Nearly twenty years later, she still liked cooking for Thanksgiving and Christmas better than any other meal of the year. The planning, the shopping, getting out the platters and bowls that spent the rest of the year gathering dust, and all the cooking—she loved every minute of it. This year was different. She couldn’t help but think of her grandfather and miss him, but balancing out the grief was the awareness that she and Matt were spending their first holiday together as husband and wife.
Gabe was joining them, and Lurene and Reilly and Dana were all coming. Jessie had certainly cooked for much larger groups, but this was her first Thanksgiving dinner for the people she considered her extended family, and she wanted every detail to be perfect. After what Matt had told her of his childhood, she was willing to bet that his memories of the holidays didn’t exactly have a warm and fuzzy glow. There was nothing she could do to change the past, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t create some holiday traditions and memories of their own.
She spent much of the two weeks prior to the holiday making lists and schedules, working out what needed to be done when, in order for everything to make it to the table at the same time. She made lists of serving dishes and more tentative assignments of what bowl would hold the creamed corn and which of her grandmother’s cut-glass plates would be suitable for the cranberry sauce. She made lists of pans, and checked and double-checked her schedule to make sure she wasn’t going to need her favorite sauté pan for two different dishes at the same time.
She quizzed Matt on his likes and dislikes, making careful note of the fact that he didn’t care for giblets in the gravy or lumps in the mashed potatoes. She was so solemn that, when she asked him about Gabe’s preferences, he couldn’t resist the urge to tell her that Gabe was on a strict regimen of nothing but cooked whole grains and raw nuts. The look of horror that widened her eyes in the instant before she remembered Gabe’s open delight in the leftovers she sent home to him sent Matt into whoops of laughter. He continued to laugh even when she smacked him with her notebook and was still snickering when he caught her around the waist and pulled her into his lap to kiss her sulky mouth.
Perhaps she had gone a little overboard, but all the planning had paid off, Jessie thought as she surveyed the disaster that was the kitchen. Everything had turned out exactly the way she’d wanted. From the turkey to the pecan pie, the food had been perfect. It had been a Norman Rockwell kind of holiday, if Rockwell had painted palm trees and warm blue skies. Everyone had talked over one another, eaten too much and laughed just enough.
Family, she thought with satisfaction.
Late in the afternoon on what Matt had laughingly referred to as T-Day, the sunny kitchen looked as if a small bomb had exploded in it. The sinks were clear, a habit ingrained from the time she’d spent working in professional kitchens, but there was scarcely an inch of open counter space. Dirty dishes, pots and pans, and half-empty serving bowls, crowded together.
“It looks like the aftermath of an explosion in a dish factory,” Dana said as she entered the kitchen. Wearing a pair of slim black leggings and a winter-white silk shirt, she managed to look coolly elegant even with her hands full of dirty dishes. It wasn’t fair, Jessie thought with a faint mental sigh of envy. But it didn’t bother her as much as it would have a few months ago.
Gabe and Lurene had left a few minutes ago. Matt and Reilly were watching a football game in the living room. She’d watched for a while and then decided to get started on reclaiming the kitchen.
“It’s a mess, isn’t it?” she said, smiling.
Dana arched one dark brow in silent comment at her obvious satisfaction. “And this is a good thing?”
Jessie’s mouth curved in a self-deprecating smile. “It sounds silly, but I sort of like what it represents.”
“Potential dishpan hands?”
Jessie grinned and shook her head. “Not exactly. When I was growing up, it was just my grandfather and me during the holidays, and I always sort of envied my friends who had big families. You know, aunts and uncles and cousins that they didn’t see all that often. I always pictured them gathered around the holiday table, laughing and talking.”
“You mean the sort of family gathering where Aunt Mabel and Cousin Sophie have to be seated at opposite ends of the table because they haven’t spoken to each other since before the war?” Dana asked. The smile in her eyes softened her cynical tone.
“That sort of thing wasn’t allowed in my fantasy family,” Jessie admitted, laughing. She began gathering up the silverware and dropping it in the basket in the dishwasher. “You sound like you speak from experience.”
Dana shook her head. “I didn’t have an Aunt Mabel or a Cousin Sophie, but I had an Uncle Darren who was a big Barry Manilow fan.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“It wouldn’t have been if he hadn’t felt the need to share his passion with the rest of the family by giving an impromptu concert every Christmas Eve. Did I mention he was tone deaf?” Dana asked dryly. She gave a delicate little shudder. “I still break out in hives when I hear ‘Feelings.”’
Jessie laughed. It occurred to her that this was the first time she’d really talked to Reilly’s wife. They’d certainly spoken over the years, polite exchanges about the weather or mutual acquaintances, but they’d never had this sort of easy conversation before.
“I suppose I did have a rather idealized image of what a family holiday would be like,” Jessie said.
“The Waltons meet Martha Stewart?” Dana pushed up her sleeves and turned the water on in the sink.
“Pretty much. You don’t have to do that,” Jessie said as the other woman picked up a plate and began rinsing it.
“I don’t mind.” Dana reached for another plate. “Matt and Reilly were deep into an exhaustive analysis of possible Super Bowl matchups. My interest in the defensive back end pretty much begins and ends with how good it looks in a pair of tight pants.”
Laughing, Jessie began gathering up the glasses and putting them in the dishwasher. She’d never thought of Dana as having much of a sense of humor. But she’d never imagined the former almost-Miss-America with her sleeves pushed up, standing at the kitchen sink, rinsing dirty dishes, either. It made her uneasily aware that she’d never even tried to look past that glossy surface to see if there was a real person underneath. It was not a comfortable thought.
“Do you have a large family?” she asked, realizing that she knew almost nothing about Dana beyond the fact that she’d been a beauty contestant.
“A brother and a sister. Joe and Anabeth.” Dana stacked the rinsed plates on the counter over the dishwasher, leaving them for Jessie to arrange inside.
“Are you close?”
“No.” Dana held her hand under the faucet, watching the water splash over her fingers. “I grew up pretty much separate from them.”
“I didn’t realize your parents were divorced,” Jessie said, surprised. She vaguely remembered meeting them at Dana’s wedding.
“They aren’t. But most of my time was occupied with preparing for pageants, or planning for them or discussing them. Between that and school, it didn’t leave a lot of time for family. And, of course, I always had to worry about hurting myself. They don’t give extra points for skinned knees or broken bones.”
Jessie had never given much thought to beauty pageants other than to shudder at the thought of parading around in front of thousands of people wearing nothing but a bathing suit and heels. Like a lot of people, she viewed the whole process with vague contempt. They could call it a scholarship program all they wanted, but the reality was that a bunch of nearly naked women ended up strutting around on a stage and getting points for the size of their attributes, not for their IQs. It had never occurred to her that a lot of time and preparation went into the process.
“It sounds…lonely,” she said honestly.
“It sucked,” Dana said, and then looked startled by her own words. She straightened and reached for a platter, her m
ovements brisk. “Not that it didn’t have its upside. I got to travel a lot and meet new people. Odds are, if I’d gotten to know Joe and Anabeth better, we’d have despised each other. Isn’t that what siblings usually end up doing?”
“I don’t know. I always sort of pictured the Walton version. You know, a sister who’d help me with makeup and clothes. Maybe an indulgent older brother with cute friends.”
Dana slanted her a curious look. “You pretty much had that with Matt and Reilly, didn’t you?”
“Not really. We were…friends.” She frowned and shook her head a little as she slid a platter into the bottom rack. “I know it sounds ridiculous that a ten-year-old girl could be friends with two nineteen-year-old boys, but we were. Not that we hung out together all the time or anything, and I suppose they did look out for me a bit when we were together, but it was a…brotherly kind of thing.”
Dana shut off the water and reached for a towel to dry her hands. “I’m surprised you didn’t fall in love with one of them,” she said without looking up. “Before now, I mean. They’re both attractive, the kind of men a young girl might develop a crush on.”
Jessie bent to pour soap into the dispenser. It was pure coincidence that the movement made her hair slip forward, concealing her expression from the other woman. For just a moment she let herself remember all the nights she’d cried herself to sleep, all the hours she’d spent wondering what she could do to make Reilly see her as a woman rather than as a friend.
It didn’t hurt the way it once had. She had Matt now. A future with him. She was no longer the kid standing outside the candy store, nose pressed up against the window. Maybe what she had wasn’t what she’d once dreamed of, but it was strong and good, and she was happy.
She closed the door of the dishwasher as she straightened. Her smile was easy. “I guess they were so firmly set in my mind as friends that I just never saw them any other way,” she lied.
“Maybe it’s just me but, when the score is 37 to 3 going into the fourth quarter, it’s really hard to get excited about the game,” Reilly said, frowning at the television.
“They could still pull it out.” Matt was stretched out on the sofa, eyes barely open. “They only need—what? Five touchdowns? A couple of onside kicks and a little luck, and they’ll be back on top.”
“I’m thinking a witch doctor on the sidelines poking pins into little dolls in blue uniforms is their only hope.”
Matt opened his eyes in time to see the ball pop out of a receiver’s hands. He winced. “Maybe they’re trying to set a record for widest point spread in a game.”
“Do they get a bonus for that?”
“Sure. They get bonuses for everything.”
An advertisement came on in a rush of loud music and louder voices, and Matt groped for the remote and hit the mute button. With the sound off, he could hear the muted clatter of dishes from the kitchen. It was a homey, comfortable sound.
“Maybe we should go offer to help?” Reilly asked, tilting his head toward the kitchen.
“Best leave women’s work to the women,” Matt said, settling deeper into the cushions, one hand loosely clasped around the remote.
“Women’s work? You don’t think that’s a little…politically incorrect?” Reilly propped his stocking-clad feet on the coffee table.
“Nah. It’s obvious that women are better suited to menial domestic tasks, like doing dishes. Jessie understands that. She knows her place.”
“Told you to stay out of her kitchen, did she?”
“Threatened to break my fingers if I messed with anything,” Matt admitted, grinning.
“What did you destroy?” Reilly asked shrewdly.
“A pan. It was just one little pan. I scrambled some eggs in it. It didn’t look like a nonstick surface. And I did not use an ice pick on it,” he said defensively. “It was just a plain fork. How was I supposed to know the pan was handmade by blind Tasmanian goatherds who bang the damned things out only on the night of the full moon?”
“Expensive, was it?” Reilly’s grin lacked sympathy.
“I could have bought a small third-world nation for about the same amount of money,” Matt said bitterly, and Reilly chuckled.
“So does the little woman let you in the kitchen at all?”
“As long as I don’t try to cook anything or clean anything more complicated than a cereal bowl,” Matt admitted. “She doesn’t like the way I load the dishwasher, and I’m not sure she really trusts me with the microwave.”
“Good to see a man who’s master in his own home,” Reilly commented, then grinned when Matt flipped him the bird without bothering to lift his hand from where it lay on his stomach.
The sound was still off on the television, which made the on-screen slaughter seem a little less painful. Reilly watched the game for a moment, wincing when the quarterback was sacked by what looked like half the defensive line. Considering the point spread, a sack seemed like adding insult to injury.
“You ever think about what it would have been like if we’d gone pro?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Matt’s eyebrows lift.
“Don’t tell me that watching that poor bastard get sacked is bringing on nostalgia pangs. Because if it is, we can go outside right now and I’ll run over you with the Jeep, just to remind you of how good it feels.”
“Thanks, but I think I remember pretty clearly what it felt like to have my face ground into the turf by a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound defensive end. Eating grass and mud is not high on my list of fun things to do. What I mean is, do you ever wonder where our lives would be if we’d gone into the pros?”
“Well, we’d probably have a lot more money and really bad knees.” Matt arched one brow in question. “Any particular reason for this fit of nostalgia, Kemosabe?”
“Early midlife crisis?” Reilly smiled and shook his head, then scooted lower in the chair, letting his feet slide farther onto the coffee table. “Just thinking about how things might have turned out. If I hadn’t torn up my knee. If I’d gone into the pros.” He rolled his head against the back of the chair and looked at Matt. “How come you didn’t keep playing? You had offers. You had great hands, man.”
“That’s what all the girls said.” Matt’s leer faded, and he lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Playing pro ball was your dream, Ri. Not mine. If we’d both been drafted, I’d probably have gone along, but it wasn’t my dream.”
“You and your camera.” Reilly shook his head, his mouth twisting in a half smile. “Guess you got your dream.”
“Guess I did.”
But Matt’s expression made Reilly wonder if the dream had turned out the way he’d thought it would.
“Coffee, anyone?” Jessie’s voice preceded her. She came into the living room carrying a tray loaded with cups and a lime-green thermal coffeepot with yellow daisies painted on it. She was wearing a long, flowing skirt in some sort of bluey, greenish color, and a soft, fuzzy sweater in a warm shade of brown that made him think of chestnuts and acorns. Late-afternoon sunshine splashed through the front window, pulling gold and red highlights from her hair as she passed through it, and for just a moment Reilly saw her, not just as one of his closest friends but as a woman—a very attractive woman. It was something that had happened several times since she and Matt had gotten engaged, and it made him uncomfortable. He didn’t want to think of Jessie as a woman. Didn’t want to see her that way.
His eyes dropped, and his grin held both relief and humor when he saw the pink bunny slippers that completed the outfit. This was his Jess.
“Nice shoes, Jess.”
“I thought so.” She set the tray on the coffee table and reached out to smack his foot. “Get your feet off the table, bum.”
Groaning in protest, Reilly scooted higher in the chair, letting his feet slide to the floor. “You always were pushy.”
“And you always were a slob.”
“Cruel, Jess. You shouldn’t make fun of the tidiness-challenged.”
“Tidiness-challenged?” She lifted laughing eyes to his face. “Is that the politically correct term for a slob?”
“Some of us are born without the neat gene.” He caught her hand as she came around the table, tugging her off balance until she perched on the arm of his chair. “You wouldn’t happen to have a small morsel of food for a starving man, would you?”
“How about some biscotti?”
“Almond?”
“Could be.” She laughed when he grabbed her hand and planted a sloppy kiss on the back of it. She ruffled his hair as she pulled her hand away and stood up. “Idiot.”
“Bottomless pit,” Dana corrected as she carried a plate of biscotti in and set it on the table next to the coffee. “I don’t see how you can even think about eating after that meal.”
“That was hours ago. Besides, you know that they say. There’s always room for biscotti.”
“That’s not how I remember it,” Matt said, swinging his feet to the floor as he sat up. He caught Jessie’s hand, tugging her down to sit next to him on the sofa.
Dana poured the coffee and passed it around. Reilly found himself watching the easy grace of her movements, feeling the familiar twinge of amazement that a woman like this had chosen him and the equally familiar pang of regret for the distance between them. And the always there, steadily growing fear that they were never going to close that distance.
Looking away from her, he saw Matt lay his arm on the back of the sofa. His hand shifted, his thumb rubbing against the curve of Jessie’s ear with an easy intimacy that made Reilly shift uncomfortably. After twenty years of the three of them being friends, he hadn’t quite adjusted to the idea that Matt and Jessie were married. Were lovers.
Jessie tilted her head into Matt’s touch. He smiled down at her as he brushed his fingers across her cheek in a quick, casual caress. It wasn’t a particularly intimate gesture. Over the years, Reilly had certainly done as much or more. He couldn’t even begin to count the number of times he’d hugged Jessie or kissed her. But he’d never looked at her the way Matt was looking at her now, with that warm heat of knowledge in his eyes. Even from where he sat, there was no mistaking the promise in the other man’s eyes, a promise that brought a delicate flush to Jessie’s face.
Loving Jessie Page 24
