by Jayne Denker
Ignoring Cam and Jesse, she stared straight at Will, her face a blank. Then she said, neutrally, “Nice sweater.”
Goddammit. How did she manage to mock him with only two words? Okay, yes, he was wearing a dorky V-neck over a blue-and-white checked shirt because his mother demanded this kind of sartorial sacrifice to break bread at her holiday table, but he wouldn’t have thought twice about it if Jordan wasn’t eyeballing his clothing like Vivienne Westwood sizing up a sale rack of cheap polyester at Kmart. It also didn’t help that his brothers started hooting with delight. . . until she assessed them as well.
“Opie. Beav. Nice to see you again.”
That shut them up, although Jesse whispered to Cam, “What’s she talking about?”
Cam muttered, “Look it up, dumbass.”
“You don’t know either, do you?”
“. . . No.”
Then they retreated behind their beer, both taking long swallows, while Will tried to find polite words to ask Jordan why she was in his parents’ house.
“Why are you here?”
Oops. Oh well.
“It’s Thanksgiving, Warburton. Don’t you have a calendar?”
Will’s insides leapt, just a little. She had called him another stupid W name, teasing him as though nothing had ever happened. Well, nothing bad. Sometimes he wished he could have gone back in time and not kissed her; then they could have gone on snarking at each other. But would he have been able to avoid kissing her forever? He highly doubted it; in fact, he was surprised he’d managed to hold out as long as he had. What he remembered most from that night was the powerful, inexplicable inevitableness of that moment. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he’d change the past even if he could.
“Funny. Is it ever possible for you to give a straight answer?”
“Well, where’s the fun in that?”
“I thought you couldn’t stand sappy, sentimental family holidays.”
“Well—”
“What was it you said? Something about family dinners being ‘the worst’?”
Jordan wasn’t embarrassed he’d called her out; instead, a ghost of a smile lighted on her lips for a split second. “You remember everything I say?”
“A good memory is a byproduct of the job.”
“Sure. That’s what it is.”
“Yep. Also learning how to be observant. I’m observing right now that you’re not as repulsed by this family gathering as you implied a few weeks ago.”
Jordan crossed her arms and jutted out one hip. “Your mother invited me because I was by myself, and she said nobody should ever be alone on a holiday. And Gran was going to be here. I am allowed to spend the holiday with my grandmother, aren’t I?”
Okay, now he just felt stupid. Even though he suspected his mother had an ulterior motive. Annie Nash was a wonderful woman—her cooking notwithstanding, although nobody dared tell her it was less than top notch—but she was single-minded in the pursuit of wives for her sons. And she was always very clear it had nothing to do with their happiness; she was just in need of more estrogen in the house to balance out all the testosterone she’d had to live with for more than thirty years. Will always suspected if she could get rid of some of her offspring but keep their significant others, she wouldn’t even think twice. He was sure the minute his brothers had started teasing him about Jordan, Annie had started plotting.
But Jordan didn’t know about any of that, and he wasn’t about to mention it. “I haven’t even said hello to Holly yet. How’s she doing?”
“Not bad. Today’s a good day.”
Holly’s Alzheimer’s symptoms weren’t prevalent yet; her “bad days” were blessedly few and far between, although even the small number of episodes she’d experienced up to the present was enough to frustrate the fiercely independent octogenarian.
“I’ll go talk to her, then.”
Will pointedly walked away from Jordan to join Holly, Mac, and Aunt Tilly. When he looked around again, more relatives had arrived, but Jordan was nowhere to be found. He excused himself from the conversation, which had now turned to senior home gossip, but before he could leave, Holly pinched his cheek as though he were still five years old.
“You there,” she said. “Don’t be too hard on my granddaughter, all right?”
He felt heat suffuse his face. He didn’t want to talk about Jordan with her grandmother. “Of course not. We’re fine.”
“Fine, huh? I saw the two of you just now. I’ve heard things, too.”
Dear God, what had she heard? He was afraid to even think about it.
“Don’t be so surprised. Just because I don’t live right in town anymore doesn’t mean I don’t get all the dirt.”
“Everything’s fine, Holly.”
“She’s a good kid, really,” she said, in a far softer tone than usual. “If anybody’s going to see that, I’d think it would be someone like you.” He nodded, swallowing nervously. “Of course,” she went on, “Jordan’s also a magnificent pain in the ass. I love her to death, don’t get me wrong, but honestly—she drives me to drink sometimes. I mean, look!”
Holly waggled her tumbler at him so he could see there was no alcohol in it, just ice cubes rattling around. Will took this as a cue to get her another drink. When he took the glass from her, she winked and turned back to her friends.
Chapter 13
Honestly, she shouldn’t be here. Jordan knew that. And she really didn’t want to be here. Sappy, sentimental family holiday complete with twelve-course dinner, cute kids dressed up in taffeta and bow ties (not on the same kid, of course), awkward conversations, and clumsy interactions. She hadn’t been lying to Will when she’d said she hated these things.
But Annie had taken her by surprise in D’Annunzio’s Deli. All Jordan had been angling for was an Italian sub, extra salami, extra oil, not an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner. Annie felt sorry for her—Jordan saw it in her eyes—and it really bugged her. She hated pity. Then she’d seen it differently: Here was one more person in Marsden who wasn’t looking at her with suspicion or, worse, loathing. And she’d started to wonder if Will’s campaign to change her image had worked, just a little bit.
What was really scary was she’d realized she kind of liked not immediately being judged and found lacking, something she hadn’t thought was even possible to achieve in this weird little town. She’d shocked herself by thinking maybe, just maybe, being on the inside was better than being on the outside around here.
So she’d accepted the invitation, grateful she’d have her grandmother and Mac there with her, and asked Annie not to mention her invitation to her second son. Annie had winked and said it was their “little secret.” She suspected Will’s mom had thought Jordan wanted to surprise him. Well, in a way, that was true. She’d wanted to keep it quiet so she didn’t get any grief from him before Thanksgiving Day. He’d been so pissed at her lately, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d have flat-out forbidden her from entering his parents’ house.
His borderline hostility at seeing her just now actually stung. Sure, she could smirk and dredge up another W name to throw at him and act like it didn’t bother her—she was a pro at that, after all—and all the while he’d never know his cold, impersonal stare was cutting her to the quick. Never happier than when she had the opportunity to retreat, she’d ducked out of the kitchen and hunkered down in the den. Cam found her there, trying not to look like she was hiding from Will.
“Jordan Leigh. What is up, sister?” He handed her a beer, clinked it with his own bottle, and sucked some of it down, then tilted it a bit, checking the level of brew left. “Few more of these, and I’ll be ready to deal with the family. How are you doing?”
“I am so fantabulous, Cameron, you have no idea. So you guys do this thing every year, huh?”
“Thanksgiving? It tends to happen in November for a lot of people. The Nash clan makes a big habit of dinners, so this is just business as usual, only jacked up with three kinds of pie. Let me give yo
u some tips to help you get through the meal: One, don’t sit next to Uncle Ralph if you’re not into having your knee groped. Two, pregame with the alcohol of your choice, and as much of it as possible. Three, don’t talk politics or religion—that’s football, not faith. Four, avoid the stuffing. And the potatoes. And the Brussels sprouts, cranberries, and squash casserole. Oh—and the turkey.”
“You’re saying basically eat bread?”
“That could be safe. It’s from the bakery.”
“Is this just some nefarious plot to ensure there’s more food for you?”
“Not at all. I’m trying to save your life. We all love Mom, and we respect her for going all out to feed her beloved family, but let’s just say cooking is not her strong suit. Not that anybody would dare tell her. Consider yourself warned.”
“Noted.”
“And now,” Cam said with a grin, “we amuse ourselves until the dinner gong.”
“With . . . ?”
Cam’s idea of amusement was to commandeer the widescreen TV and fire up the Xbox. Jordan couldn’t really argue with a few rounds of Call of Duty—she was no stranger to first-person shooters, and she was more than happy to get her mind off things by mowing down the enemy. By the time she and Cam had loosened up, died several times each, and yelled quite a bit—gathering a pretty sizable crowd along the way (most of whom ended up rooting for Jordan)—she had almost forgotten where she was.
Until the last match ended.
Jordan, the victor, fist-bumped Cam and acknowledged the cheers from the spectators with a gleeful grin . . . until she locked eyes with Will, who was standing in the doorway. Her smile faded, and she felt awkward once again, her high spirits crashing back to earth instantly. He still had that cold look in his eyes—or maybe a little bit of hurt. Once again, he turned without a word and walked away.
“Uh oh,” Cam murmured in her ear.
“Shut up,” Jordan mumbled, her voice carrying little of her usual confidence. Of course Will would assume the worst, seeing her there with Cam, laughing and high-fiving and joking around.
“Looks like somebody’s a little jealous. Damn, girl, what did you do to him? He was never like this when we were teenagers. Is he just slow on the uptake or something—didn’t notice you till just now? Whatever. This is going to be fun—”
Jordan turned to face him squarely. “Cameron, I’m only going to say this once, okay? Don’t play with me. Or him. Don’t use me to bug your brother. Or to make your wife jealous. In fact—”
“Dinner!”
Shit! Jordan jumped a mile. She thought Cameron had been joking, but no—the Nash family really had a gong, which John was whaling on with gusto. And it was far, far too loud for the confines of the house, no matter how large the Victorian was.
Jordan and Cam were the last to leave the room, as everyone who had been watching them play Call of Duty filed out in front of them.
“Jordan, look—”
“Just leave me out of it. Fix your own problems, all right? I’ve got enough of my own.”
Lordy, she was starving. It was true—Annie couldn’t cook to save her life. Jordan tried eating. She really did. She took a little bit of turkey and all the other things Cam had warned her about, thinking they couldn’t be that bad. But he’d been right: The vegetables were bland, the stuffing was soggy, the turkey was dry as dust. And nothing had any salt on it. Apparently the Nash family hadn’t heard the latest, that salt wasn’t the dietary villain it had been made out to be in recent years. Jordan wondered how quickly nutritional news made its way into the house, because she was presented with margarine for the bread and gray mashed potatoes made with skim milk.
She may have filled in the time she would have been eating with sipping her wine a little too frequently, and without sufficient padding in her stomach, it was going straight to her head. Whenever she heard one of the guests point out that someone else had supplied a dish for the meal, she tried to get hold of it, but it was difficult; the table seemed to be twelve miles long, and when dishes were passed down, they often never came back. She spent quite a long time staring wistfully at a green bean casserole that was well out of her reach, trying to use the Force to levitate it and bring it her way again . . . or at least influence someone’s psyche to motivate them to pass it in her direction. Didn’t work, though. Probably because her Jedi mind tricks were rendered ineffective by the wine.
At least she wasn’t seated near Uncle Ralph; he was flanked by Will and Gabe. Jordan was certain the younger men had chosen those seats intentionally. Chivalry seemed to run in the family, at least with the two older boys. Cam she wasn’t so sure about, and Jesse usually just sat around looking sullen. She knew Will was steeped in ethics—she saw evidence of it all the time. And she loved to watch Gabe spoil his wife rotten with attentiveness and keep his kids in line while loving them to pieces.
In fact, their son and daughter had just come over from the kids’ table, and he was whispering to them conspiratorially, gesturing dramatically every once in a while, making them giggle. Jordan wondered what this was all about, but she suspected it was going to be something painfully cute that would cause all women within a quarter-mile radius to ovulate violently.
Then several of the Nash family stood and started to remove plates and platters of food. Gabe put his hand on his mother’s shoulder to make sure she stayed put as he announced, “Before we serve up dessert, we’ve got some entertainment. The next generation of Nash kids—that’d be mine and Katy’s—are going to tell the story of the first Thanksgiving. Take it away, Pickle and Lucas.”
The beaming kids stood up straighter in the face of a healthy round of respectful applause from everyone at the table, and the little girl started reciting the traditional story of the pilgrims traveling to the New World on the Mayflower. Jordan had to crane her neck to see them, as they stayed near the center of the twelve-mile-long table, and Jordan was at the far end. That meant she had to face Uncle Ralph, who winked at her and grinned. His dentures slipped, but he caught them just in time and slid them back in with another wink, which made her go for the wine glass one more time.
“And it was hard for the Pilgrims. They were in a new land,” Lucas was saying when Jordan was able to refocus. “Everything was new and strange, and it was hard for them to a . . . uh . . .”
“Adapt,” Pickle whispered hoarsely.
“Adapt,” Lucas went on.
“I know the feeling, kid,” Jordan mumbled. And what the hell sort of name was Pickle, anyway? A hand appeared in front of her, setting down a pumpkin pie; it belonged to someone familiar. “What the hell sort of name is Pickle, anyway?” She had the vague notion her voice was too loud.
“Her real name is Penelope,” Will whispered, which only emphasized how loudly she had been talking.
“Oh. Cute kid,” she said, to soften her previous remark. “Hope that nickname doesn’t stick, though.”
Pickle took over the narrative. “Some pilgrims got sick and died, and the ones who lived were very sad. Maybe they were thinking they shouldn’t have come to the New World in the first place, and maybe some of them wanted to go back home, but they couldn’t. Plymouth was their home now.”
“Coffee?” Will offered pointedly.
“I’ll stick with the wine, thanks.”
“We’re all out.”
“You have, like, three hundred bottles on the counter. Everybody brought one. I brought one.” Will started to move away, but she grasped his sleeve impulsively. “Hey. I need to talk to you.”
“I really don’t think—”
“All you do is think. Come on.”
“Maybe,” Lucas added, “they missed their Wiis and their Skylan-ders they left back home.”
“Lucas!” Pickle reprimanded her little brother for going off script, although everyone else laughed.
“Now’s not a good time,” Will said.
“Well duh, not now. Now there’s pie. Is this one mine?”
She started to tug
the pumpkin pie toward her, but he intercepted her.
“Jordan,” he growled.
“I’m just kidding. Lighten up, Officer.”
“But then the Native Americans—you’re not supposed to call them Indians—”
“Lucas!”
“—Helped the pilgrims by showing them how to grow food like corn and potatoes.”
“When they finally had food to share, they invited the Native Americans to a picnic,” Pickle continued. “They ate the food they grew. And turkey.”
“Shot ’em with their muskets! Blam!”
“And the pilgrims were very thankful for the food and—”
“And their muskets!”
“And everyone was friends. The end.”
“Hey,” Jordan said to Will in the silence, just after the applause died down. “I heard the pilgrims were huge drinkers. That true?”
Lucas started giggling wildly. So did Cam. They were the only two laughing.
“I came for my cat.”
Will froze in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, as though he wasn’t sure whether to enter his own place or take off immediately. “Are you sure you weren’t arrested for breaking and entering? People usually know enough not to just walk into somebody else’s house.”
“‘House’?”
“Apartment.”
Jordan raised an eyebrow.
“I have a microwave. And a mini-fridge.”
“You should lock your door.”
“What for, besides keeping you out?”
“To keep people from getting at your gun, for one thing.”
“I keep that locked up.”
“No kidding.” Then Jordan said nothing, just let the innuendo hang there.
“I thought you’d left,” Will said after a moment.
“I did.”
“And you found out where I lived how?”
“Cam. And Gabe. They think it’s hilarious you live in the backyard, like you ran away from home and moved into the treehouse or something.”
“I suppose Cam left out the part about how he’s back in his old bedroom because Summer took back the house and threw him out.”