“Not kidding,” I assure her and then nod toward the kitchen. “I’ll tell you all about it while we eat.”
“Deal,” she replies and pivots away. I follow her into the kitchen and as we enter, Jenna’s head lifts and I get a shy smile. Her hair is worn down, pulled over her shoulders in what I bet is a habit to help hide her scars.
Felicity doesn’t take notice of me, diligently trying to put the silverware in a certain order on the napkins beside each plate.
“Jenna, Felicity… you remember Jett?” Emory asks, making way for an informal, re-introduction as the last one we had wasn’t all that warm and welcoming.
“Hi,” Jenna says and moves around the table toward me. “Let me take that from you.”
“Thanks.” I hand her the container, advising, “You can just warm that in the microwave.”
“Felicity,” Emory says, in a tone that cuts through her daughter’s concentration. “Can you say hello to Mr. Olsson?”
The little girl’s head pops up and the same light blue eyes pin on me. “Hi, Mr. Olsson. I hope you like cheeseburgers for Thanksgiving.”
“Call me Jett,” I say, an automatic reply whenever anyone calls me Mr. Olsson. Far too formal.
I get a toothy grin, but she doesn’t reply, merely goes back to arranging the silverware.
My attention is taken by Emory as she holds out a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. “You any good at opening wine?”
“Fairly passable,” I reply, taking it off her hands and getting to work.
“Wine glasses are in the cabinet to the left of the fridge,” she says, and moves toward the stove where I see various pots on top, and some casserole dishes to the side with tin foil covering. On the other side, I see what looks like some type of cobbler dessert and a glass dish with trifle. I have an unbearably obnoxious sweet tooth and I’m all for bypassing cheeseburgers and steak and kidney pie to dive into one or both of those desserts.
But I tear my gaze away and move toward the cabinet to pour wine for the adults. “Got any juice?” I ask no one in particular.
“Apple in the fridge,” Jenna answers.
“Do you like apple juice, Felicity?” I ask, and her head pops up once again to give me her attention.
She nods. “I do, but grape is my favorite.”
“I like grape better than apple too,” I affirm, and that’s not pandering. It’s the truth.
I pull down four wine glasses, pour three for the adults, and a moderate amount of apple juice for Felicity. As I’m returning the juice to the fridge, I have to sidestep Emory, who is walking toward the table with a casserole dish in hand. She smiles in a way that tells me she’s touched I included Felicity.
The next five minutes is a flurry of activity as we get all the food from the pots, pans, and grill—for the cheeseburgers—to the table. Jenna moves around, putting spoons to serve in each dish, and pursuant to Emory’s orders, I get glasses of ice water to go with our wine.
When all is set and every square inch of the table is taken up by dishes of savory food, we take our seats. It’s a table that seats six and I note that Felicity put little place cards on each plate. She has me sitting next to her, directly across from her mom, who sits beside Jenna. The ends of the table are left empty.
Emory lifts her glass of red wine and Jenna and I follow suit. I give a little nudge of my arm to Felicity, who, with both hands, picks up her glass I’d filled halfway with apple juice.
“This isn’t an official celebration of Thanksgiving, but it doesn’t mean we aren’t grateful for the bounties in our life. Let’s revel in our family and friends, eat foods representative of our own heritages, and have no shame in undoing the button on our pants if we consume too much. Cheers.”
“Cheers,” everyone echoes, and I try to banish the thought of the button on Emory’s jeans coming undone because I’m not thinking about that maneuver in the same way she is.
I take a sip of my wine and set it down. All the bowls and dishes in the center of the table are easily accessible by the adults, and Emory looks across the setting to Felicity at my side. “Hand me your plate, Pip.”
“Pip?” I ask, my head turning to look from Felicity to Emory.
“Short for Pipsqueak,” she explains with a smile. “It was a nickname when she was little and part of it stuck.”
“Jett can fill my plate,” Felicity replies and looks up at me expectantly.
I have no qualms with helping the little lady, so I pick up the dish before her and ask, “Tell me what you want.”
“Cheeseburger,” she replies, and that was a no-brainer. I use the tongs beside the platter of fully assembled cheeseburgers to transfer one to her plate. I had been advised as we were placing stuff on the table that Felicity likes hers plain. I decided to brave the steak and kidney pie, so we didn’t set out any condiments.