Falling into Forever

by Phyllis Bourne

  As she walked the short distance to the Victorian, Sandra knew Isaiah was indeed her Prince Charming.

  But only for one more night.

  * * *

  Isaiah stared at the door he’d closed behind Sandra.

  He’d left her with the impression that he was about to call their families to cancel Thanksgiving dinner and effectively call off Sandra’s wager with her father.

  But there were two things his training at Annapolis and years in the military had drilled into him: never give up and always have a backup plan.

  Isaiah glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel.

  Now all he had to do was figure out what, exactly, was their plan B.

  Chapter 15

  It was late afternoon by the time Sandra had scanned and emailed a copy of her design sketch to the governor-elect’s wife.

  Despite the last-minute request, the dress had turned out even more beautiful than Sandra had expected. Designed of fluid chiffon in the requested color of cranberry, it featured a draped bodice and high slit that would accentuate the woman’s sleek figure and compliment her sophisticated style.

  Sandra inhaled the salty tang of the chilly November air as she walked back home, proud of her work.

  But as her small house came into view, her quick steps came to an abrupt halt.

  She blinked, hard.

  “It can’t be,” she whispered aloud, taking in the familiar cars parked in front of her home. Her stomach dropped and she fought the urge to run in the opposite direction.

  Isaiah was supposed to have contacted their families to let them know dinner was canceled. Why on earth were they here?

  Sandra heard voices and football blaring from the television as she approached. Again she thought about jumping in her MINI Cooper and making a break for it.

  “I don’t see my daughter or any signs of dinner.” Her father’s voice came through the door. “Work or no work, we had a deal. So she’d better be figuring out where she’ll be taking Dale to dinner next week.”

  Next came the deep rumble of Isaiah’s baritone, but she couldn’t make out what he’d said.

  Sandra sighed and opened the door. She couldn’t leave Isaiah on his own to deal with them, even if he deserved it for not phoning them to cancel.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, everyone,” she called out brightly, trying to put a happy spin on what was surely going to be a miserable evening.

  “Bye!” Mason shouted, and he ran toward her like a miniature tornado.

  Sandra knelt and caught her nephew in her arms. She smothered his little face in kisses before setting his squirming body on his feet.

  She looked up to see Isaiah standing in front of her. He helped with her coat. Before she could ask what was going on, he looked down at her with his intense dark gaze and silently mouthed two words.

  Trust me.

  And although she had no idea where he was going with this, she put her faith in him.

  Sandra walked into her living room with Isaiah by her side. Her brother and dad were sitting on the sofa watching football, while Isaiah’s father watched the game from an armchair.

  Stuart looked pointedly at the clock on the mantel. “So you finally decided to show your face,” he said.

  “I had to work, Dad.”

  “So your friend here told us.” He inclined his head toward Isaiah.

  “I was designing a dress for the governor-elect’s wife to wear to a state dinner at the White House.”

  “That’s wonderful, dear.” Her mother came in from the dining room, and Cecily followed.

  “Congratulations. That’s quite an accomplishment,” Isaiah’s mother chimed in. She looked at her husband, who was totally engrossed in the football game. “Isn’t it, Ben?”

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” Ben said absently, his eyes still glued to the television.

  Sandra thanked the two women and then turned to her father. Surely a workaholic like him could appreciate her situation.

  She held her breath, as he looked her up and down. “I don’t see a bucket of chicken in your arms,” he said. “So where’s this melt-in-your mouth meal Jacobs here was going on about the other night at the party?”

  Clearing his throat, Jordan rose from the sofa and joined them. “Happy Thanksgiving, Sandra.” Her brother leaned in as if he was about to hug her, but instead whispered in her ear. “If you manage to shut Dad up by somehow winning this bet, I think I’ll give you my car, too.”

  He winked, and Sandra smiled up at him, grateful to have his support.

  A commercial came on the television, interrupting the game, and Isaiah’s father finally broke away from the screen. He got up from his chair and kissed her on the cheek.

  “I was preoccupied with the game earlier, but it’s always lovely to see you, Sandra,” Ben said. “And it’s especially nice seeing you and my son together.”

  A grunt sounded from her father’s direction. “Dale is having dinner with his family today.” He directed his words at Sandra. “However, I mentioned you and I might stop over later for dessert. If that cold stove in your kitchen is any indication, you’re going to have something to ask him.”

  Nancy frowned and shook her head at her husband. “Oh, Stu,” she said in an admonishing tone, before turning to Sandra. “But we’re all starting to get hungry.”

  Isaiah’s father nodded in agreement. “As much as I’d like to be the one to give Stuart a ride home after he loses that Chevelle, it’s not looking real good for you, Sandra,” he said. “I’m hungry, too, and it doesn’t smell like Thanksgiving around here.”

  Grumbles about dinner sounded from everyone, except Jordan, who had taken a drowsy Mason into the spare bedroom for a nap. Sandra didn’t know what Isaiah had been thinking by not calling them to cancel. Both sets of parents were enough to deal with on a regular day, even worse when they were crabby from hunger.

  “Just hold on, everyone!” Isaiah’s deep voice echoed through the living room, silencing their complaints. “Sandra just walked through the door after putting in a full day at work. If you could just wait—”

  Ben cut him off, mumbling something about locating a pizza delivery menu.

  “If you can’t hear me out, Dad, you can always go home and enjoy that tasty faux turkey loaf from the meal delivery service.” Isaiah turned to his mother. “Right, Mom?”

  “Definitely. They brought our white bean turkey to the house this morning.” Cecily raised her hands and made air quotes around the word turkey. “In fact, why don’t I just pop home and get it? There’s plenty for all of us.”

  Sandra watched as both Isaiah and his father made faces that would have been hilarious if she didn’t practically have a Thanksgiving mutiny on her hands.

  “Um...let’s just hear what Isaiah has to say,” Ben suggested.

  “Why don’t you all just have a seat in the living room and enjoy the game,” Isaiah said. “Dinner will be served in about a half hour.”

  A half hour. Sandra’s eyes rounded. How on earth was she going to get dinner on the table in thirty minutes with a raw turkey in her refrigerator?

  Isaiah took her by the hand. “Let’s get started, sweetheart.”

  Her father rose from the sofa and followed them into the kitchen. “Oh, no. You can’t help her cook.” Stuart wagged a finger in his direction. “The terms of our wager are very specific.”

  Isaiah grinned at her dad, and Sandra silently pleaded with him to stop goading him. Isaiah would be long gone tomorrow, and she’d be the one stuck listening to the incessant gloating once she lost the bet.

  “I have no intention of cooking. I’ll simply be sitting at the breakfast bar offering your daughter some moral support.”

  “That had better be all you do, Jacobs.” Her father grunted.


  “You’ll also adhere to the exact terms of the bet, correct?” Isaiah asked.

  “Of course,” Stuart replied. “And just to remind you, with my girlfriend on the line, I’m expecting turkey, green beans, sweet potatoes—”

  “And something with apples,” Isaiah finished.

  “Exactly.” Her father pointed at his eyes with two fingers, and then pointed one at Isaiah. “I’ll only have one eye on the game. I’m keeping the other one on you.”

  Sandra tied on her apron as her father retreated to a chair in the living room that gave him a better view of the kitchen. She opened her refrigerator, but didn’t spot a miracle inside it, only the uncooked turkey and the leftover one from the other night.

  She closed the door and looked up at Isaiah expectantly. “What now?” she asked.

  He picked up the cookbook they’d been using, opened it and pointed to a recipe she hadn’t seen before.

  Sandra quickly skimmed it and beamed up at him.

  He returned her smile with a huge grin. “It’s time to unleash plan B.”

  * * *

  Sandra stood at the breakfast bar, hands on her hips, studying the recipe.

  This just might work out, after all, she thought, if she didn’t screw it all up with one of her kitchen mishaps.

  She glanced up at Isaiah again.

  He silently mouthed the word focus.

  Isaiah had always maintained she’d never had a cooking problem, only a problem staying focused while she was in the kitchen.

  Sandra closed her eyes and blocked everything from her mind except the recipe. Exhaling, she opened them, preheated the oven and quickly began assembling the ingredients, including the leftover turkey from the other night she’d cooked to perfection.

  They’d eaten the turkey’s legs. However, the breast was still intact.

  She got busy dicing it into small chunks as she waited for her saucepan of chicken broth on the stove to boil. Then she started chopping baguettes into one-inch pieces.

  “She should stop wasting everyone’s time and just give up.” Sandra heard her father in the other room. “Anybody know if the Chinese restaurant is open today? Do they deliver?”

  “Stu!” her mother admonished, in a whisper loud enough for everyone to hear.

  “Focus,” Sandra muttered to herself, as she glanced at the recipe book again. She looked up to find Isaiah nodding in agreement, and could feel the encouragement radiating from his intense dark gaze.

  She moved through the next steps of the recipe, adding sweet potatoes and green beans to the boiling broth to cook for only the minutes it took for her to dice apples and a large onion.

  Sandra swiped at her brow with the back of her arm. She drained the potatoes and green beans, as butter melted in a large skillet.

  After dicing the sweet potatoes and green beans, she finally added all the ingredients to the skillet, along with chopped fresh sage. She double-and triple-checked the spices, sprinkled them over the mixture and pulled the carton of eggs from the refrigerator.

  Ten minutes later, she dished the contents of the skillet onto eight plates and topped them with sunny-side-up eggs. She took the warm plates to the dining room two at a time, while Isaiah pulled out bottles of chilled wine and called everyone to the table. She was lighting the candles when they’d finally all gathered.

  Her father looked down at his plate as he sat down at the table. “What’s this supposed to be?” A frown creased his face.

  “It’s Sandra’s Thanksgiving Hash,” she proclaimed.

  Mason, who was seated in a plastic booster seat in a chair next to his father, immediately grabbed a fistful of food off his plate and jammed it into his mouth. “Good,” he yelled, bobbing his little head.

  The move incited a wave of laughter around the entire table.

  Jordan smiled at his son. “Mason here just added a new word to his vocabulary,” he said. “So if my boy says it’s good, that should be enough of a recommendation for all of us to try it.”

  “Well, it certainly smells like Thanksgiving,” Ben said.

  “I agree,” Cecily chimed in. “It looks delicious, Sandra.”

  Sandra wanted to spring from the table and hug both her nephew and Isaiah’s parents. Ben and Cecily were right; the hash looked and smelled great.

  “First we need to say grace,” Nancy said. “Stu, Ben, either of you want to do the honors?”

  After a suggestion from Ben to keep it short, Stuart said a quick blessing. Sandra held her breath as she looked around the table for their reactions after their first bites.

  Nothing.

  Not a peep. All she heard was the sound of cutlery scraping against plates. She looked at Isaiah, who was seated at the other side of the table. He inclined his head toward his plate and nodded his seal of approval.

  Now that she’d gotten through cooking with no mishaps, Sandra dug into her own plate. Her nephew had been right. It was good.

  As the eating began to wind down, Isaiah’s father was the first to comment. “While I admit this wasn’t exactly what I was expecting for Thanksgiving, it was excellent, Sandra.” He glanced at his empty plate. “I think I inhaled it.”

  From the looks of the other empty plates, they all had, she thought. Sandra gazed at her father expectantly.

  “Ben’s right. I’ll concede that the food was edible, and there were no disasters in its preparation,” he said.

  Sandra sighed. It was as close to a compliment as she’d get from him, so she’d take it.

  “Edible?” Her mother’s voice was incredulous. “Stuart Woolcott, you cleaned your plate and then polished off the rest of mine.”

  Jordan chimed in. “I think I saw him lick his fingers.”

  “I—I did not.” Her dad looked down at his hands as if checking to make sure.

  “Good! Good! Good!” Mason chanted his new word and banged his small fist on the table.

  Jordan patted him on the head. “Mason’s absolutely right,” he said. “Dad, don’t you think there’s something you should be handing over to Sandra?”

  “What?” Their father picked up his wineglass.

  Nancy narrowed her eyes. “The car keys, Stu.”

  “H-huh?” Stuart sputtered. “Okay, maybe she didn’t screw it up, and maybe her cooking was just as melt-in-your-mouth as Jacobs here said.” He gestured toward Isaiah. “But the terms of our wager were specific, and Sandra’s Thanksgiving Hash was not on the menu we agreed on.”

  “I beg to differ, sir.” Isaiah spoke for the first time since they’d sat down to eat. “You asked for turkey, stuffing, green beans, sweet potatoes and something with apples, correct?”

  “I did, but she knew what I meant!” Stuart said.

  “It’s not about what you meant,” Isaiah replied. “It’s about the exact terms of the bet.”

  “Isaiah’s right, Dad,” Jordan stated.

  Sandra saw sweat break out on her father’s forehead as Isaiah’s dad rubbed his hands together and, ignoring his wife’s censoring stare, laughed manically.

  “Admit it, Stu,” Nancy said. “Sandra outsmarted you and won your bet fair and square.”

  Thanks to Isaiah. Sandra looked across the table at him. The victory was almost at hand, but all she felt was heartache. How in the world would she be able to say goodbye to him tomorrow?

  “But it’s not fair. I wasn’t expecting—” her father began, but her mother cut him off midsentence.

  “Sandra’s a Woolcott, which makes her the proverbial chip off the old block. You underestimated her,” Nancy said. “Now it’s time to pay the price.”

  Stuart nodded once at his wife, stood and reached into his pants pocket. He pulled out his key ring, took off the keys to his beloved 1970 Chevelle SS and handed them to Sandra.

&
nbsp; “Thank you, Dad,” she said.

  Her father shrugged. “Everyone’s right. You won our bet fair and square. Congratulations.”

  Sandra looked into her father’s eyes. She’d always seen his love for her, but today she saw something she’d craved most of her adult life—his respect.

  “I suppose you’ll need the title, too,” he said. “I’ll dig it out of the safe and sign it over to you the next time you’re at the house.”

  Sandra nodded, although she’d already decided her father could keep the title. She planned to return the prized car to him, eventually.

  She kissed the keys in her palm. “You’re my girlfriend now.”

  Everyone at the table broke out in a small round of laughter and applause, and Sandra was relieved to see her father join in.

  Now that the bet was settled there was one thing left to do, Sandra thought, channeling the pride and dignity her client Octavia Hall had displayed after her dress fitting.

  Sandra retrieved another bottle of wine. She waited for everyone to refill their glasses, before raising hers and proposing a toast.

  “To Isaiah.” She swallowed hard and hoped her voice wouldn’t betray her and reveal her anguish. “A good person, a good son and a good friend. Best of luck in London.”

  Chapter 16

  Hours later, Sandra’s toast rang in Isaiah’s head as he parked his truck in his parents’ garage.

  “...a good friend.”

  He had no right to feel slighted. After all, they’d been proclaiming they were simply good friends all over town. Nothing more.

  “...a good friend.”

  It hurt, because with those words, Isaiah knew she’d let him go. Now what they’d tried so hard to convince everyone else of was true.

  He and Sandra Woolcott were indeed just friends.

  Isaiah exhaled, jumped out of his truck and shut the door behind him. After spending nearly every night since Halloween at Sandra’s place, he’d decided to stay the last night with his folks. He’d told himself, and Sandra, it was to have some extra time with them before he left. In reality, Isaiah knew sleeping alone tonight would make it easier tomorrow to do the same thing for Sandra that she’d done for him.