She soldiered on. “I have enough issues on my own with my body and weight, Mother. I don’t need you exacerbating them. I know, however, that you love me and that everything you’ve done for me has been because you believe it’s in my best interests. That said, when it comes to food, women, and weight, we have to agree to disagree.”
No Doubt’s refrain that “It’s my life,” permeated throughout the room, emboldening her to see this through to the end. Bitter or sweet.
After several interminable seconds, she asked, “Mother? You still there?”
Her mother coughed, lightly, the way one clears her throat before she answered. “Yes, I’m here.”
“You’re my only parent and I’m your only child. We have to make our relationship work. I want our relationship to work. But you can’t comment on my dress size, my choice of carbs or the type of ice cream I keep stocked in my freezer. I know what healthy food choices consist of and if I want to eat macaroni and cheese or fried chicken, I can do it. Because I’m an adult. You have to trust me on this.”
“Okay,” her mother whispered through the line. Was that a sniffle she heard? Her mother, who she’d never seen shed a single tear in her life? Not even when her own mother died? That was it? A simple alright? Such a simple agreement that had caused so much angst.
“Good. I’m glad we got that out of the way. How’ve you been?”
“Alright. Busy. Lots of indoor tennis matches.”
“How’s the plumber?”
“Gerald’s alright. I think he’s planning to fly out to Florida to see one of his kids.”
“You’re not going with him?”
“Well no. It’s going to be over--” Lauren abruptly stopped.
“Over what, Mother? Over Thanksgiving?”
“Yes.” Her mother’s voice was as small as she’d ever heard it, capable of fitting inside a miniscule locket.
“Well, I’m glad you’re not going. I want to spend the holiday with you. If that’s alright and you don’t have any other plans.”
Her mother’s soft weeping carried over the line, expressing far more than words ever could. Calleigh let her mother weep, understanding her mother needed it as much as she needed to hear all the regret that her mother would never be able to fully express in words.
“In fact, I’ve been seeing someone that I’d like you to meet. I’m not sure exactly what his plans are, but if he’s around, I’m going to introduce him.”
She could feel her mother perk up. “Him? What’s his name? How long have you been seeing him? Why is this the first I’m hearing about him?”
“His name is David Shalvington. I’ve known him for over a year, but we only recently started seeing each other. This is the first you’re hearing about him because it’s the right time.”
“And his job?”
“He’s the general manager of the Tide.”
“Really?”
“Really, Mother. I think you’re really going to like him. He’s quite a cook, so I don’t know if we’ll do it at his house or at mine.”
“Well, I’m very much looking forward to meeting him. And seeing you, Calleigh,” her mother said, the apology and excitement laced together as one.
“Me too. Look, I’ve got to get back to work, but I’ll call you later this week. I love you, Mother.”
“I love you, too.”
§ § §
One of the many perks--and Calleigh considered herself one of the lucky few to have a full-time teaching position at Walker--of being a teacher was that the school day schedule allowed no time for reflection, worry, or anxiety over anything other than whether the kids in her remedial Algebra class were ever going to advance. No time for worrying about upcoming holidays, sexually dominant boyfriends, how said sexually dominant boyfriends were going to fare with one’s just generally dominant mother during the anticipated upcoming holidays, assuming one’s sexually dominant boyfriend opted to spend it with her. And her mother.
Ever since Lauren’s phone call on Monday, Calleigh put off speaking with David about Thanksgiving. Lucky for her, the mid-season crazies had overtaken his schedule so they hadn’t seen each other since the prior weekend. He’d unexpectedly flown to New York to meet with the Commissioner about some fines and punishments, and then he’d decided to stop in Montana on the way home to check on his mother’s progress. So the most communicating they’d done all week was texting. And sexting. The man was a superstar at everything he did. Including what he did over the phone.
Now, it was Friday night and they were finally going to see one another. Calleigh’d offered to cook dinner at his bungalow.
“Are you sure?” he asked, his skepticism apparent.
“Yes, I’m sure. Why do you ask?”
“Well, it’s just that you’re not exactly…a cook, Honey.”
The man could be oh so very patronizing. Even if he was sort of right on about her culinary skills.
“I mean, if you want to cook, I’m all for it. I wouldn’t want to deprive you of the opportunity. If you’re sure you really want it. Otherwise, I’ll fix something when I get home. I should be there by seven-thirty, no later.”
“Really, David. I can cook. I promise.”
“Alright. See you later.”
“Later.”
Now she found herself in his tidy kitchen somewhat cleverly pleased with herself. She’d commandeered one of Mary’s favorite recipes and each individual piece was coming together nicely. The sausage was browning, the tomato sauce was simmering and the pot for the pasta was waiting for its contents. She didn’t derive the same enjoyment David or Mary did from cooking, but she was happy to do this for him. This one, small inconsequential act.
His low voice followed the back door closing as he came in, his suit jacket bracketing one elbow, a suitcase in the other hand, very much completing the look of a roguish CEO. Which he sort of was. Her face involuntarily broke into a smile at his arrival.
He looked around, taking in his kitchen, the various pots all in different stages of process while he set his briefcase and jacket down.
“You didn’t lie. You really can cook.”
“Hello to you too. Although, you may not say that once you eat it,” she said as she sidled up to him and circled her arms around his taut waist, her eyes dancing with his.
He looked down at her as one of his hands grabbed her ass. His ownership was unmistakable.
“Why do you do that?” he asked.
“Do what?”
“Put yourself down. We haven’t even eaten. Whatever it is, it smells fantastic. So why are you torpedoing it before we’ve even sat down for dinner?” His eyes were kind, somewhat at odds with the hardness of his torso and the bluntness of his question. More than anything, she wanted to extract herself from his embrace, but his arms and hands made it impossible. Plus, she wasn’t sure she wanted to expose her insecurities to him when he saw through each and every one. So she stayed put.
She averted her eyes, finding the kitchen linoleum as fascinating as anything else she’d ever casted her eyes on.
“Calleigh, look at me,” he softly ordered.
She blinked before turning up to him, his height dwarfing her.
“I’m not criticizing you, but I don’t want you to put yourself down. About anything. Your cooking. Your weight. Your looks. Nothing. You’re perfect just as you are. Remember that.”
When he said it, she wanted to believe it. In everything he said. Confidence erupted from his pores and stamped itself all over his face, in the wise gaze of his blue eyes, the strong grip of his hands, the gait that directed itself with purpose both in the grocery store and in the bedroom. His maleness practically overwhelmed her, threatening to overtake her by sheer testosterone alone. Yet, she never felt like it was too much. It pleased and excited her.
“Old habits die hard, I guess,” she offered, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt.
“As much as I want to fuck you, you’re going to have to wait until after dinner. I didn’t eat lunc
h today and I’m fucking starving,” he said as he placed a chaste kiss on her forehead and strolled to the refrigerator and withdrew a beer. “Want one?” he offered.
“No thanks,” she said, “I already opened one while I was cooking,” and indicated her bottle on the countertop next to the bubbling tomato sauce.
“Now, that’s what I’m talking about. Drinking just for the pleasure of it. It’s about damn time,” he growled, now moving in for a longer kiss, flavored with the amber undertones of his beer.
“I thought you’d be pleased,” she said as they drew apart and she set to making the final preparations for their meal.
“Every Friday night should universally include booze. Period. It’s the end of the week and the perfect time to relax.”
“You don’t relax that often, though,” she said, as she threw him a cautious look while placing the pasta into the boiling water.
“Touché. The problem is that my job isn’t one that allows for a lot of down time. Particularly in season.”
“You ever go on vacation?”
He shrugged, his shoulders hunching up his white shirt, still crisply pristine despite the fourteen hours that it had been doing duty. “Not really. I consider time spent with my family about as close to vacation as I’m going to get. You may not have realized it, but I’m not exactly hard-wired for down time,” he said as he took a long pull on his beer.
She arched her eyebrows in mock surprise. “You? Down time? Vacation? Of course you don’t go together.”
“You?” he asked.
This time, it was her turn to shrug. “Not really. My mom and I sometimes take a trip a year, usually somewhere warm over Presidents Day or MLK weekend. But that’s about it.”
“Ah, yes. Your mother. Sounds like you two have patched things up?” he questioned, as he crossed a long-creased trouser leg, crossed his arms, and continued watching her as she finished their dinner preparations.
“Yeah. I mean, we haven’t spoken since we talked on Monday, but I think we’re definitely headed in the right direction.” She finished plating dinner, handed him his, grabbed hers and her beer and headed into the adjoining dining room, where they sat down and dug in.
“Speaking of my mother,” she began between bites of pasta, “Thanksgiving’s coming up.” Her eyes drew his, neither looking away. “We’ll be spending the day together, my mother and me, and I was wondering if you’d like to spend it with us. If you don’t have any other plans.”
“Absolutely.” Without any hesitation, there he was. If this didn’t epitomize her boyfriend, nothing did.
She smiled at him, relieved and inordinately pleased.
Chapter 14
“So, what do you and your mother usually do for Thanksgiving?” he asked, curious. Everything about Calleigh intrigued him, from why she only painted her toenails and never her fingernails, her preference for Kanye over Lil Wayne, and why home remodeling and improvement shows captivated her interest like nobody’s business. Her history of how she spent her holidays fascinated him as much as any other aspects of her life. Holiday celebrations revealed a lot about its celebrants, traditions and priorities primary among them.
“Well,” she began as she slathered a piece of bread generously with butter. Good girl.
“As you’ve probably guessed, Lauren isn’t real big on celebrating the holiday in the traditional sense. Or in any sense, really, since the day revolves around extensive caloric intake. We’ve done different things in the past – gone up to Seattle for the weekend, stayed at the Four Seasons, watched the parade and stayed through Sunday. One year, we went down to Palm Springs and played a lot of tennis. We’ve gone to Puerto Vallarta a couple of times as well and soaked up the sun. Sometimes when we’re in town, we get together and make a salad,” she said, as her lips quirked up as though she found this as amusing as he did.
“A salad? On Thanksgiving? Like, for the main event?” He was incredulous. How in the world did any red-blooded American think a salad was appropriate for Thanksgiving?
She nodded. “Ridiculous, I know. Trust me.”
“Sweets, that should be borderline fucking illegal.” Jesus Christ. Her mother really was a piece of work. “You want me to cook?” he offered, hoping she accepted. If her mother was planning on serving him some bullshit tofurkey along with some salad and none of the sides that made the meal outstanding, well, he’d be polite only because she gave birth to Calleigh, but that was about the extent of what Calleigh or her mother could expect of his manners.
“If you want to, that’d be great. We totally cannot trust Lauren to put on a Thanksgiving dinner and you’ve seen what I can do,” she said, gesturing to their dinner plates.
“What are you talking about? This was great tonight,” he said, meaning it. Slight guilt flushed through his veins for having doubted her and her cooking abilities, but he was happy and pleasantly surprised Calleigh’s dinner turned out so well.
She shrugged, wiping her mouth with her napkin and stroking her beer bottle. “This was fairly simple. I’m not sure I have what it takes for an entire Thanksgiving meal. However, I’m happy to be your sous chef, though.”
“Great. Is it okay if you guys come over here? It’ll be easier for me if I cook here and you should probably plan on spending the night that Wednesday night if you don’t have any other plans. I don’t and I should be able to get home at a reasonable time,” he offered.
“That’d be terrific. I’ll feel better with you meeting her in your house. She’s intimidating enough on her own.” Calleigh shuddered.
Pushing his plate to the side, he welcomed her hand in his. “Believe it or not, I can generally get along with parents. Even yours despite the job she’s done on your head and your self-esteem.”
He stroked his fingers over hers, reassuring her, comforting her. Not traditionally affectionate, he craved touching Calleigh, in big ways and little ones. A caress on the back of the hand. A gentle rub of the neck. A raunchier pat on her oh-so-lovely behind. A knead of her frequently tense shoulders. An inside touch of her waist. Touching her pleased him.
“In a weird way, I recognize that her neurosis comes from a place of love where she wants me to be the best I can be. In her mind, that means looking a certain way which can only be achieved by eating a certain way.”
“Or not eating, in reality,” he said.
“Yeah. Not eating, although that clearly wasn’t the case tonight,” she said, indicating her bowl that was now clean of pasta.
“You’re going to need your carbs tonight, babe,” he growled, his intent unmistakable.
“Is that a promise?”
“Oh yeah. We haven’t been together in days. Do you know how much I need to work out?”
“Say the words and I’m there,” she said.
He stood up with her hand in his and walked with her back to his bedroom that he was slowly coming to think of his and Calleigh’s. Theirs. Turning on one of the bedside lights, he looked at her, taking her in and loving everything he saw. The shiny blonde hair that was down tonight, the natural style he loved. Her voluptuous lips that looked like they’d sucked a juicy, red strawberry. Her firm breasts that filled out his palms perfectly. Her hips that cradled him expertly. Her long, athletic, muscular legs that matched him stride for stride and wrapped around his waist as though expertly designed for him.
“You know the drill. Undress,” he commanded, doing the same.
She unbuttoned her white blouse revealing a blue and green lace bra that magnified her eyes and removed her pants, leaving only her bra and thong panties.
He cocked his head and smiled at her.
“Off or on?” she asked.
“Off,” he answered.
They spent the next two hours working each other out.
§ § §
Thanksgiving morning dawned cranky and dark, like a sleeping child unexpectedly roused from an afternoon nap. The rain beat David’s house at an alarming rate, flashing all around, the wind whistling thr
ough the trees, causing the branches to sway like drunken sailors. Calleigh and David sipped their coffee in the living room watching the storm swirl around outside, him in navy sweats and nothing else; her in pink sweat pants and a purple sweatshirt.
“Aren’t you cold?” she asked, her concern for his body temp overriding her admiration for his naked chest.
“Are you cold? You want me to turn up the heat?” he offered, grabbing her foot and rubbing it. God, she loved it when he did this. As talented as he was in bed with his hands, they worked all the kinks out of her feet, her legs, and her back whenever they weren’t otherwise demonstrating his ownership all over her body.
“I’m alright. I thought you might be chilled.”
“Nope. I’m fine. Your mom’s coming over around noon?” he confirmed.
She nodded her head. “Yes. Lauren is nothing if not punctual.”
They showered together and then attacked Thanksgiving dinner and all of its preparations in advance of her mother’s arrival. David had made the dressing the night before and didn’t believe in stuffing his bird – “it’s entirely unnecessary,” – and now they were peeling the potatoes, placing the turkey in the roasting pan, and prepping the sweet potatoes, brussel sprouts, fresh green beans with pancetta, and cranberries. Calleigh’d picked up two pies, the ever traditional pumpkin and a fun-loving buttermilk pie the prior day that were chilling in the refrigerator.
“You’re really good at this, you know that?” she said as he continued to season the breast meat.
“At what? Cooking? I told you: a man’s gotta eat.”
“No, at this. This whole thing. Putting this entire meal together prior to my mother’s arrival.”
“I have many talents, Ms. Stuart. You haven’t even scratched their surface yet.”
“I’d like to scratch something else,” she said lecherously, wiggling her eyebrows before dissolving into fits of giggles.
He wiggled his eyebrows right back at her. “Oh yeah?”
“Oh yeah,” she said indicating his backside.
Turning so that he presented his rear to her, he said, “The things I do for love.”
Bound Hearts Page 17
