“You’re kidding,” Jack says, humor lighting up his face.
“Nope. Let’s just say it made for some interesting conversations.”
“Tell us more,” Michelle requests as she adds another helping of stuffing to her plate.
“Well, outer space is not real, and we’ve never walked on the moon. It’s all a conspiracy by the government, the photos taken are fake, and while most will agree that they think the Earth is disc-shaped, some believe it’s diamond-shaped.”
“Wow, I have no words,” Shelby says, and I nod in agreement.
“I know. I should have canceled—my left foot had been hurting since we got back from the race and I had just worked all day in the kitchen—but hearing him talk about this was so far out there, I was humored to sit there for another two hours. Besides, as it was my resolution, I’m not quitting now when I’m so close to the end.”
“Good for you,” Michelle says supportively.
“My left foot is still killing me.” I wince. “Next year, we need to find a pair of heels where we can slide in a built-in arch support.”
“Wait, did you say heels? As in you ran that race you posted about in heels and not tennis shoes?” Jack asks with raised brows.
“Yep! This was our fifth year running it.” Shelby and I lock eyes again across the table, and the love between us shines bright as our dinner guests remain silent, letting us have the moment.
“I think I’m missing something here,” Jack interrupts. “Why in the world would you choose to run a race in high heels? I mean there are so many races out there—that one just seems like torture on top of the torture of running.”
The table falls silent again as all eyes turn toward me. Cue the elephant in the room. It’s not that I mind talking about it—after all, in many ways it defines who I am—but I know the big C word makes a lot of people uncomfortable.
Jack follows the lead of my friends and turns to look at me, too. He lays his fork down and his forehead wrinkles in confusion.
Looking up at him, I’m proud as I tell him, “We run this race because they support me, and it supports ovarian cancer.”
“Oh, did someone in your family have it?” he asks.
I want to look away, but I don’t, not yet. This is my story, and it’s an amazing one. “Sort of—I had it. I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer when I was twenty-one. I’m in complete remission, and we do our part to give back, even if it’s just a small part.”
He shifts in his chair and looks at me, like really looks at me. I briefly smile and hold his gaze, but I end up looking back at my plate and resume eating. Everyone follows suit.
Up until now, I really liked the way Jack looked at me, and I don’t want to see the shift. I can’t see the shift. Shelby, bless her, breaks the silence and starts rambling on about the money the winery raised this year and her poor feet.
The thing is, people don’t understand. It’s like once they hear you’ve had cancer, you’ll always have it, despite the fact that they also need to hear the cancer is gone. They need to hear that I’m cancer-free. Otherwise, they aren’t sure how to talk to me, treat me, or really interact with me. It changes things. It’s like I suddenly become fragile, and I don’t want to be fragile. I just want to be normal and live my life as if it’s normal, even if my version of normal is different than others’.
Turkey Brine
CANCER.
As if I wasn’t already in awe of this girl, she just moved herself to up-on-a-pedestal status. I knew she was strong, ambitious, and kind, but this kind of strength and life experience adds to what I already know about her, and I’m kind of speechless.
Of course I have a ton of questions I want to ask her, but considering I am the only one at the table who didn’t know, questions will have to wait—assuming she’ll even want to answer them.
After dinner, we move into the living room, we each find a comfortable place to crash, and we watch football—hours and hours of it. With a full stomach and the sliding glass doors open to let in the cool air, it’s the perfect day, which bleeds into the perfect night.
We all stay up way too late drinking wine, eating dessert, and laughing. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so much and felt so content in one place. I don’t know if it’s because it’s a holiday and holidays pull out the sentimentality in us, or if it’s that I’m with her. Either way, there is nowhere in the world I would rather be than right here, with these people.
Shelby decided since it’s just for one night, both of us would be better off in the main house versus down in the cottage, so she’s prepared Meg’s and my rooms in the east wing. It’s where I always stay when I come to visit, so I lead the way when we all decide to call it a night. It still cracks me up to say east wing, but this place is huge.
“I’m happy you enjoyed the dinner today,” she says, looking over at me with her clear smoky gray eyes as she detours for the sitting area.
“Are you kidding? If I could have gotten away with it without being made fun of for the rest of my life, I would have licked the plate and then crawled out of the room. I was so stuffed.”
She smiles, and something in my chest pinches. I like making her smile.
“Just whisk me away with your magic wand. Pun intended . . .”
Her smile grows even more as she releases her hair from the mess it’s in on the top of her head. Dark curls tumble down around her shoulders, and then just as quickly as it’s down, she’s swooped it back up.
“What was your favorite thing?” She takes a seat on the couch, pulls a throw blanket over her lap, and pats the spot next to her. The sitting room isn’t large. There’s a couch, a coffee table, and two chairs on the other side. One wall is a bookshelf filled with all sorts of things, on the other is a fireplace, and the outer wall has windows overlooking the back of the property and French doors to the porch.
“The bread pudding with bourbon sauce,” I answer easily, sitting down and picking up a remote from the table to turn on the fireplace. It flares to life, and warmth immediately spreads throughout the room. I should be heading to bed as I’m one of those who desperately needs sleep and I have an early flight, but who knows when I’ll see her again. I like her company too much to miss out.
“Really? I thought you were a pie guy,” she says, giving me a sly grin. Thoughts of the social media photos where she commented and made fun of me come to mind, and I smile back at her.
“I’m an everything guy, but that bread pudding was something else.” And it was. I also know she made the pudding, not Shelby, and while I’m with her, I’m going to do my damnedest to make her happy. I see I’ve done so as her eyes light up.
“I’m glad you liked it. I almost didn’t make it thinking you would just want pie, but we made it in the restaurant this week and it was well received.”
“So you finally admit you were thinking about me,” I tease her.
She rolls her eyes. “How could I not? Every day this week you were harassing me and demanding to know what I was making that day.”
“It gave me something to look forward to, and boy did I. Can you blame me?” I stretch my arm out across the back of the couch. “And I didn’t just like it—I loved it. It was melt-in-my-mouth delicious.” Her smile grows a little larger. “Thank you for cooking today, by the way. I appreciate it, and I appreciate being included.”
“I have an open door policy for my table. You are always welcome at it.”
I don’t respond, just soaking in the details of her face, and pink slowly tinges her cheeks. Without thinking I reach over to tuck a piece of loose hair behind her ear, and her head tilts my way an infinitesimal degree.
Damn, she’s beautiful.
“Tell me about your restaurant. How did that happen?” I ask her.
The muscles in her face relax and she shifts to face me more, pulling her legs underneath her then letting out a deep breath. She doesn’t look excited to talk about it, more resigned; my guess is that this story is somehow tie
d to her previously being sick and she knew this conversation was coming.
“Meg,” I say quietly, and her eyes rise to meet mine. “We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to. Ever.”
“I know, but I knew this was coming. And I don’t mind, it’s just . . .”
“Just what?”
Across from us, the fireplace lets off a crackling sound.
“It always changes things.” Her eyes break contact with mine and look down at her hands. She’s scrunching the blanket back and forth between her fingers, and after all these months of her firing off fun jabs and insults, it’s strange to see this moment of vulnerability in her. Given what I know of her, her take charge and live each day to the fullest mentality, I didn’t expect this.
I bump my shoulder into hers, bringing her gaze back my way. “I can’t see how anything you tell me is going to change the way I feel about you.” There couldn’t be anything more true than that statement. I pretty much think this girl walks on water.
“I hope not.” She gives me a pressed-lip smile.
Stretching my fingers, I loop them around a few strands of her hair that didn’t make it into the messy bun and roll them between my fingers. Her hair is so soft, and if I was allowed, it’s possible I would bury my face in it and breathe her in.
“As I mentioned at dinner, I was twenty-one when I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. My parents had moved to Fort Myers, Florida, when I graduated from high school, and I’d moved to the college dorms. Fortunately for me, I was on track to graduate early, so after the surgery, when the chemo started, I found myself living with my aunt, my mother’s older sister. I already had a great relationship with her, but this experience took us to a whole new level. She was amazing, and just the person I needed.”
“Your parents didn’t come home to help you?” Irritation at this settles into my muscles.
“They visited, but it was okay that they didn’t stay. I had it in my mind that if they fussed, things were dire, but if we moved forward with business as usual, all would be okay. And my aunt . . . well, she’s a rock star like that.
“During the treatment, there’s a plan. Everything becomes regimented, scheduled. We knew what we had to do, and it was like checking boxes and moving forward: surgery, chemotherapy, radiation, reassessment, then oral chemotherapy. And then suddenly it was done. All over. At least that’s what they told me, but I didn’t feel that way. I felt lost. Like, I’d survived this thing, and suddenly I was expected to throw myself back into normal society and live amongst people who didn’t know, didn’t understand.
“Anyway, my aunt helped me push forward with a new plan. She knew Shelby and I had talked about culinary school. On the sly, the two of them applied for me, and then the next thing I knew, Shelby and I were packing up and heading out. It was smart of them to keep me going. Believe it or not, there are a lot of dark places one can go to after something like surviving cancer. And when we were done with culinary school, my aunt handed me a check and said, ‘Go make me proud.’”
“Wow. I hope to one day meet this aunt of yours. She sounds amazing.”
“She is. You would have liked my grandmother, too.”
“Would have?” I ask her.
“Yeah.”
Meg looks across the room, not really at anything in particular, just lost in thought. Given this moment, I take in the details of her profile, even though it’s cast in shadows: full eyebrows, long curved eyelashes, smooth-looking skin, and earlobes that are attached versus dangly and pierced with diamond studs. The spot under her ear, on her neck, is open and inviting, but not for me. Internally I sigh, hoping to suppress some of the attraction I feel for her.
“Where’s your aunt today?”
She looks back at me. “She’s two hours south of Charleston, over on Hilton Head. She loves to golf.”
“Golf?” My brows shoot up, and she grins. “A woman after my own heart.”
“You golf?” she asks, but somehow I feel like she already knows.
“With my dad, yeah. It’s become our thing. Besides, it’s a game, and I love to play games.”
“Yeah, my aunt loves it. I’m not very good it at, although I’ve tried. Every chance she gets, she’s on the greens, which is why I don’t ever see her leaving the south. She loves it there.”
“Cousins?” I ask.
“Yep. My cousins both decided they preferred the mountain life and moved to Denver, so it’s just me and her mostly.”
I find myself wanting to say, And me.
“What about you? How did you get into playing football?” she asks as she reaches for one of the throw pillows on the end of the couch and pulls it into her lap.
“Do you want the media told story, or the real story?”
“Is that even a question?” Her eyes sparkle, and considering what she just shared with me, I know it’s truth time.
I chuckle, and she hugs the pillow.
“My dad worked a lot. He was never big on showing emotions, but one thing he loved was football. I know he loves me, but in my ten-year-old mind, if I played football, he would love me more. What boy doesn’t want to be adored by his dad? So, that’s how it all started, and well, I was good at it. I’ve never looked back.”
She hums as she thinks, twisting her lips. “If you weren’t playing football, what would you be doing?” She lays her head to the side and on my arm, which is stretched out across the back of the couch.
“Oh, isn’t that a loaded question? If you weren’t cooking, what would you be doing?” My fingers tangle more in her hair.
She grins. “I asked you first.”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I know I should have thought about it, or I should be thinking about it—after all, this can’t last forever—but I’ve been smart with my money, so when the time comes, I’ll have space to figure it out.”
I’ve been real smart with my money, and fortunately for me, so far I’ve been able to play for ten years. I have a good chunk of change set aside, saved, and invested. Wherever I land next, I’m going to be just fine.
“I think I’m fortunate that there’s never going to be a situation where I won’t be able to cook. Even if I didn’t have the restaurant, I could have my own catering business, or work as a chef for someone who believes in my vision. You know?”
“Have you ever wanted to live anywhere other than Charleston?”
“No. It’s my home. I’m a Southern girl through and through. I can’t imagine ever being anywhere else.”
I’ve never been to Charleston, have never had a reason to go—at least not until now. The only college near there is The Citadel, and the closest professional football team is the Carolina Wildcats up in Charlotte.
“I’ve never really been attached to one single place. Don’t get me wrong, I love living in Tampa, and right now it is exactly where I’m supposed to be, but Tampa will most likely not be my forever city. I can’t tell you where it will be, but I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”
“Hmm,” she responds just before letting out a huge yawn. I’m reminded that it’s super late and both of us have to get up early to head home.
Scooting closer to her, I wrap my arm around her shoulders to draw her in. We both stretch out our legs and fall into a comfortable silence. She lays her head against me, and I rest mine on top of hers. I already knew being friends with her was going to be awesome, but I didn’t expect to feel this level of comfort with her.
Pulling out my phone, I set my alarm just in case and snap a picture of our feet with the fire blurred in the background. Somewhere along the way, we’ve lost our shoes; my socks are navy with turkeys on them—yes, they were a big hit today—and hers are cream-colored, thick, and fluffy-looking.
She lifts her head and opens her eyes at the sound of the click. “What are you doing?”
“Taking a picture for tomorrow. Look.” I turn the screen toward her. “It’s a nice photo.”
She stares at the image for a few momen
ts and is silent. Then she lays her head back down, closes her eyes, and says, “It is a nice picture.”
Bread Pudding with Bourbon Sauce
IT’S IN THE fifties today, and the weather is overcast with low-hung dark clouds and a steady breeze. I imagine for most it’s not the most ideal weather for Christmas Day, but I love it. Somehow it makes the lights twinkle brighter, the poinsettias appear bolder in color, and delicious flavors like peppermint and fir linger in the air. It may be damp outside, but that makes it even cozier and more nostalgic inside. I can’t imagine it being more perfect.
Well, almost perfect. It would be nice to have someone here with me, but I’m good by myself. As an only child, I always have been. It’s relaxing, and I’m free to do exactly what I want. I’m still wearing my pajamas, I don’t have a stitch of makeup on, and in the background the Hallmark Channel is on. Candles are lit around the house, and I’m doing my favorite thing: cooking.
My mother hated cooking on holidays, which is why we always found ourselves at my grandmother’s. Well, I’m pretty sure most would say she hated cooking every day, but to her, holidays were a day off, a day to relax, and she didn’t think slaving in the kitchen for hours over food that would take ten minutes to eat followed by cleanup was any way to spend a day off. While I do see her point, I also think it’s the food that helps make holidays so memorable.
Just think about it . . .
For Thanksgiving, it’s turkey, stuffing, and all the pumpkin things. For Christmas, it’s prime rib, homemade eggnog, and all things peppermint. For Easter, it’s ham, sweet potato casserole, deviled eggs, and hummingbird cake. On Valentine’s, there’s chocolate fondue with strawberries and other sweets, and for the Fourth of July, there’s barbeque . . . My point is, with holidays come food, and even though I’m by myself, I can’t imagine not making any.
Next to me on the counter, Jack’s name flashes across my phone screen, and a smile splits my face. Since Thanksgiving, we’ve moved from just commenting on social media posts to texting daily. Conversations are always light and funny, and usually there’s a photo from something random that happened that day. Mostly his are related to football, food, and his dog Zeus—who, by the way, is the cutest thing ever—and mine are about the restaurant, holiday things around town, and food. The food ones drive him crazy, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t send them on purpose to taunt him a bit.
Lessons in Lemonade Page 6