A Heartwarming Thanksgiving

by Amy Vastine

  The cold she’d been feeling for days felt blanketed with the warmth of compassion. She’d had the heat blasting on her side of the car. She turned it off completely. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I lost them a long time ago.” He stared out the window at the small sheep pastures they passed that were interspersed between neat rows of vineyards. “They tell me my mom was a junkie and my dad was a dealer. He was killed in prison.” Clinton’s hands moved about, adjusting the vents that were no longer on, resting on his knees, moving back to fiddle with the vents. “My grandparents weren’t in the picture, so I was raised in foster care until I was a freshman in high school. A private school in California noticed I was a skilled quarterback and offered me free tuition and a room with a host family for the next three years.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Yes,” he said impatiently.

  “But that’s a P.R. person’s dream story. Why haven’t I heard of it before?” Why wasn’t it part of the online search results she’d made?

  “Just because my football skills are up for public consumption doesn’t mean my private life is.” There was something in his tone she couldn’t quite decipher, a hardness she couldn’t trace to its root.

  “You could have fooled me this week. You couldn’t talk about your marriage enough.” His, not hers.

  “That’s because it isn’t personal.”

  His words shouldn’t have rocked her so badly. That was where the steel in his words was based. This was business. She’d gone into this knowing it was a legal transaction, but she hadn’t considered how the deal was going to be executed on her own personal playing field.

  Brenda could have a pity party later. Right now, she had to play out the ruse. “We got lucky. My brother and his wife are expecting any day, so they aren’t coming up. But we’ll still have to face my parents, Uncle John and Aunt Evie, and their daughter Lila, who’s in her first year at Berkeley.”

  “Are they football fans?”

  “No. Don’t think you can charm them with your celebrity.” It was hard to keep the sarcasm from her voice, because it was clear that’s the tact Clinton planned on taking. “They’re lawyers with a conscience who think professional sports are barbaric. Everyone you’ll meet except Uncle John does pro bono work. I’m considered the sellout in the family.” And boy, weren’t they right this time?

  “If it helps any, you don’t have to bill me for your services.”

  “You make it very easy to hate you.” Very, very easy. She took the exit east toward the small town of Harmony Valley.

  “Pull over,” Clinton said.

  “Are you car sick?”

  “Just…pull over.” He’d turned in his seat and stared at her. And then he drew something from his pocket. “I got you a ring.” A princess cut boulder set in platinum. Five carats, easy.

  “You carried that in your pocket? Without a box or a security guard or—”

  His smile was different than she’d seen before. Relaxed, more authentic. Friendly. “I have deep pockets.”

  “Clearly.” Brenda didn’t want to think about how much it cost. “I can’t wear it. It’s humongous. The weight would drag my knuckles to the ground.”

  Clinton ignored her objections and slipped it on her finger.

  Brenda couldn’t look away. She tried, too. She tried turning her head, but her eyes were glued to a rock the size of an eraser on her finger. “When we get to the house, you’re going to duct tape it to my finger.”

  “Relax. It’s insured.” He wore a ring, too. Platinum with channel set diamonds.

  In some small corner of her brain, a little voice whispered the ring was a sweeter gesture than the flowers for her mom. It would please her mother and legitimize things with her father.

  The larger, lawyerly part of her brain spoke with more volume. It said its size was corresponding to Clinton’s guilt and that she should keep the ring after this was over to account for emotional damages.

  “When this is over, I’m giving this back to you,” Brenda said firmly. She didn’t want anything to tie herself to him. She reached the gear shift.

  “Wait,” Clinton said. “They’re going to expect us to be newlyweds. And newlyweds can’t keep their hands off each other.”

  Brenda forgot about big rings and stared at his big hands.

  “I think we need a practice kiss.” He said the words as normally as if he’d asked for mustard with his turkey sandwich.

  “No.” She reached for the gear shift once more. “You can give me polite pecks on the cheek in deference to my parents.”

  He covered her hand with his. “I don’t want you to flinch when I touch you.”

  She wanted to say, “Then don’t touch me.” But that small corner of her brain whispered about innocent kisses and sweetness.

  Clinton flipped her hand over and laced their fingers together. “Look. We fit. Kissing won’t be horrible.”

  They didn’t fit. He was selfish, egotistical, media driven. Whereas she…She had always believed in justice for all. She’d crossed the line somewhere Monday morning and she wasn’t sure she could fly her white justice cape anymore.

  He leaned across the center console and kissed the corner of her mouth.

  “Oh, wow.” Her heart pounded so hard, her ears buzzed.

  He gave her a tender smile. “Don’t think for a minute.” He pressed his lips over hers, stealing her breath. “That’s right,” he coaxed. “Relax.”

  And then he drew her closer and deepened the kiss.

  It wasn’t horrible.

  He wasn’t horrible. He bought her family flowers and her rings and wanted her to feel comfortable in his arms.

  When he drew back, Brenda was trembling inside. Maybe not just inside. Her hands were shaking. She rubbed them across her thighs. “I don’t think we’ll have a problem convincing them there’s a fire between us.” She just had to figure out how to play act with fire and not get burned.

  * * *

  The judge’s ranch was ten miles east of Cloverdale and about ten miles west of a small town called Harmony Valley. Clinton, who was used to excessive displays of wealth, was impressed by the property’s grandeur. They drove through a huge, arched gate down an asphalt road that was at least a quarter of a mile long and could be seen by the house.

  Brenda pulled into the curved drive and parked in front of the wooden steps.

  River rock and logs made the two story house seem massive. The porch rails were trimmed with pine garland and wreaths hung from the windows. A Christmas tree was already decorated in the front room.

  Two older couples and a young woman waited for them on the front porch.

  The woman wearing a long brown tunic raced down the stairs and clutched Brenda to her bosom. “I can’t believe you just up and got married without your mother.” Her gaze found Clinton’s. She had the same expressive brown eyes as Brenda. “You could have called me.”

  “I was supposed to walk you down the aisle.” A tall, bald man spoke with a stoicness that Brenda had shown in the courtroom.

  A lithe blonde woman wearing a Berkeley hoodie and black yoga pants hugged Brenda next. “I was supposed to be your bridesmaid.”

  The judge stood with a tumbler in one hand and his arm around a thin blond woman at the top of the stairs. Clinton felt his disapproval like the calamitous grip of a defensive end when he was sacked. The thin blond studied Clinton as if she’d been briefed on his crimes.

  Greeting of Brenda complete, everyone turned to Clinton. Since he’d begun winning games in high school, he’d generally been greeted with courtesy, enthusiasm, and sometimes even awe. Brenda’s family looked at him with disdain, distrust, and maybe even dislike. No one seemed to want to introduce themselves to him. They stared at him as if he was a freshly caught fish they weren’t sure was worth keeping.

  And he deserved it. He knew he did. It was just he hadn’t realized his rash decision impacted anyone but Brenda. So Clinton did what any man would do. He hi
d behind his gifts, hoping they’d sway the crowd in his favor.

  He handed Brenda’s dad an envelope with four tickets to Sunday’s Wolves game, and then pulled the flowers from the backseat, handing a bouquet to Brenda’s mother. He jogged up the steps to hand the other to the woman he presumed was Aunt Evie. And then he hurried back down the stairs to his bride’s side and settled his arm around her shoulders. “Honey, aren’t you going to introduce me?”

  Brenda did the honors, talking over her father, who mumbled again about missing walking his daughter down the aisle.

  “There was no aisle walking.” Uncle John handed Brenda the tumbler. It looked like whiskey on the rocks.

  Brenda took a generous swig.

  “That wedding was as fine a business transaction as I’ve ever seen.” Uncle John fixed Clinton with a stare perhaps more fitting for a felon. “How are the newlyweds?”

  “We’re fantastic.” Clinton stole Brenda’s drink. The whiskey tasted warmer going down than his reception here. “Check out Brenda’s ring.”

  Brenda blushed as the females gushed over the size of the diamond, making Clinton glad he’d gone big.

  “Welcome to the family,” Brenda’s mother Holly said. And then she threw her arms around him and squeezed with what sounded like a sob.

  Her father shook Clinton’s hand. “What are your post career plans? I searched your history on the internet and it said something about a degree in aerospace engineering?” There was doubt there, as if jocks were always dumb.

  “I interviewed with NASA and other agencies before signing up for the draft, sir.” When he was winning, the announcers liked to mention his academic career. “I was invited to intern at the jet propulsion laboratory in Pasadena.”

  “And yet you chose sports.” Bob said it like it was a bad thing.

  “I don’t care what Dad says, Clinton had me with the ring.” Lila pivoted around and hooked her arm through Brenda’s. “Did you bring your running shoes? Tomorrow’s the Turkey Trot.”

  “Are we doing that again?” Brenda didn’t sound enthused. She popped the trunk and then dropped the car keys in Clinton’s hand. She brightened when she stole the drink back.

  The majority of the group moved inside, leaving Clinton and the judge in the fading light.

  “Do you need help with your luggage?” The judge peered inside the trunk. “I see you’re still packing separately. Two bags.”

  Lots of couples traveled with separate bags. “I’ve got those, sir.”

  “Call me Uncle John.” His voice was jovial, but then again, so was Clinton’s smile on the field. “Have you decided where to live? It’s not appropriate for our girl to move into your bachelor pad.”

  His bachelor pad was a one bedroom high rise condo in the city. It wasn’t party central. “We haven’t had time to breathe.” Clinton was having trouble breathing right now. He wasn’t used to people poking around his personal life. The urge to poke back was strong. “It’s been a busy week.”

  “That’s right. Big game for you on Sunday. First rematch of you and the Vipers.” The judge slapped Clinton on the back. “Come along. I’ll show you to your room, but if we don’t have dinner in five minutes, the missus is going to have my hide.”

  The house was just as impressive inside as outside. Dark hardwoods announced every footstep. Farmhouse antique furnishings spoke of family history, or at the very least wealth. There were pictures of family everywhere. It looked like a home, whereas Clinton’s condo was beginning to look like the bachelor pad he was accused of having.

  At the dinner table, the grilling continued, and not just of the tri-tip and vegetables.

  “So, Clinton,” Bob said. “What did you say to my little girl that made her say I do before we’d even heard you were dating?”

  “Dad,” Brenda turned to Clinton, who was seated next to her. “Don’t answer that.” Just like an attorney to counsel silence.

  Clinton had other plans. He draped his arm casually across her chair back. “From the moment I met her, she lit up the room for me. She’s got the whole package. Brains, beauty, and—”

  “Chutzpah,” the judge said without looking up from his vegetables. “None of us play poker with her anymore.”

  “None of you is any good at poker,” Brenda grumbled.

  “She’s got strength of character.” Clinton pressed a kiss to her forehead.

  Brenda froze, her fork hanging mid-air.

  To cover for Brenda, Clinton guided her fork to his mouth, stealing her last bite of steak.

  “Whatever.” Lila loaded more pasta salad on her plate. “We always knew she’d marry one of you.”

  “Lila.” Brenda gave Clinton a stern look. “Don’t encourage her.”

  Clinton wasn’t going to, but he was going to defend his wife. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Lila.”

  “High paid athletes.” Lila had the sharp blue eyes of the entitled. “Brenda spent years on the legal team for the players union, defending men who—”

  “Have brains and souls and rights as employees,” Brenda said stoutly. “It doesn’t matter how much money they make. They deserve the same protections as someone working for minimum wage.”

  “Were they worth defending in that last court case?” Bob demanded. “Was it worth jail time for contempt for athletes? Was it worth arguing with your senior partners over procedure and bargaining tactics, and being fired?”

  “Yes. The same as it was worth it when you were cited for contempt for defending the rights of illegal immigrants.” Brenda stood. “I’ll always fight for what’s right, without regrets.” She walked out.

  Clinton excused himself and followed.

  * * *

  “I can’t do this.” Brenda collapsed on the full-size bed as soon as she reached the bedroom.

  “Having regrets?” Clinton sat in the chair by the door. He stared at her with the intensity he used when studying defensive formations.

  It rattled her, that stare. It made her think of that kiss in the car. “It’s not right.”

  “I like to think it was a creative alternative to incarceration, which sounds like another way to say it’s right for me.” He picked up a photo of her family in front of a Christmas tree. “Why didn’t you tell me you used to rep players?”

  “If it matters, next time do a background check before you choose a bride.”

  “There won’t be a next time.” He picked up a different photo. This one of she and Lila after they’d run a Turkey Trot. Lila had her arms wrapped around Brenda because it’d been her first win. “What’s Lila’s obsession with this Turkey Trot thing?”

  “It’s a 10K run they hold in Harmony Valley on Thanksgiving Day. She’s beaten me the past four years.”

  “So?”

  “She considers it a personal triumph. The pressure to succeed is intense in this family.” Understatement of the season.

  He raised a dark brow. “I consider you a success.”

  “I wasn’t accepted to clerk for the Supreme Court.” Not like her father and Uncle John had been.

  “You were bright enough to be hired by the ,” he pointed out.

  “And they fired me for arguing about what I believed in.” She waved that accomplishment aside. “I have a long list of “almosts” that my family reminds me of.”

  “Such as…”

  “Almost was valedictorian in high school. Was awarded salutatorian.” She waved her hand in the air as if directing an orchestra through a litany of her not-good-enoughs. “Almost made it to the Olympics, but was cut in the last round. Almost married my college sweetheart. He’s now a U.S. senator.” And now she was married to a football star. Temporarily. Next year someone was bound to say, “You almost made that marriage work.”

  “Go back to the Olympics part.” He came to stand by the bed. “What event?”

  “I ran marathons. I earned a college scholarship as a runner.” She’d begun running to get away from the pressure of home.

  He
took her hand, the one with the super-sized wedding ring. “So beat Lila tomorrow. It’s only a 10K.”

  “I haven’t trained, as in I haven’t ran in more than heels in years.” She’d lost the hunger somewhere. “And besides, it’s up and down this huge hill—it’s a heart-breaker of a course.”

  “You can do it.” He gave her the polished smile, the one he used as quarterback. And then he tested the box springs with a couple tentative pushes. “A full size bed? I’m still going to crowd you.”

  She sat bolt upright. “You’re going to sleep on the floor, big man.”

  “But…” He frowned. “I’ll get a kink in my back. I have a game in a few days.”

  “Floor.” She pointed as regally as any queen. “Or we’re getting a divorce.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was still dark when Lila and Brenda checked in at the race in Harmony Valley.

  Clinton appeared at Brenda’s side, bearing coffee and chocolate croissants. “There’s a great little bakery on Main Street.”

  “She can’t eat that before a race.” Lila gave Clinton a shove, that didn’t move him an inch.

  “My wife eats like a champion and this race requires a special pre-race regime.” Clinton handed Brenda a coffee and croissant.

  Brenda slurped the hot coffee. She hadn’t slept well, having listened to every heavy sigh and groan Clinton made during the night, and trying not to feel guilty for making him sleep on the floor.

  There was a crowd milling around—racers, organizers, support groups. The sun began to rise over Parish Hill.

  She led Clinton over to a bench beneath the large oak tree in the town square, slurped more coffee, and broke off a piece of warm croissant. “I might throw up when I reach the top of Parish Hill,” she said when Lila moved off to show her race shirt to the rest of the family. “Perfect excuse to walk across the finish line.”

  “You’re stronger than that. Mind over matter.” He sat down next to her and put his arm over her shoulders. It was a nice arm.

  She could get used to that arm around her whispered that small voice inside. “Is that what you told yourself when you played with four broken ribs in the playoffs last year against the Vipers? Mind over matter?”