a sing-song voice, so full of joy I can feel it warm me up.
I miss how excited she gets over the little things. Food is a passion we share, mostly because we were always too broke to order out or eat at the new, hip places in Manhattan or Queens. Instead, we found the best hole-in-the-wall restaurants and food carts and learned how to make the things we loved. I’d been secretly glad when she announced she was cooking Thanksgiving and to ‘not test her patience on the matter.’
We earned more than a few side glances from the guests of the Eaton when Francie and I crammed into the elevators with grocery bags full of supplies. She’d taken one look at the hotel’s idea of catered dinner, laughed, and began looking for a local grocer. It had taken a little work, but we finally found one with fresh turkeys and most of the items she considered essential to the holiday. To her dismay, there wasn’t a fresh cranberry to be found in the whole store, so we settled for some of the canned stuff.
“It smells okay,” I tell her, leaning onto the counter.
She swats at my head with the spatula she’s using to scoop fresh whipped cream out of a bowl, sending dots of it onto my shirt. Neither of us can stand the stuff in the plastic vats, and since we agree it’s a prerequisite for pie, we had to make our own.
“So, do we get to eat now? Before I die?” I ask, swiping some of the whipped cream with my finger.
“Don’t test me. You didn’t even help me cook.”
“Not fair.” I grab the empty bowl and carry it to the sink to wash up. “You kicked me out, remember? Something about being alone with a Viking?”
She banished me earlier in the day, about the time she decided she needed some one-on-one time with the granite counter tops and sleek, stainless-steel Viking oven. I pretended to be grossed out when she splayed across it like she’d developed genuine feelings, but inside, I felt like I’d finally given her something. Maybe it was only for a few days—but sometimes an experience is worth more than any gift you can unwrap.
“A woman has needs,” she says, patting one of the knobs on the range affectionately.
I gag again, harder.
“It didn’t look like you thought those needs were gross when your girlfriend’s shirt was on inside out.”
“Harsh,” I say, “but fair.”
“Get out of my way,” she orders me, “before that turkey burns.”
“She complains that I don’t help, then she kicks me out again. I worry about you, Francie.”
She’s sliding the bird out of the oven when someone knocks on the door.
“Oh lord, I hope that roommate of yours didn’t order us that sad dinner.”
I laugh and head to the door, wondering if I’m about to turn away two-hundred dollars worth of food. But it’s not room service on the other side.
“Lucky.” I swing the door open wider and grab her hand. She’s white as a sheet of paper and startles a little when I touch her.
“I’m so sorry,” she says in a rush. “I should have called, but…”
“That better not be green beans almondine and cranberry apple pie,” Francie calls. “Send it back to the kitchen. They can eat that. Cranberry apple pie on Thanksgiving!”
“I should go.” Adair swivels away, but I don’t let go.
“We have enough food for an army. Come in.”
“What are you doing over here?” Francie comes to the door, wiping her hands on a towel. “Oh! Adair. Sterling didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“I’m intruding,” she says, trying to tug her hand free. Color returns to her cheeks in two red blooms.
“No, come in! Someone should appreciate my effort,” Francie says, swatting her inside. “This one watched me cook all day.”
“The lies you tell.” I grin at Adair, hoping she realizes that we’re just joking. She manages to return a small smile as I pull her along, closing the door behind me.
“I just couldn’t deal with my dad,” she confesses in a whisper.
“We‘re glad you came.” I wrap an arm around her waist and tilt her chin so I can kiss her.
“Save that for after dinner,” Francie calls.
“We’ll be too stuffed then,” I say.
“Exactly!”
A giggle bursts from Adair, and she untangles herself from me with a shy smile.
“It smells really good,” Adair says. “Can I help with anything?”
Francie and I share a look. “Do you cook?”
“Um, not really,” she admits.
“Why don’t you grab another place setting for yourself? I stacked all the extras over there.” Francie points to the end of the kitchen counter. “They set the damn table like it was Buckingham Palace.”
“The Eatons can go a little overboard,” Adair says, carrying over a place setting and arranging it precisely.
“I want to hear all about them,” Francie says, brandishing a carving knife a little too dramatically. “I need to know who my Sterling is hanging around. Do you know them well?”
“You could say that.”
My Sterling? She’s never called me that before. Never claimed me like I was hers. I shrug it off, trying not to get attached to the idea, and help Adair finish adjusting the table.
We eat at one end only, so we can actually talk,. Although we DO agree that we should have a very formal dinner and pretend we’re aristocrats, before our time in the suite is up. Adair probably attends dinners like that regularly, but she’s the most enthusiastic proponent of the plan.
If I had any qualms about what Francie thinks of Adair, they’re all gone by the end of dinner, mostly because they discover a common ground: trying to embarrass me. I play the part, pretending to be horrified at every revelation, from the time I got stuck sneaking out a window when I first moved in with Francie—a story she
