In my room, I drop Mr. Darcy on the bed, the bags on a chair, and finally remove my coat. I was overheating; it must be eighty degrees in the house. Once Diego is inside, I close the door behind him and whisper, “What do you think?”
He looks at me sheepishly. “Of what?”
“Did they look suspicious?”
“Relax, b—” I give him such a fierce scowl that he changes words mid-sentence. “Nikki. We’ve talked to them for only five minutes. No one suspects anything.”
I take his jacket and hang it next to mine. “Good. Great job buttering up my mom,” I say. “Nicely done.”
He grins. “Hey, I have a mom, I know how to handle those. Your sister is a different story, though, she didn’t seem to warm up to me.”
“Julia was probably just surprised.” I do an evil laugh inside my head. Yeah, surprised that her dream man just materialized before her eyes as my boyfriend. “You’re not exactly my type.”
“You have a type?”
Yes. Tall, blond, blue eyes… engaged to my sister…
“I do.”
“And why am I not it?”
Because you’re not Paul.
“You’re too dark,” I say instead, gesturing at his hair.
“So why pick me again?”
“You had the best face, I’ve already told you.”
“So I was chosen solely because of my face?” He gives me a long and penetrating stare, prompting quick flashes of the other photos in his portfolio—where his face definitely played the extra—to invade my mind.
I break eye contact and manage to mumble, “Among your other very respectable assets.”
“Oh, so now I have assets?” He chuckles. “What assets?”
“You know, stuff?”
“What stuff?”
I huff, exasperated. “You have a nice ass, happy?”
“Very.” He laughs. “Likewise, boss.”
I hide my blush with an angry pout. “Don’t call me ‘boss.’”
“All right, all right. You want to go downstairs?”
“No?”
I’m terrified.
“Well, unless you want your family to think you’re up here playing with some of my assets… we’d better go.”
I try to ignore the sexy pun, even if my cheeks heat up, and ask, “Are you ready? Do you remember everything?” I fire one nervous question after the other. “Do you need to meditate? Take a few moments to get into character?”
“I’ve had two weeks to get into character. I’m ready if you are.”
“Okay.” I hold out my hand and he takes it. It’s nothing romantic, just human solidarity. Even if his hand is warm and dry and really big and it feels kind of good in mine. “Let’s go do this.”
And shame on me because, as we exit the room, I peek behind my shoulder at the reflection of my butt in the wardrobe mirror. I never thought of myself as a nice-ass girl; I never really gave my buns much consideration. Still, there’s nothing I can do to hide the small, satisfied smile that hasn’t left my lips since Diego’s comment.
When we arrive downstairs, everyone is already seated at the dining table and gossiping—probably about us, seeing how the conversation dies off the second Diego and I enter the room. Could they be any more obvious?
Mom and Dad are sitting at opposite heads of the table, with Julia and Paul occupying one of the long sides between them. So I sit next to Dad in front of Julia, and Diego takes the seat next to Mom, facing Paul.
An embarrassed silence lingers for about thirty seconds before my mom gets up. “Everyone’s here,” she says, moving toward the kitchen. “I’ll go get the food.”
In sixty seconds she’s back with a steaming oven dish filled to the brim with delicious and super-creamy-looking mac and cheese.
And, yes, the lobster and breadcrumbs topping. Yum!
Mom sets the dish in the center of the table and disappears back into the kitchen, returning with a smaller, round dish that she lays in front of Julia. My sister’s special preparation seems like a smaller tureen of mac and cheese, but the color is slightly off—a sad, dirty white instead of rich cream—and there is no lobster or breadcrumbs on top. Also, the pasta is different; looks kind of gummy.
“You having a different menu?” I ask Julia.
“The wedding is in only six months; I’m on a vegan diet until then.”
“You’re vegan? Since when?”
“Since I need a pre-wedding detox. For the next semester, I’ve sworn off meat, dairy, seafood, sugar, gluten, and all other poison foods.”
“Good for you,” I say, trying to keep the sarcasm from my voice and doing my best not to roll my eyes. Secretly, I’m thanking the Christmas spirits she hasn’t convinced Mom to cook the vegan version of her mac and cheese for everyone.
“Guests first,” my mom chimes in. Eager to end the vegan discussion, I’m sure. She serves Paul and Diego, and then me and Dad. “Well, everyone, enjoy your meal… Bon appétit!”
“Bon appétit,” we all reply. Well, all except for Diego, who goes for a slightly different version, saying, “Buon appetito.”
“Is that Italian I hear, young man?” Dad asks.
“Yes, sir, I’m part Italian from my mother’s side.”
“Please, call me Jason,” my dad says. “So, you speak Italian?”
“Bene come l’Inglese.” Diego smiles.
“Oh,” Julia gasps. “I’ve always wanted to learn Italian.”
I think of my sister’s secret list of qualities for her perfect man, and mentally check off “speaks Italian.” I should also check off tall, dark, and with smoldering green eyes. She’s seen that.
“So, Diego, what is it that you do in New York?” my mom asks. “Nikki hasn’t told us much.”
“I’m an actor,” Diego replies.
The declaration is followed by a prolonged moment of silence.
“An actor?” my dad repeats. “What kind of acting?”
“Theater on Broadway would be the dream, of course, but for now I scrape by with whatever I can get. Commercials, modeling… Christmas is always good, so many Santa gigs are available.”
“Y-you play Santa at the mall?” my mom asks.
My parents are still a bit too “middle class” for this kind of future-son-in-law. I’d feel sorry for them, if not for the years of pestering me about settling down. This is like a small, sweet revenge.
“Yeah, but I mainly work as a server to pay the bills. Until my big break comes, I’m living paycheck to paycheck.”
Julia is openly gaping right now. I mentally check “struggling artist” off the list. I can’t wait for Diego to tell her he rides a motorcycle.
Dad, on the other hand, isn’t impressed. “How old are you?” he asks.
Guess we’re not over the “lack of a proper enough career to date my daughter” topic.
“Twenty-eight,” Diego answers.
“And do many actors have big breaks when they’re close to thirty? I thought they all had to start much earlier…”
“Depends on—”
“Diego’s job is actually how we met,” I interrupt. “We bumped into each other at the agency.” Then, wanting to make it clear the third degree is over—I might be paying Diego, but no one deserves to be grilled this hard—I turn to Mom. “Mom, you’ve outdone yourself. It’s like your mac and cheese gets better every year.”
“Yeah, truly delicious.” Paul and Diego echo my compliments. “Amazing recipe.”
“And how is yours?” I ask Julia.
She narrows her eyes at me. “Healthier, for sure.”
Uh-oh, someone sounds a little sour…
Twelve
Better Eat Your Vegetables
Luckily, lunch continues with no further interrogations. But when the meal’s over and everyone has had coffee—except for Julia, who opted for a fennel infusion—I’ve already had enough of the family reunion, so I take the excuse
of showing Diego around town to get the hell out of the house.
“Congratulations, you survived the first drill,” I tell Diego as we exit the car and stroll toward the town’s center.
Downtown is not that impressive, just a road with shops and restaurants on either side. But with the snow crunching under our feet and fairy lights dangling from every tree and shop window, I have to admit the Christmas flourish makes it prettier than usual.
“Mmm, I don’t think your dad was a fan of my job,” Diego says, offering me his arm.
“Don’t worry, he won’t have time to try to turn you into an accountant,” I reassure him, linking our arms together. “Five more days and you’ll never see him again.”
“Right.” Diego’s face doesn’t look relieved.
“Come on, I promise I’ll keep my dad off your back.” I pull him toward the main shopping street. “Ready to dive into my past?”
Diego nods and follows me obligingly around town as I show him all the local attractions.
***
“And I worked at that café for two years when I was sixteen to eighteen,” I say about half an hour later. I kept my favorite coffee house for last. “Hot chocolate? They make the best in town with melting marshmallows and a side of cookies.”
Diego rubs his hands in a warming gesture. “You had me at hot.”
Old Saybrook is only two hours north of Manhattan, but the climate is considerably more frigid up here; even a short time outside is enough to freeze one’s ass over.
I push my way into the shop, making the little bell over the door chime in greeting. If the atmosphere was Christmassy outside, in here it looks like a drunken elf threw up all over the place. But not even the Christmas overload and cheesy tunes can keep me from enjoying the best chocolate ever brewed.
“Nikki,” Mrs. Cravath, my former employer, greets me. “So good to see you! And who is this young man?” She eyes Diego from behind the counter with sparkly eyes.
“Hello, Mrs. Cravath. This is Diego, my boyfriend,” I introduce.
“Oh, how wonderful. See? I was right, and they were wrong,” she says, and I have absolutely no clue what she’s talking about. “Dora owes me one of her famous pumpkin pies.”
“Excuse me?” I say.
“Your mom and your old crone of an aunt always complain you’re never going to find a man. But I told them how wrong they were and bet Dora a pie you’d be married before forty, which is the new thirty.” She winks at me.
Again, if Diego really was my boyfriend, I’d be dead from the shame. Now I’m just livid. I’m not sure what makes me angrier: the fact that my mom openly discusses my dating life with the whole town or that, apparently, the prize of my happiness is a pumpkin pie. I’m almost tempted to turn on my heel and get the hell out, but then I get a whiff of cacao and can’t help myself. No gossiping old ladies will keep me from my hot chocolate.
“Still ten years to go,” I point out, putting on a sterner and definitely less cordial tone. “I’m sure you’ll get your pie, eventually.” I rejoice in knowing that my lifelong spinsterhood will at least deprive Mrs. Cravath—who I honestly liked until five minutes ago—of her pie.
“So, what can I get you two lovebirds?” she asks, unaware of my shifted demeanor.
“We’ll take two hot chocolate specials, thank you.”
“Go sit… I’ll be right there with your order.”
We choose a table by the window, and I can’t help but notice how Diego’s mouth keeps twitching.
“You have something to add?” I hiss.
“No, sorry.” He finally lets the smile dance on his lips. “It’s just that I grew up in Chicago, and now I live in New York…”
“So?” I ask, impatient.
“I never got that whole ‘small town where everyone knows everyone’ thing. But now I do.”
“Welcome to my personal ho-ho-hell.” I roll my eyes. “See why I needed you here?”
“I’m starting to.”
***
When we leave the café, it’s already dark outside. We hop into the car and I take Diego to the final spot of our tour.
We cross a stretch of open water toward Lynde Point, and I pull over on the other side of the bridge. “Our famous lighthouse is over there, but I can’t get any closer with the car. Want to take a stroll? It’s really pretty at night.”
“Sure,” Diego says.
I open the car door, and a freezing blizzard attacks me. “On second thought,” I say, pulling the door close again. “It’s too windy out there. Another day?”
“At least we’ll still have an excuse to get out of the house.” He grins.
“I see you’re getting into the right Christmas spirit.” I glance at the car’s clock. “Oh, and it’s late, anyway. My parents like to eat dinner early.”
Diego massages his belly. “If dinner is anything like lunch, I’m all in. Your mom is an amazing cook.”
“Yeah.” I reverse the car and hit the road again. “The food is one of the few perks of coming home for the holidays.”
As we drive, I keep up my role of improvised tour guide whenever we pass a building of interest, like the local brewery, or the Katharine Hepburn museum and the cultural arts center. “And that’s my high school,” I say, pointing. “And right there, under the ledge near the entrance, is where I had my first kiss.”
“And who was the lucky guy?”
“Michael Connell, a real jackass. The jerk dumped me for Rebecca Miller three weeks later.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, my first heartbreak. Took me a whole month to get over him,” I joke. “What about you? Who broke your heart for the first time?”
“Ah, freshman year. Sally Parker agreed to come to the school dance with me only because her parents knew me, then she ditched me to go make out with a senior all night.”
“So, you weren’t a ladies’ man in high school?”
Looking at him now, I find it hard to believe.
“I was a late bloomer. In the ninth grade, I was your typical skimpy kid: skinny and short. Then the summer between freshman and sophomore year I shot up a foot and started playing basketball, packed on some muscle.”
“Did Sally Parker ever regret her decision?”
Diego shrugs. “Don’t think so. We never talked much after that night.”
I don’t know why, but I’m pretty sure old Sally did curse herself for not sticking with the ugly duckling until he turned into a swan.
***
When we get back home, the house smells like kale and rotten eggs.
“Mom,” I call. “We’re back.”
“Great.” She comes out of the kitchen, looking a little frazzled. “Dinner is almost ready.”
“Yeah, what is this smell? What did you make?”
“Your sister…” She lowers her stare to the floor for a second before answering. “She’s offered to cook us dinner tonight.”
“Julia’s cooking?” I ask, horrified.
“She swears we could all use the detox, and she’s put a lot of effort into making dinner, so don’t you dare be nasty about it.”
Of course, we wouldn’t want to hurt poor Julia’s feelings.
“Now, go sit at the table,” Mom orders.
Filled with dread, I step into the dining room and stare at the laid table, aghast.
I quickly turn toward Diego and whisper in his ear, “I’m really sorry for what’s about to happen. Please pretend you still like me after this.”
But if anyone wanted to know what real terror looks like, they should watch my father’s face as Julia presents our multi-course vegan dinner. To my credit, I’m trying to keep a neutral expression, as is Diego, while Paul has the resigned look of someone who has listened to this speech multiple times. The only one showing an ounce of enthusiasm is Mom.
Jules is lecturing us on all the benefits of abandoning unhealthy eating habits to cleanse our bodies of toxins, cl
ear our minds of food-induced headaches, and save our stomachs from bloating… and our arteries from clogging… and our skin from breaking out… and on, and on, and on…
I’ve lost count of all the damages I’m inflicting on my person with my daily diet when my dad asks, “But is a little meat really that bad?”
“Yes, Dad,” Julia confirms. “Do you know that we have an herbivorous digestive system, and not carnivorous?”
“Aren’t we omnivorous?” he asks, hopeful.
“Not in origin. In fact, the human intestine is twenty-eight feet long. A lion, for example, only has ten feet. A long intestine is a characteristic of herbivorous animals. That’s why we can’t digest meat properly. It takes too long for it to journey through our guts, and it starts to putrefy while it’s still inside our bodies. And I don’t know about you, but I prefer to keep my intestines free of rotting corpses.”
“Sure, honey,” Dad concedes, defeated.
I don’t even want to know where she gets her information. And from the various expressions around the table ranging from disgust to despair, it seems my fellow diners are of the same mind.
When the introductory speech is over, Julia finally presents the first course: pumpkin soup with chia seeds.
Pumpkin soup doesn’t sound that bad; I love soup. As Julia sets the bowl before me, I’m even encouraged by the color: a deep, rich orange. And the smallish brown seeds she’s used as a garnish don’t seem too scary. I’m actually kind of enthusiastic as I grab my spoon to have a taste.
When everyone is served, Julia claps her hands. “Tuck in, everyone.”
I take a large spoonful, and wince. “Julia,” I protest. “The soup is cold.”
“It’s not cold, it’s lukewarm,” she says, her tone of voice implying I just said something really stupid.
“Well, I prefer my soup hot,” I say, getting up. “I’ll microwave it real quick. Does anyone else want me to microwave theirs—”
“You can’t microwave it!” Julia shouts. I freeze in place as she explains, “First of all, microwaves are really toxic.” She turns toward Mom. “You should get rid of that death trap.” Her focus shifts back to me. “And second, you can’t warm the pumpkin. Keep it at two hundred degrees for even a minute and you lose half of all the thermolabile vitamins.”
A Christmas Date Page 10