"Here is the dressing," I said, waving Chloe to where I'd set down the bowl. I'd finally asked at the supermarket and been directed to a box. "Did you know it is also called stuffing?"
She smiled broadly. "Yes. Sorry, I should have told you that."
"It isn't salad dressing at all."
"No, it's not."
"But aren't you supposed to cook it inside the turkey? That is what the lady at the store said."
"You can," she began, but our attention was distracted by a commotion at the patio doors. "Adam!" Chloe cried.
Adam had appeared in the doorway, wearing a tall black-and-white hat with a buckle and a strange uniform of short brown pants, tall white socks and buckled black shoes. His shirt was black, and he had a wide white collar, the kind little girls wore to church.
"What in the world—" I began to ask, but my attention was drawn to something behind Adam at the door. Not something, actually. Someone. Someone tall and broad, with dark hair and beautiful marine-blue eyes that haunted my dreams and my waking thoughts. "Trace," I breathed.
I glanced around the room to see if anyone else was as suddenly off balance as I was, but Maman simply smiled at me, Emile's arm around her waist, and Henri and Adam were shaking hands. Chloe was at my back. "Go ahead," she whispered.
I stepped toward the door, where Trace stood, his eyes on me and a half-smile on his handsome face. "Hi," he said in a low voice.
I was about to answer, when he jolted forward as if he'd been pushed, almost dropping the pie he held.
"Hello, Lass," Hamish stepped out of Trace's shadow and around him, and we all moved inside the doorway. Hamish leaned down to give me a kiss on the cheek and then went over to meet Chloe, handing her a bottle of some kind of amber-colored liquid.
After Hamish, Fernando Fuerte and Trace's sister stepped inside, flanked by a tiny woman with dark skin and a broad smile. Erica's hand brushed my shoulder as they went over to greet the hostess, and I was left standing alone with Trace, who still held a pie in front of him.
"Hi," I managed, joy trying to gush through me but my more intelligent sense of self-preservation stepping in. "Would you like to put your pie down?"
"If I'm honest, I'd like to bury my face in the pie, but I guess I can wait," Trace said, winking at me. A little thrill flew through my chest as he delivered the wink, his words were so perfectly Trace, and everything in me responded, despite the silliness of it.
I felt a genuine smile replace the uncertain one I'd worn before. "Come on," I told him, and I walked him over to where Chloe was arranging all the food along the tasting counter. He put the pie at the end of the spread, and I said, "I didn't expect to see you."
One side of his mouth twisted into a wry smile, and he said, "I know. I hoped it would be okay, coming like this. But we can go if you—"
"No," I said, maybe too quickly. But now that he was here, I hoped it might be about something more than the meal. Still, I hadn't been the one to leave, and I was hurt. "It's fine," I added cautiously.
"Do you think maybe we can talk? Maybe outside?"
I nodded, retrieving my wine glass as I followed Trace to the patio with nerves flinging themselves through me like moths against a glass door at night.
He held out a chair for me at a corner table, and despite the formality of it all, I sat, hopeful about what he might be about to say.
Trace took the chair across from me, his face grim, worry etched in the lines of his forehead and around his mouth. I wanted to reach across the table and smooth those lines away, but I held my hands in my lap. I was barely breathing.
"You aren't bad luck," he said, and then seemed to regret the words immediately, shaking his head and rubbing a hand in his hair. "Crap."
"What?" I asked, tilting my head to one side. "Thanks."
"No," he said, shaking his head. "That's not what I meant. I mean, it actually is, but not like that. Just not like that with nothing else." He looked around us like there might be someone nearby who could help. "Oh crap, this isn't right."
I thought he might stand up and leave again, and found that everything in me wanted him to stay. I reached across the table and took his hand, more to anchor him, to make him stay, than anything else. But as soon as my fingers wrapped the sturdy warmth of his hand, my chest ached painfully. "What are you trying to say?" I asked him, dropping his hand because it hurt too much to hold.
"Magalie," he said, settling slightly into his chair, his shoulders relaxing. "I screwed everything up." He paused and took a deep breath. "There was just so much going on. With soccer, and your mother and that fake engagement. And it made all these feelings inside me start popping out of these boxes I'd put them in. I mean, it was all new, it was all so different than the rest of my life . . ." he trailed off and looked around the patio again.
Then he took another deep breath and his eyes found mine and stayed there. A low buzz began in my ears.
"The truth is—and I don't think I realized this until it was too late . . . It's this. I was falling in love with you. And it scared the hell out of me." His words darted between us, and it took me a minute to catch them, to understand what he'd said. But before I could respond, he was speaking again. "I hadn't ever felt that way before, and I knew what it was, but I didn't want to recognize it. I was a little scared, really, I guess. And your mom—well, I was a lot scared of her."
Joy and shock warred for space inside my chest, as Trace's words registered. He loved me. I laughed, and a bit of the tension building between us seeped out. I reached across the table again, and Trace's hand found mine, anchoring us both now.
"I shouldn't have left that day," Trace said. "At the restaurant. I owed you more than that. I should have stayed to talk, told you what I was thinking . . . and then at my house. You said everything I’d wanted to hear. But I was an idiot . . ."
"It's all right," I said. Maybe I should have been angry with him. Maybe I should have made him apologize more. But that wasn't what I wanted. I'd known for a long time that what I wanted was Trace Johnson. And if he was going to sit here in front of me and tell me he wanted the same thing, I wasn't going to make it difficult. Only . . . he hadn't said that yet. I realized this a second too late, and began to pull my hand away. What if he'd only come to apologize? Not to suggest we try again?
I cleared my throat, trying to keep down the tide of tears that had rushed up at that thought. "And now? What happens now?"
He shook his head lightly, still holding my hand. A lock of dark hair fell across his forehead and my stomach twisted. I wanted to be the girl to push that hair back, the girl who got to touch his face, hold his hand. "I don't know," he said, and my heart fell inside me.
"You don't know," I repeated stupidly.
"I only know that I can't go one minute without thinking about you. I can't go five without fighting the urge to text you, to see what you're doing. The whole time we were in playoffs, I wondered what you were doing, if you were maybe watching."
"I couldn't watch," I whispered. "It was too hard. I saw the end, though."
He sighed, his eyes melting with some emotion. "I'm sorry," he said. "I thought if I pushed you out then I could focus. I thought I was choosing between soccer and you. But even when you were gone, you were there." He squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his head, his hand still holding mine tightly. "I suck at this. God, you deserve so much better than me."
"But I want you." The words were out before I'd had time to think about them. Then I did think a bit and added a couple more. "Trace, I'm in love with you too."
The smile that appeared on his face was one that I would remember for the rest of my life. It spread slowly, revealing his straight white teeth and the dimples in his cheeks, and lit up the blue eyes I'd come to adore. "You are?"
I nodded, unable to form any words because the rush of emotion welling inside me was bigger than anything I could say.
Trace stood, tugging on my hand to get me to my feet, and then he pulled me into his arms. I wr
apped my arms around him and pressed my head into his chest, where I could hear his heart hammering to match my own. Tears spilled down my cheeks as I thought about all the nights I'd wished for this, the nights I'd missed his gentle warmth, his sheer size, his glorious enthusiasm.
"Magalie," he whispered, and I turned my head to look up at him. "Will you give me another chance?"
My heart soared, making my blood feel like helium inside my veins, and I answered by pressing up onto my tiptoes and reaching my arms around his neck. He leaned down and our lips met, softly at first and then with a familiarity bred by nights of longing and some cosmic intention that we were supposed to fit together.
As Trace kissed me on that patio in the warm Southern California sun, I realized Thanksgiving would always be my favorite holiday. And today, I had a lot to be thankful for.
"Can we eat pie now?" Trace asked, grinning down at me when the kiss was over.
I laughed, and we went inside to join the others.
As we walked in, Adam caught my eye. “There you are,” he said, loudly enough to attract the attention of everyone in the room. “I need to tell you something.”
I felt a blush climb my cheeks.
Chloe stood next to him, swatting his arm. “Adam, you’re yelling.”
“I want everyone to hear,” he said, grinning. “Because I am about to announce that thanks to Magalie’s help in blending our first batch of old world Chateau Le Sec wines, we took first place in the Temecula Valley Heritage Wine Competition!”
“What?” I heard myself shriek. “Really?”
Adam nodded and Chloe leapt into his arms.
Trace pulled me into a hug and swung me around, and then I went to hug Adam. My heart was swelling and I wondered how much more I could take. When the excitement had died down, I returned to Trace’s side, and pulled him toward the table to sit with me.
I held Trace Johnson’s hand, proud that everything between us now was real. There was no question of false engagements or pretend rings—I loved this man, and I wanted everyone to see it. I met my mother’s eyes as we sat down, and felt myself lean closer to Trace, almost protectively. Maman smiled and raised her glass to me, leaning into Emile.
Love, it seemed, wasn’t to be avoided at all costs. Love was something to find and hold as close to you as you could.
THE END
Epilogue
Trace
It was the best Thanksgiving of my life. It was actually the first one I'd spent with anyone besides Erica. Before now, we'd kind of resented family holidays and had rejected invitations in favor of sharing our holiday anger together, just the two of us and a bucket of wings from KFC and plenty of alcohol.
But today, I sat across the table from my sister, Magalie at my side, and passed the fucking mashed potatoes like an old family-festivities pro.
Feasts, it turned out, were something I could totally get into. And feasts with all the people I loved?
It didn't get better than this.
"Adam, man. I'm digging your outfit," Fuerte told Adam as we ate.
"Thanks," Adam said, grinning widely. “Magalie requested it.”
A high, light voice interrupted the conversation at the table, and I realized Magalie's mother had stood, and was holding up her glass. "Would it be acceptable to say a word?"
"Ya just did, Lass," Hammer boomed, and I cringed. Magalie's mother seemed to take this in stride, and she smiled at him as I socked him hard in the arm.
"Shut it," I said.
Hammer pressed his lips together and looked at me with sad eyes. "I got carried away."
"Thank you, Adam and Chloe, for having us here today," she began. Agreement was murmured around the table and glasses were raised to our hosts. "I just wanted to offer an apology," she went on. "I realize this may not be traditional for your holiday. But it is also my way of giving thanks." Magalie took my hand under the table as her mother continued. "I owe an apology to my daughter, and to her friend Trace. And I owe the same apology to my husband, Emile.
"Today is about love, I think. Maybe it is about food too,” she said, glancing at the heaping plates in front of us. “But I think it’s about love, something I’ve come recently to believe is very important. You," she said, holding her glass high and looking all around the table. "You have shown me that love is not something to avoid, something to fear. I am so lucky to have my husband, my daughter. And I hope that everyone here is lucky enough to enjoy the gift of love. I am thankful today for that."
"Huzzah!" Hamish called loudly, and I punched him again.
Magalie's mother met my eye over the table as she sat down, and she raised her glass just to me. I met it with my own and gave her a smile and a nod. She was still the scariest five-foot woman I'd ever met, but it was a comfort to know I had her blessing.
* * *
We found ourselves around the very same table a month later for Christmas Eve, only this time there were about ten additional people, since Adam's family had come to stay with him and Chloe for the holiday.
Magalie and I had found a happy rhythm together, and I was looking at houses in Temecula, since she couldn't make wine in Mission Beach. Erica was moving in with Fuerte anyway, so we planned to sell the house on the beach and be grownups. It was bittersweet, but it felt like the right thing.
Of course, there was one more thing that needed to be done, and though Fuerte wasn't much of a joiner, I'd gotten him to agree we should do it together.
As dinner wrapped up and cooler air wafted beneath the closed doors of the tasting room, the Christmas tree glowed in the far corner and nerves combined with excitement inside me. I caught Fuerte's eye across the table and he gave me a quick nod.
"Excuse me," I said to Magalie, kissing her cheek as I stood. I let myself outside and hurried around to the back door of the winery. Fuerte excused himself and let himself into the winery from inside, pretending to head for the bathroom.
"Did you get them?" he asked me in a whisper, meeting me behind a huge steel tank.
"Would I let you down?" I asked, the low light making it hard to see his expression. I handed him a plastic bag. "Here, put it on."
I got myself changed, struggling a bit with the bulk of the clothing as I pulled it from the bag. I was just getting the boots on when Fuerte started complaining. This was not unexpected.
"Wait a second," he said. "Johnson." Now he sounded angry.
"They only had one. It was the best I could do."
"If they only had one, why do you get it?"
"Because I'm the one who picked up the costumes." Logical, right?
"This is ridiculous. I'm not wearing this." He glared at me, the whites of his eyes showing even in the relative darkness.
"Fernando?" My sister's voice floated through the open space as she stuck her head into the winery looking for him.
"Uh, yeah. Just a sec. I'll be right there," he said.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"I'll be there in just one second, okay?"
"Whatever," she said, sounding annoyed, and the sliver of light from the open door disappeared as she went back out front.
"Come on," I said, helping him smooth his skirt as he pulled up the tights.
"I'll never forgive you for this," he said, his voice low and deadly.
"You have the rings, right?"
"Yes," he said. "I can be depended upon to keep my promises. Unlike some people."
"I got you a Claus costume. That was the promise."
"It was supposed to be Santa, asshole."
"Tomato, to-mah-toh." I delivered this line just as we pushed back through the doors into the tasting room, and all conversation stopped as the room got a look at us. If there'd been a record playing, it would have screeched dramatically to a halt.
The crowd's first reaction was clearly shock. Mouths gaped, and eyes widened. Adam's tiny nephew shrieked and then burst into tears, climbing onto his mother's lap.
One second later, the reaction shifted to hys
terical laughter. I thought I looked pretty fucking handsome as Santa, and really, Fuerte made an attractive Mrs. Claus, though his legs were a little muscular for the striped tights he wore.
"I. Will. Kill. You." His words were hard to make out over the laughter, and my sister's was louder than anyone's.
"What the heck are you guys doing?" Erica had tamed her language since there were tiny people about.
"Ho ho ho!" I cried, hoisting a sack to my back and walking around the table to the open space near the tree. Magalie's eyes followed me, sparkling with laughter. Her mother looked slightly offended, but that was normal. "I've brought gifts and goodies for all the little girls and boys here tonight!"
Adam's nieces and nephews—there were six of them because his sister clearly didn't realize it was a vagina, not a clown car—jumped up and down and screeched. (Okay, in reality, the kids were adorable. There were just . . . a lot of them.)
I handed out gifts, the ever-faithful and clearly pissed off Mrs. Claus at my side. We had gifts for everyone present, and when the hub-bub of unwrapping had died down, only Erica and Magalie hadn’t gotten a gift, both of them looking a little confused.
"Now for the very special gifts," I boomed, getting into my role. "Magalie and Erica, please come here."
Fernando set up two chairs, and Erica and Magalie both came to sit. We had considered having them sit on our laps, but Fernando thought that was a little too much, and I had to agree. I contemplated sitting on Magalie's lap instead, but convention dictated the man kneel, so we went with that instead.
As soon as we knelt in front of the girls, they exchanged looks and then both began crying.
"It's like they practiced this too," I told Fuerte.
Scoring a Fake FIANCÉE: Mr. Match Book 2 Page 21
