Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
“You thought it was a good idea,” she continues, eyes narrowed behind her red-framed glasses, “to invite Josiah and his new girlfriend to Thanksgiving dinner.”
“Mama, it’ll be fine.” I turn off the water and put the sweet potatoes in a bowl on the counter. “These are clean.”
“Peel ’em. What’s her name again?”
“Vashti.”
She knows this. She’s asked three times, and my mother could remind elephants where they left things. Avoiding her sharp gaze, I start peeling the potatoes.
“I told them dinner was at four. That still okay?” I ask.
“Mmmmhhh. She’s a cook, you say?”
“A world-class chef, yes.” I suppress a smile because I already know where this is going.
“But she knows I’m cooking this dinner, right?” Mama takes a sip of her eggnog. She doesn’t wait for Christmas. “She can bring a few sides, but—”
“She did ask if she could bring something, of course, and I told her we’d love that, but that you’re cooking the—”
“The turkey, the greens, the yams and sweet potato casserole, the neck bones.”
“I’m sure we’re safe on the neck bones.”
“The string beans, the fried chicken, the—”
“Mama, yes. She’s bringing a few sides that you are not cooking. It’ll be fine.”
“Are you fine?”
“What do you mean?”
Mama leans one rounded hip against the counter and pushes her glasses up to the top of her head. “Girl, don’t play with me. I raised you. I know you. How you feel about Josiah dating this woman?”
“Ma—”
“Don’t ‘Ma’ me.” She nods to the stool at the counter. “Sit.”
“We have people coming tomorrow, and so much to do before—”
“I got this. Why you think I flew in early? Now, sit yourself down and talk to me.”
I draw in a sharp breath and release it slowly before sitting. I look at her expectantly, brows lifted.
“Why you looking at me?” she says. “I already asked you a question. How do you feel about Josiah dating again?”
“I’m fine with it.” I shrug and look down to the counter, tracing my finger over the granite surface. “She’s been great for Grits. The kids love her. Josiah…”
I search for the right words. Does he love her?
“I can tell Josiah cares about her a lot,” I finish. “Things seem to be progressing, so I wish them well.”
“Progressing? Like you think he might propose or something?”
At the word “propose,” I can’t help but think about how Josiah asked me to marry him. A rare, impulsive act when both of us least expected it.
“Um, no. At least I don’t think so.” I frown, because what do I know? “I just…I know they’re sleeping together.”
I didn’t plan to say that, to tell her that, but Mama has a way of getting things out of me I never intend to share. I got away with nothing growing up.
Mama takes the stool beside me. “And you saying that don’t bother you…none.”
“We’ve been divorced almost two years. It was bound to happen. Besides, I’m dating too.”
“Who?” Mama lifts one brow.
“A guy named Mark. I mean, we’re not serious or exclusive, but we’ve been out a few times. I like him. He’s good company.”
“So you’re both moving on.”
“Do you think I could make the stuffing?”
Mama almost spits out her eggnog, whether it’s at the abrupt change of subject or at the idea of me cooking the stuffing, I’m not sure. “You?”
“Yeah, me.” I force a light laugh and go back to peeling sweet potatoes, training my eyes on my fingers. “I wanted to try Byrd’s recipe.”
The seconds tick by in silence, and I pause the peeling to look at my mother. Her small smile crooks at the corner.
“I miss that crazy girl,” she says softly. “We used to throw down for the holidays.”
Byrd was one of the few people my mother would share a kitchen with. Their scandalous stories about the good ol’ days, raucous laughter, and undeniable love for their food and their family color so many of my holiday memories.
“Me too.” I squeeze her hand and offer a small smile. “I found one of her cookbooks when we cleaned out her house. All the recipes are in her handwriting. I’ve been trying a few of them.”
Using Byrd’s recipes somehow makes me feel more connected to her.
I shrug and go back to the potatoes. “We all know I’m not a great cook, but I wanted to try her stuffing this year. If it sucks, you can—”
“It won’t. We’ll make sure it’s perfect.” She winks. “Your fast tail should have listened when I was trying to teach you to cook in high school.”
It’s an ongoing joke that I showed no interest in cooking when I was young, but ended up owning a restaurant.
“Lesson learned.” I chuckle. “Guess I’m making up for lost time.”
“Better late than never.”
“Speaking of late.” I glance at my watch. “Kassim’s therapy session should have finished awhile ago. I’ll text Josiah to make sure everything’s okay.”