by Mara Wells
“Primo spot for a party once again.” Grams smacked her hands together. “Let’s do it. Maybe your mom will even be in town.”
Riley searched the ceiling, newly painted a fresh white, as if seeking guidance. “I was thinking something small for Thanksgiving. Maybe at a restaurant?”
Grams gasped and clutched her stomach like she’d been shot. “A restaurant on Thanksgiving? Riley, how could you suggest such a thing?”
“If you’ll excuse me.” Carrie attempted to extract herself from what was clearly a family matter. Thanksgiving at a restaurant sounded perfectly normal to her. It was how she and her mother had always celebrated—lunch at a diner somewhere they could load up on side dishes to take home for later.
Grams threw out her arms. “Not you, young lady. This concerns that son of yours. He’s a Donovan, too, isn’t he? Don’t you want him to be around family for the holiday?”
“He has family.” Carrie didn’t mean to snap, but really, Grams was kind of insulting. She and Oliver were a family, and Sherry spent every holiday with him. Her son was not neglected.
“Of course, of course.” Grams waved her hand, like erasing a whiteboard. “He could meet his uncles. His great-grandfather.”
“Aha!” Riley snapped her fingers. “That’s what it’s really about. You want to invite GW over. You don’t have to plan an elaborate party, Grams. Just ask him out already.”
Grams’ cheeks flamed with color. “This is about family, Riley Carson. Family you’re about to join. Come on. Part of you is already making a list, right?”
Riley leaned back, laughing. “You got me. Carrie, what do you say? Thanksgiving at the Dorothy?”
Carrie hadn’t been invited to a Thanksgiving celebration. Ever. Not even to Farrah’s. “I can bring my mom?”
“Bring whoever you want.” Grams clapped her hands together. “It’s going to be huge. We need to go to Costco.”
“You are dangerous with that Costco card. Can you be trusted?” Riley pulled out her phone and started making a list.
Carrie settled back on the love seat, small poodle in her lap, and helped sketch out a plan for the big day. She fluffed LouLou’s ears and scratched along her spine. She watched Riley and Grams bat ideas back and forth, Caleb agreeing with whatever the women wanted when consulted. She knew she should get going, but somehow, her trip to the design district to look for inspiration for Dimitri Orlov’s restaurants seemed less pressing.
“Potluck!” Grams’ enthusiasm grew by the moment, and she gestured so dramatically that LouLou jumped down and sought refuge between Lance’s firmly planted boots. He bent down and scooped her up, whispering something in her floppy ears that Carrie couldn’t hear.
Grams and Riley started a list of who could bring what. After assigning various side dishes and desserts, Grams pinned Carrie with a speculative look. “And you, young lady? What’s your potluck specialty?”
Lance chuckled, and Carrie glared at him. While it was true that during their marriage, they’d eaten a lot of takeout because neither one of them was particularly good in the kitchen, things had changed when Oliver came on the scene. You can’t feed a growing boy Szechuan vegetables and rice. At least not every day. She made a mean baked potato, and she’d perfected the cheese sandwich, cut into four triangles precisely how Oliver liked it. Neither of her famous, at least to her son, dishes sounded right for Thanksgiving celebration. What did?
“Mashed potatoes.” How hard could they be? Buy some potatoes. Smash them. At Lance’s snort, she upped her game. “Garlic mashed potatoes.”
“One vat of garlic mashed potatoes.” Riley marked it on her list.
First, Carrie’d have to get a vat. Then she’d have to learn to make mashed potatoes. No problem. It should be precisely like baked potatoes, only more violent. She could still feel Lance’s gaze on her; as with the sun, she might not look directly at him, but she always felt his warmth when he was near her.
“What’re you bringing?”
“I’m no dummy.” Lance set LouLou on the floor. “I’ll bring napkins.”
“Napkins? That’s it?” She was going to make mashed potatoes, and he was getting away with napkins? Not fair. Why hadn’t she thought of it? Stupid competitive streak.
“A lot of napkins. A ton of napkins. More napkins than you’ve ever seen in one place before.” His competitive streak kicked in, which made Carrie feel better.
“They better be fancy, too.” Riley marked down his contribution on her list. “I’ll text you once we have a color scheme.”
“Color scheme?” Lance echoed, and Caleb cracked up.
Carrie’s phone buzzed against her leg.
You wanted to discuss restaurant plans?
She looked up at Lance. He hadn’t answered her when she’d texted him yesterday about working on Orlov’s restaurants with her, but he wanted to talk now? It wasn’t a huge job—mostly booth installation and a bit of rewiring. The challenge, though, was in her pièce de résistance: an indoor water feature meant to evoke the feeling of Russian rivers. The artist she’d commissioned would create the piece, but plumbing and installation were on her. Or, she hoped, Lance. Her phone buzzed again. Praying hands emoji. Oh, he needed an escape from napkins and color schemes? So did she.
“Please excuse me.” Carrie stood. LouLou pawed at her thigh as if there were a huge mistake. She patted the dog. “I do have some work today.”
“With Lance, no doubt.” Grams winked at her. “I believe he was heading out, too, hmm?”
“Now that you mention it—” Lance gave the group a jaunty wave.
Carrie stuffed her phone in her bag. “It’s a consultation.”
Grams waved a hand. “Consult away, my dear. We’ll be in touch about the party.”
“Please do.” Carrie hated how formal she was with them after they’d been so nice to her, including Oliver and her in their holiday plans.
Coffee Pot Spot?
Even though they were both standing in her beautiful, mostly finished lobby and the building was filled with suitable places for a quick consult, she couldn’t deny that caffeine and sugar would brighten her day.
Meet you there, she typed. Next up, she opened a browser and typed in garlic mashed potatoes. Research, shopping, practice rounds. She had a lot to do before Thanksgiving.
Chapter 31
The Coffee Pot Spot was as crowded and difficult to navigate as usual. Carrie made her way to a small table but was waylaid by a friendly voice calling her name.
“Addison!” She stopped at the table where Addison sat with two other girls about her age. “How are you?”
“Good, good. Did you ever apologize? You never told me.” Addison leaned forward, and so did her clearly in-the-know friends.
Carrie bobbed her head quickly, embarrassed now that she’d taken relationship advice from a sophomore in high school.
“Is that him?” the girl to Addison’s right asked, pushing back her black hoodie for a better view.
Sure enough, Lance strode into the coffee shop, eyes scanning the place for her.
“Yes, that’s Oliver’s father.” She pulled her bag in tight as another patron attempted to pass her in the aisle.
“He’s hot,” the girl hissed under her breath. The third girl’s braids bounced up and down in agreement.
“Told you.” Addison smirked. “Is this a date?”
Carrie did not want her life to be the equivalent of a daytime soap, so she put on her sternest face. “Business.”
“Right. Business.” Addison gave her an exaggerated wink, and her friends giggled.
Carrie took a deep breath. Someday, Oliver would be a teenager. This was practice. “I’ve got to go, but it’s good to see you. Want to babysit this weekend?”
“Do you have a date?” Addison drew out the last word. “With Lance?”
“
Please, Addison, leave it alone.”
Something in her tone got through. Addison dropped the smirk and said, “Of course. Text when you need me, and I’ll work it out with my mom.”
“Thanks.” Carrie took another deep breath. “Nice to meet you all.” Then she walked across the shop to the empty table farthest from the girls.
“Fan club?” Lance was quick to join her in the Siberia of tables, conveniently situated by both the kitchen door and the bathroom.
“Something like that.” Carrie rustled through her purse like she was looking for something. Maybe she was, and she’d know when she found it. Maybe she was simply stalling. It was unsettling being around Lance, how she longed to pull him close but felt compelled to push him away all at the same time. She hauled out a flowered notebook and pen.
“About the restaurants.” She flipped to a clean page.
“Of course. Business.” He folded his hands on the table.
She nodded crisply. “To business.”
They talked for half an hour, but when she got home, she couldn’t read a word of what she’d written in her notebook. It was all scribbles and swoopy hearts, and down low at the very bottom, she’d written Carrie Donovan. Clearly, it was the fifteen-year-olds’ influence.
“See you at Thanksgiving,” Lance had said after paying their check. “Looking forward to those mashed potatoes.” He’d grinned, and there was no other way to say this: she’d fled. Snapped her notebook closed and ran. How was she supposed to keep it just business when he smiled at her like that? The fifteen-year-olds giggled when she passed their table, but she didn’t slow down. She was a grown woman with grown-woman stuff to do. She did, however briefly, wonder what Addison’s advice would be this time. She was beginning to fear it would never be just business with Lance.
* * *
Carrie tightened her hold on the vat of mashed potatoes and took a steadying breath. Into the fray, as it were. She pushed on the glass double doors, holding them open for Oliver and her mom to pass through.
“Is that him? Is that my great-grandson?” Grandpa William’s voice carried down the long table set up in the Dorothy’s lobby.
Lance visibly cringed and rose to greet Carrie, Oliver, Sherry, and one very excited Jack Russell in the entry. “Sorry about that. He only found out yesterday.”
The fray was already fraying her nerves. Carrie only nodded in response and searched the room for a friendly face. Lots of faces, for sure, but no one she knew well enough to get her out of following Lance to the table.
“Shh.” Grams smacked Grandpa William on the arm. “You’ll scare the poor thing. You know little Oliver doesn’t have any family.”
Carrie was glad she’d transported the potatoes in a metal pot. A glass container would surely have shattered in her grip by now. She tightened her hold and shot an accusatory look at Lance.
“I am really, really sorry.” Lance ducked his head and held up his hands like she was about to shoot. “I think they think you can’t hear them?”
“Here.” Carrie shoved the heavy pot of potatoes at him. She didn’t need to be judged, not by anyone, but especially not by her ex-relatives. “Maybe we should drop these off and leave.”
“No, no. Please stay. I’ll get them to behave. Or at least I’ll talk to my grandfather.” Lance sniffed the pot like he was suspicious, but the only odors emanating from her cooking triumph were butter and garlic. Lots of garlic. “I don’t think anyone can get Grams to behave.”
“I heard you!” Grams called, waving at the group of them. “And you’re absolutely right! Now bring those mashed potatoes over to the buffet table, will you?” She pushed out of her metal folding chair and glided toward them.
“Grams?” Oliver tugged on the sleeve of Carrie’s burnt-orange button-down that she’d paired with a goldenrod pencil-skirt. “Is that like a Gamma? Is she Lance-Daddy’s Gamma?”
“Almost but not quite. Or at least not yet.” Lance squatted down, balancing the mashed potato vat on his knees. Beckham came over to inspect the spot. So did LouLou, appearing from under the table in a burst of curls and wiggles. Lady, the black Lab from the park, came sniffing, too.
“I heard that!” Grandpa William yelled, keeping a hand on his greyhound’s head to keep Pops from joining the growing pack sniffing the mashed potatoes.
“How many dogs are at this party?” Carrie surveyed the crowd and spotted one more furry friend in the mix—Sydney’s Chihuahua, Chewy, who sprinted toward them as fast as his little legs could move.
A laughing Sydney joined them at the door. “Ain’t no party like a dog park party, huh?”
“That’s where all the people are from?” Aside from the main table stretching the length of the lobby, satellite tables were scattered around the edges, and even her refinished rattan set was full of folks. Some she recognized from the dog park, some from the Dorothy, and some she’d never seen before.
Sydney took the pot from Lance with a smile. “Neighborhood color, that’s what we’ll call it. Come on. Riley and Caleb saved you all some seats, but you’ll want to load up at the buffet table first.”
Carrie followed, an unusually subdued Oliver stuck close to her side. Sherry chatted with Lance a bit, something about street parking being such a nightmare these days and how back in the old days, one could drive right up to Ocean Drive and find a spot but now the valet businesses had ruined everything. Carrie tuned out the tirade—she’d heard it before—and focused on getting to the buffet table. Sydney stopped a few times along the way, chatting up neighbors and introducing Carrie to them. Carrie smiled and said polite things, she was sure she did, but it was all starting to blur together.
It was too much. She was used to it being just Oliver, Beckham, and her mom. The cornucopia on the table, the small rubber ducks at each place setting dressed as pilgrims, Native Americans, and turkeys, the table runner that looked as if it were made entirely of leaves—it was all too much. How she’d longed for a holiday like this when she was little, but she was grown now and had made peace with the fact that her family simply didn’t do holidays.
But Lance’s sure did. Even Knox sat at the end of the long table, braced leg stretched out of the way of folks lining up at the buffet. Oliver tugged on her hand, and she looked down. His eyes were wide, and his smile was wider. “It’s like a movie,” he whispered, and because his whisper was exactly as loud as his normal voice, the people near them heard and laughed.
“It’s only Thanksgiving.” Carrie didn’t mean to sound dismissive, but his clear infatuation with the whole scene made her defensive. It wasn’t like he’d never had a Thanksgiving meal before. Sheesh.
Lance settled a hand in the middle of her back, directly below the strap on the bra she probably shouldn’t have worn today. Black and lacy, it matched her panties, and together, the set was the sexiest thing she owned. She’d felt the need to arm herself, like coming to this Thanksgiving dinner would turn into a battle, but now, with Lance’s hand warming her skin, all she could think about was his hand inching up and unsnapping the hooks. Not in front of everyone, of course. They’d sneak off, maybe to one of the unoccupied units she’d staged yesterday. She could attest to the springiness of the cushions on the couches she’d chosen. Lance’s hand slid down to her waist, leaving a prickly trail of heat in its wake. Carrie stepped away from him. It was too dangerous to be near him. He made her forget that she was only here for Oliver’s sake.
They finally made it to the buffet line, and Carrie helped Oliver choose small helpings of basically everything. Oliver filled his plate with her mashed potatoes, bites of cranberry sauce, corn salad, and of course, the mandatory turkey.
At the table, she and Oliver were seated directly across from Grandpa William and Grams, with Riley and Caleb to their right and Sherry to the left. Lance sat beside his grandfather.
“Well, are you going to introduce us?” Grandpa Willi
am’s cranky words were belied by his smile.
Lance took on the challenge. “Oliver, this is my Grandpa William. That makes him your great-grandfather.”
Oliver looked skeptical at the news. “I already have a grandpa.”
“You can have more than one.” Carrie set her fork down. Eating would have to wait until this field of social land mines was successfully traversed. “Besides, a great-grandfather is different from a grandfather.”
“How?” Oliver jabbed at the mashed potatoes on his plate.
“Because we’re great, that’s how.” Grandpa William petted Pops with one hand while swirling his mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes together on his plate. “Better than regular grandpas, that’s for sure.”
Oliver chewed thoughtfully. “Okay. Show me.”
Grandpa William blinked his sharp blue eyes. “Show you what?”
“Be great.” Oliver put down his fork and watched Grandpa William expectantly.
Grams’ laugh tinkled up the musical scale, and she covered her mouth with a gold paper napkin. Carrie stifled her own laugh. She could step in, she supposed, and mediate this standoff between great-grandfather and great-grandson, but she didn’t. Pride filled her. Her son knew how to stand up for himself.
As if reading her mind, Lance sent her an approving nod across the table. “What’s your play, Grandpa William? Oliver’s waiting.”
“I’ll take you out on my boat.” Grandpa William leaned back, smug in his response. “I’ll teach you to fish.”
Oliver stood up, hopped onto his chair, and leaned across the table, hand outstretched. “Deal.”
Grandpa William looked confused at first, like he wasn’t sure what to do. Then he stretched out his own hand and shook on it. “Deal.”
“Call my mama.” Oliver sat back down. “She’ll tell you when.”
Carrie’s phone vibrated in her purse. She pulled it out. Did our son just tell my grandfather to call his people? Is he like some little Godfather-in-the-making?
Carrie grinned, proud that all her hours of talking to Oliver, exposing him to language, encouraging him to tell her all his thoughts, was paying off in such a satisfying way. I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse.
