That does sound promising. I think Abbi’s thanksgiving spread sounds like a winner. I decide to just accept it on the spot, and let the other women down gently.
Weston: Okay Abbi, you’re on. Please text the details when you’re ready. I’m happy to meet you anywhere on campus. I don’t have a car, though.
Abbi: I can drive. And I really appreciate this. Holidays can be tense.
Weston: True Story. Send me the deets and I’ll see you on Thursday.
When Thanksgiving Day arrives, I am careful to arrive—showered and shaven—at Abbi’s front door right on time. I might even be a minute or two early. I’m wearing a crisp dad-pleasing shirt and my best mom-pleasing tie, because I make it a point to always know my audience.
The guys at the hockey house call me Mr. Smooth as a joke. “You’re referring to my skating, right?” I said the first time I heard it.
“Nah, man. Everything about you is smooth. The hair. The whole polite-guy thing. The ladies really go for it. I bet even your ass is smooth, but I don’t need any proof, thanks.” The whole team broke into laughter, of course.
So sue me. Life is easier when you take control of every situation. If my skills with hair products and parents earn me some occasional ribbing, I’m perfectly okay with that.
Abbi lives in an old Victorian house that’s been chopped up to accommodate several separate dwellings. In the wallpapered vestibule, I push the buzzer for apartment 2, and a female voice calls “just a second!” on the other side of the door.
I wonder what Abbi is like. It doesn’t matter very much, of course. I haven’t agreed to marry her. It’s just one day of my life. And people fascinate me, so even if Abbi’s family is irritating as fuck, I probably won’t take it personally.
But I have a good feeling about Abbi herself. She’s local, which is interesting. Vermonters are pretty cool. They have a rugged mentality, and they never complain. And they’re usually hockey fans. What’s not to like about that?
The door opens, and I immediately lose my train of thought. I’m blinking at a pretty blond woman with shoulder-length hair. My first reaction is all hell yes and thank you Jesus.
Then I realize this is not just any woman. It’s the waitress from The Biscuit in the Basket. The one who remembers every order without writing it down. The one who always seems to know when we need something, or when it’s time to drop the check.
The one with the kissable ivory neck, and gray eyes that always make me a little stupid. I’ve never asked her out, because it’s rude to hit on a girl who’s just trying to get through her shift at work. But, man, I’d like to.
“Hi,” she says, frowning at me. “Wow. You’re wearing a tie.”
“Too much?” I ask, my hand flying to the knot of silk at my throat. “I could lose the tie.” And, heck, why stop there. If she asked me to lose my trousers, I’d do it. Anything for you, honey.
“No, you look very respectful. Thank you for doing this.”
I blink slowly. I can’t believe my luck. She’s my date? “You work at The Biscuit in the Basket,” I say stupidly. “But your nametag says Gail.”
She blushes. “That’s right. The lazy manager put the wrong name on it, and then wouldn’t redo it for me. But I’m glad you can recognize me without the uniform.”
“Well, sure. You look nice. Your hair is different. Fluffier. Wait. Is fluffy a good thing?” I babble.
She laughs suddenly. “Fluffy is fine. At work they make us wear those visor caps. Like we’re all golf caddies.”
I smile back at her and get a little lost for another moment. And her laugh is terrific. A little husky. I dig it.
“So, uh, are you ready to go?”
That’s when I realize I’m blocking her way out of her own door. So I leap to the side like a frisky goat. “Yup, sorry,” I stammer.
Oh, man. Nobody would call me Mr. Smooth right now, that’s for damn sure. I’m glad my teammates aren’t here to witness this. I’d never live it down.
Abbi locks her door. “Where are you from, Weston? Is it too far to go home for Thanksgiving?”
“I’m from Ottawa. So our Thanksgiving was last month. But I was here at school. Hey—does your family drink? I brought a bottle of wine.” I hold it up, along with a bouquet of flowers, too.
“That is lovely,” she says. “I have a bottle in my car, too. I find that where alcohol and my so-called family are concerned, more is more. Although I’m driving tonight, so I can’t drink.”
“Your so-called family?”
“Well, it’s complicated without being terribly interesting. But we’re going to my step-father’s house. I mean, he used to be my step-father and now he’s married to someone else.”
“Your step-step-mother,” I say, recalling her text message.
“Right.” She leads me off the porch and down the walkway. “My car is just around the back. It won’t take us long to get there. You’ll be eating turkey dumplings in no time.”
“Sounds good. I’m, like, 50% wings and fries at this point. I’m sure you know that. I’m at your restaurant all the time.”
“Table Number Seventeen,” she says cheerfully. “The Hockey Table. Do you know that we prep a different portion of wings depending on whether you guys win or lose?”
“No, really? Why?”
“Because you eat more and get drunker on the nights you lose than on the nights you win.”
“Huh. That’s very scientific of you.”
She unlocks an elderly Honda Civic and opens the driver’s side door. “Last chance to back out.”
I wouldn’t dream of it. I have to remember how to be Mr. Smooth, though, and flirt properly with Abbi. Who knows? After a great meal, we could make this a night to remember. “I’m at your service,” I say, hoping it sounds a little sexy and not creepy. “Let’s get our turkey on.”
Huh. Mr. Smooth seems to be on vacation today.
I give myself a fifty-fifty shot at success. But I’ve faced worse odds. Game on.
Chapter 3
ABBI
“So, set the scene for me,” Weston says as I drive toward Shelburne. “How much of an acting job do you need? I can be the new love of your life. Or I could be just one in a string of casual boyfriends. Or even just a friend from far away that you brought home to dinner out of pity. However you want to play this is fine with me. I just need to know ahead of time.”
“Right, okay.” I have to think fast, because I hadn’t actually planned this through. I honestly assumed he wouldn’t show up. “Nobody keeps very good tabs on me,” I say slowly. “So if I say that we’ve been dating about a month, it wouldn’t raise any eyebrows. And that seems plausible without being a big deal, either.”
“A month it is!” he says easily.
This isn’t nearly as awkward as it could be, thanks to Weston. He’s good company, which I already know since I’ve listened to approximately 1000 hours of hockey smack talk. He has a fun outlook on life.
“Names, please,” he demands. “Who am I meeting?”
“Dr. Dalton Ritter is my step-father. You can call him Dalton. The new Mrs. Ritter is Lila.”
“Lila and Dalton Ritter, M.D.,” he repeats. “Got it. One more question—can I ask why you felt the need for a date tonight? And are there any topics I’m supposed to avoid? Any conversations I’m supposed to interrupt?”
"Well…” I do have my reasons. But Weston doesn’t really need to know them. “We should avoid the obvious things. Like politics. But there’s no specific issue between Dalton and me.”
“Gotcha,” he says. “So I’m just here as a buffer? Is it a big gathering?”
“Nope, which is why I need a buffer. It will just be them and her son.”
“Your step-step-brother?” Weston guesses.
“Yeah, and he’s a tool. You’ll see.”
“No problemo,” he says easily. “So, tell me about you.”
“Me? I’m just a student like you. I grew up here in Vermont. And I’m trying to
finish my degree in three and a half years.”
“Whoa! Major?” he asks.
“Economics.”
“Ooh, a little dry. I'm currently suffering with Econ 101.”
“Oh, I loved that class,” I say. “Plus, it’s practical. I’ll be on my own after graduation. Anyway, accelerating your degree takes a lot of time. And all my extra time is spent delivering wings to drunk hockey players, so there isn’t much else to tell.”
“Oh, sure there is,” he says. “If we’re dating, I would know more about you than that. What’s your favorite song? What’s your favorite food? What’s your favorite color? Give me something to work with.”
“Let’s see.” I chuckle. “Food? Lately I just want a salad that I didn’t have to make myself. Anything that didn’t come out of the fryer at The Biscuit in the Basket. My favorite color is orange. My current favorite song is “Aint No Man” by the Avett Brothers—”
“Oh, good one!” Weston says. “Put it on. You want to take the chorus or the verses?”
“Uh, what?” I reach for my phone and unlock it. Then I hand it to him, because Vermont has a law against holding a device while driving. “Go ahead and play it.”
“Okay, but you’re singing with me. We’ll do the chorus together.”
A few seconds later the guitar intro starts up. Weston starts clapping his hands in time. “Ready?” he says. And then he launches in.
And it’s rude not to join him, right? So I sing along. And we sing loud, too, the same way I would if I were alone.
Weston doesn’t embarrass easily, I guess. He sings every word of every verse, and I belt it out, too. Three minutes later we’ve done the whole thing.
“Whew!” he says, leaning back against the headrest. “That was fun. I always sing loudly before tests, too.”
“Is today that stressful for you?” I ask. “This was your idea.”
He laughs. “Not at all. This was all for you. I’ve heard that family holidays can be stressful. But you looked ready to barf.”
Huh. He’s probably right. Although the words you looked ready to barf were not part of my fantasy date with Weston.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “I won’t barf. They’re not really worth it. I just have to show my face on the holiday, make nice, eat some gourmet turkey and then it’s over until Christmas.”
“Fair enough. Where’s the rest of your family? Out of state?”
“Well…” Oh man. I was hoping he wouldn’t ask. “This is actually all my family.”
“Oh,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry. What a stupid question. Way to put my foot in it.”
“No, it’s okay. I never met my dad. And my mother passed away three years ago.” I can say it easily now. For a while there I could barely talk about losing my mom. I don’t remember the last part of my senior year in high school. I spent it curled into a ball, in shock that my mother had gone to pilates one morning feeling a little off, and then died of an aneurism a few hours later.
It’s not supposed to happen to a forty-year-old woman. But it did.
I clear my throat. “So tell me about you. I bet you come from a huge family.”
“Uh…” He chuckles nervously. “It’s true. I have a million cousins. There are twelve of us.”
“Twelve!” I hoot. “That must be fun on Thanksgiving. No wonder you like the holidays. It must be a huge party. How big is your table?”
“Big,” he says. “And my Aunt Mercedes practically has to drive an eighteen-wheeler to shop for Thanksgiving.”
“I can’t even picture it,” I say. Although I’ve always wanted to be part of a big family. My mom didn’t marry Dalton until I was twelve. So for years it was just the two of us, living in various rundown apartments around the greater Burlington area.
My mother was Dalton’s receptionist. He married her about eighteen months after his first wife left him. They were married for six years. So now he’s on wife number three. I moved out about ten minutes after his recent wedding.
Dalton isn’t a monster. But I am not his child, and neither of us ever did a good job of pretending differently. He owed me literally nothing after my mother died. She had no assets to speak of. She cut back her working hours after she married him, because he wanted her to have time to take care of his home, and to cook and to entertain.
My mother loved this arrangement. She learned to play tennis. She went out to lunch with friends.
What she didn’t do was buy a life insurance policy. Or put any savings in my name. And since my mother entered her marriage with no assets, save for a beat-up car and a nice collection of 80s music on CD, there was nothing for me to inherit.
I get a lot of financial aid because my mother passed away. But Dalton pays a few thousand dollars every year toward my books and fees. He didn’t want to pay for me to rent an apartment, though. “Seems silly when you could live in your old room,” he’d said.
But that’s not really an option. So I work a lot of hours at the Biscuit, and I’m trying to graduate early.
“What was Thanksgiving like?” Weston asks me. “Before? With your mom?”
“Oh!” I say stupidly. But it’s been so long since I thought about this. “When I was a little girl, it was just the two of us. We’d get up and watch the Macy’s parade from start to finish. And then mom got KFC chicken, mashed potatoes and corn. She made the pumpkin pie, though. From a can and a store-bought crust. I thought it was the height of fancy food. And I really loved the ritual.”
“That sounds like fun,” he says. “And the ritual is half the fun.”
I’m quiet for a few minutes after that, picturing one of our small apartments, with its ugly green carpet and the sagging sofa. The truth is that I would give anything to go back there one more time. My whole childhood I never had any cause to doubt my mother’s love. Even when she married Dalton, I still knew I was her number one.
“Sorry,” Weston says quietly. “Didn’t mean to bring you down. Do we need another song?”
“Too late!” I pull into Dalton’s grand driveway. “We’re here already.” I park behind Lila’s shiny BMW and put the car in park.
“Hey.” Weston turns to me in his seat, and makes no move to get out. “It’s never too late for a song. I sing loudly and badly whenever the mood strikes.”
Wow, is my only lucid thought. Those blue eyes are quite debilitating at close range. Weston Griggs is in my car. For the next couple of hours, he’s my Thanksgiving date.
“Once more for luck,” he says, hitting the play button again. The Avett Brothers launch into the intro again.
“Are we really doing this?” I laugh.
“We really are.”
Then we both open our mouths and launch into the song. This time I’m not driving, so we can watch each other. I’m sure I’d feel self conscious if Weston weren’t hamming it up like a drunk karaoke singer.
He’s even dancing a little in his seat. It’s so ridiculously cute that I can’t help but giggle my way through the song.
Oh God, I’m giggling. Just like the girls who are always perched on his knee after hockey games. I get it now. Giggling makes more sense when Weston Griggs is smiling at you.
We’re both red-faced and laughing as the song ends. Reluctantly, I climb out of my car. Weston grabs the flowers and the wine, and then wraps an arm around my shoulders as we approach the house.
It feels—wow—really nice. He’s naturally talented when it comes to this fake boyfriend thing. He even gives my shoulder a little squeeze just before the front door opens onto my step-step-mother.
“Abbi! Happy Thanksgiving!” she gushes. “And you must be Abbi’s young man. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Really?” he asks with a chuckle. “What did she say?”
Uh no! When I’d called Lila to tell her that I was bringing someone, she’d asked polite questions about my “new man.” And since I already admire Weston, it was easy enough to provide some details. Terrific at hockey. Fun person. Lov
ely manners.
Praising him came easily to me. But if she repeats any of it, or I’m going to sound like a creepy stalker.
But I’m in luck. She gives him a generic smile instead, probably because she wasn’t listening to me anyway. “It’s good to meet you. Come right in.”
“These are for you,” Weston says, offering the flowers. “And I brought a bottle of sauvignon blanc.”
“How lovely,” she says. “Hang up your coats, and meet me in the kitchen. I’ll pour you a drink.” She leaves us alone in the entry hall of this house, which I’ve always thought of as Dalton’s. Never mine. Not even when I lived here.
“Oh jeez,” I say under my breath, realizing I’ve left something in the car.
“Problem?”
“The wine I brought is still outside.”
Weston glances toward the door. “If you want, I’ll step outside right now and grab it for you. But I have a better idea. You could think it over.”
“What’s that?”
“Leave it out there for now. And you and I can drink it later,” he says, his voice richening to a suggestive pitch. “If you’re into that.”
Wait. Now hold on a second. Did Weston just proposition me? For real? I might do a happy dance right here on Lila’s fussy new rug.
“Hello, sir,” Weston says in the next breath. “You must be Dr. Ritter.”
And sure enough, my step-father is right here with us, reaching out a hand to shake Weston’s. “Call me Dalton,” he says.
They introduce themselves to each other while I stand here feeling befuddled. A second ago—when Weston suggested we save the wine for later—it felt so real. My mind offered up a few naughty ideas on command.
But now I realize that Weston probably saw Dalton approaching and whispered to me because it made us look like a convincing couple. Just a hot hockey player having a private moment with his girlfriend, right?
That has to be it. Weston is just doing his best to nail this acting job.
'Tis the Season for Romance Page 8