“Guilty as charged.” He handed her the box. “Thanks for having me.”
“And my dinner wouldn’t be complete without your deviled eggs. What are we going to do when Henny, Penny, Oprah Henfrey, and all those celebrity chickens of yours get too old to lay eggs?”
“I hate to tell you this but we’re on the third generation of some of those names.”
“I thought they’d lived an awful long time.” She took the box. “Ooh, this is heavy.” She looked inside and pulled out the bottle of wine. “What is this?”
“You know I don’t drink the stuff. It was a gift from when we did that big parade up north.”
“Lucky me! Come on in. Norman’s watching the ball game with the others. The rest of my family went over to the cemetery.” She led him into the living room. “They’re supposed to be back in about fifteen minutes. Then we’ll eat.”
“Sounds good.” The dining room table was set and the buffet was already filled with covered dishes. Card tables filledthe den, and there was one in between the couch and fireplace too. Each one was covered with a fall tablecloth and a playful cardboard-and-tissue-paper turkey as a centerpiece. At each place setting Lilene had gone the extra mile, crafting a special place card and treat as was her tradition, and with over twenty people expected to pile in this house for the holiday that was a big task.
He lifted one of the crafted turkey place cards made out of peanut butter cookies with a candy corn beak and a tail of almond slivers. “Is this edible, Lilene?”
“Yes! Aren’t they adorable? I made one for you to take to Misty too. Peanut butter cookies, chocolate, candy corn… what’s not to love?”
“You never cease to amaze me. Where do you find the time?”
“Oh, it’s fun.” She swatted a dish towel in his direction. “I love making them even if I did have to go back to the store twice for more cookies because Norm kept getting into them.”
“They’re my favorite,” Norman yelled from the other room.
“Everything is his favorite.” She shook her head. “That man. He’s a snacker. Don’t ask him to share his snacks with you. Oh, no. He’s very stingy, but he’s plenty happy to steal mine.”
“You were just playing with those cookies,” Norman shouted in his own defense.
Mike stopped when he saw Vanessa sitting next to the hearth chatting with Lilene’s mother.
He turned to Lilene. “You didn’t tell meshe’dbe here,” he said in a low whisper.
Lilene blanched. “Shh. She’ll hear you. She’s a guest in this house. I’d already invited her before… before all that happened. It’s Thanksgiving. Be nice.”
He tried to hide the aggravation flooding over him.
“Come on.” She dragged him into the living room. “Vanessa, you’ve met Mike, haven’t you?”
She leapt to her feet, her mouth parting slightly in surprise. “Oh? Yes. Almost every day actually since I’ve been here.” She lifted her hand and waved with a smile. “Hi, again.”
“Hello.”
Lilene must have noticed the tone in his voice, because she immediately spun around toward Vanessa. “Vanessa, can you help me with the wine?” She lifted the bottle like a carrot luring a donkey.
“Sure. I’d be happy to.” Vanessa took the bottle of wine and looked at the label. “Goodness gracious. I know this wine. This is an amazing blend. It’s won awards.” She turned the bottle. “It’s the 2014 too. Where did you find this?”
“Mike brought it.”
“It was a gift,” he said. “My hitch has been in their annual parade for over fifty years. They always give me some kind of extra gift to thank us.” He was bragging, something he rarely did. Something he seemed to be inclined to do in front of her.
“Fifty years?” She seemed impressed. “So, your family has been doing the horse thing for a long time.” She stepped closer.
Is she flirting with me?“A very long time.”
Her eyes sparkled, but he wasn’t sure what emotion they held.
She licked her lips, then broke their gaze to look down and focus on the wine. “Well, this is not easy to find.”
The vein in his neck throbbed. He was still mad at her, but she sure had a way of getting him off kilter. Mom was in great spirits when he’d spoken to her this morning, but that didn’t make what Vanessa had done right.
