Page 49 of Money Shot

SIENNA

November 27th,2014

Dressed in a new black V-neck pleated dress, 2” heels, and a black shawl, I felt as beautiful as Vince said I looked. Vince was dressed in dress jeans, dress boots, and a black button down shirt. Much to my surprise, he allowed me to drive, and we listened to Christmas music the entire way to his mother’s house. I felt for the entire trip that my life was finally not only precisely where I had always wanted it to be, but exactly as I deserved it to be.

The neighborhood wasn’t exactly what I had expected, and as we pulled into the driveway of the two-story brick home, I was immediately surprised at the size, perfect landscape, and southern appeal. The home clearly stood out as being different than all the others surrounding it.

A red brick home with wrap-around porch complete with porch swing, white shuttered windows, and a yard filled with huge trees in a middle class neighborhood wasn’t where I expected Vince’s mother to be living. Considering the fact that Vince’s father was a biker who had died in prison, and Vince was an only child, I expected a little more modest – and much smaller – home.

“This place is huge,” I said as I shut off the engine.

“Pop built this place,” he said. “Bought three lots to build it on so he could have this huge yard.”

“Seriously?” I asked as I admired the home.

He gazed in the direction of the house and nodded his head. “Yep, pretty cool place, huh? He was a biker, but being a construction contractor was his day job. Hell, he wanted a dozen kids and a place where they could always come back to for Sunday dinners. I grew up in this big fucker all alone. Lots of cool places to hide, though.”

“Wow. That’s crazy he built it. Good for him,” I said. “And the yard is huge.”

“Just remember, no cussing. Oh, and you can call me whatever, but she’s going to call me Stephen,” he said.

“Got it,” I said as I reached for the door handle.

“And don’t call Bradley fat,” he said.

“Okay,” I said with a laugh as I got out of the car.

Vince got the pies from the back of the car and we began to walk up the drive. I continued to admire the massive home as we walked up to the sidewalk leading to the front steps. Growing up in such a place would be heaven for a child, especially with the yard as large as it was. As we stepped off the sidewalk and onto the steps, the reality of it all hit me. I had never met a man’s parents, at least not a man I was in a relationship with. I suspected Vince felt the same way, but as far as I was concerned, this was a huge step toward securing our relationship as being one that was solid and secure.

“After you,” Vince said as he opened the door.

I nervously stepped into the home. The very large living room was decorated as I expected a home to be in the south, and although it wasn’t ornate, it was pretty close. Camel back couches, arm chairs with carved wood, and various coffee and end tables were scattered about the room, and very plentiful. There was no doubt the home could easily be used to entertain dozens, but from what Vince said it was never more than him and his mother who occupied the home.

As I inhaled the aroma of the Thanksgiving meal, all of the emotions associated with the holidays I had at home as a child filled me. We rarely had a large crowd, and frequently ate alone, but the holidays were special nonetheless. From time to time my father would invite a less fortunate friend, and I remember times when I had friends from school visit during the holiday season, but the holiday meals were typically only my father and me. Although the holiday dinner table was less than full, the love that filled the dining room was immense.

My father loved to cook, and his recipes for the holiday meals were always traditional. Although we often ate meals which were more customary in his actual home land, Ukraine, he never introduced any of his family recipes into our holiday meals. He was proud of being a U.S. citizen, and proud of adopting the traditions and policies of the country, recipes included. His sweet potatoes were my favorite; he put big marshmallows in with the potatoes, and because it was only him and me eating, I always got plenty of marshmallows with my sweet potatoes.

“Oh my word,” his mother said as she walked out of what I expected was the kitchen.

According to Vince, she was in her early fifties, but she looked to be in her forties. She was petite, dressed in a burgundy dress, had long brunette hair with highlights, and was absolutely beautiful. A white apron was tied around her waist, and contrasted completely with her beautiful dress, but clearly showed how much time and effort she had placed in the preparation of the meal we were about to eat.

As she stood in the doorway and gazed in our direction, she slowly raised her hands to her mouth and pressed the tips of her fingers to her lips.

“Sienna, this is my mother, Anita,” Vincent said. “Ma, this is Sienna.”

She lowered her hands from her face, opened her arms, and curled her fingers toward her palms repeatedly as if she was trying to coerce a small toddler to come see her.

“Go give her a hug,” Vince sighed in the form of a light whisper.

I walked across the living room toward where she was standing, and as I stepped directly in front of her, realized she was softly crying. I felt an odd sense of pride that Vince adding me to his life provided her with such joy, but also felt guilt for some reason. As she wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into her, I realized the guilt was more a feeling of responsibility.

“I love him very much,” I whispered in an effort to comfort her. “And it’s nice to meet you.”

“Where do you want the pies?” Vince asked.

“You know where to put the pies,” she said in a sarcastic tone as she released me. “Now, go play with your brother, Stephen. We have work to do.”

“Follow me,” she said as she turned toward the kitchen.