Not Quite Forever
Page 73

She forced her gaze outside the plane.
“A bed in a plane is hard to resist.”
Mary wanted to think her friend and her baby daddy were actually sleeping, but who knew? “I’m sure you’d know all about that.”
When she looked, she found a crooked smile on Glen’s clean-shaven jaw. “Jealous, counselor?”
“I most certainly am not!” She managed to push her chin in the air.
Glen laughed. “A therapy couch is more entertaining than a bed on an airplane?”
“I didn’t say that.” Didn’t mean that. Instead of defending her answer, she diverted his attention. “Shouldn’t you be flying the plane?”
“Autopilot . . . copilot.” He glanced out the window. “The weather is perfect.”
“Isn’t that like driving a car with your knee? It works but it isn’t safe?”
He laughed. “Not quite the same.”
She refused to smile.
“I called you.”
He had and damn it, she wished he hadn’t reminded her.
“I appreciate your quick blow off. We do live far away,” Mary said.
His brows drew together, eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe I blew you off.”
That wasn’t how she remembered it. “It’s OK, Glen. I understand.”
The space between his chair and hers was separated by a fixed table, a table he only had to lean over to demonstrate how small it was. “You think too much.”
He was too far into her personal space for comfort. “You don’t know me well enough to know that.”
His breath was minty, like he had some kind of candy in his pocket, or maybe gum . . . Glen moved his gaze from one of her eyes to the other. “I’m going back to fly the plane,” he said. “. . . make sure you arrive in Connecticut in one piece.”
“Way to make your passengers feel safe.”
He looked at her lips, then looked away. “I try.”
The prickles of awareness rolled over her skin for another hundred miles before she shook them off and closed her eyes. Then all she could see was the depths of a certain pilot’s eyes.
Friends like the Fairchilds were better than family. At least Dakota’s and Walt’s.
“I’ve never cooked a turkey in my life,” Dakota said as she and Mary stood in the kitchen early in the morning on Thanksgiving Day.
“Aunt Bea!” Monica said as she pulled a giant turkey from the refrigerator and set it on the granite counter.
Dakota wrapped the apron Monica made for her around her waist. It had a picture of a baby over her belly wearing pilgrim garb. Mary donned a white doily thing that looked like part of a French waitress fantasy for men. Monica, bless her little ol’ heart, wore an apron that stated I’m a nurse not a cook . . . complainers will be shot. There was a picture of a syringe with green liquid inside.
This Thanksgiving would either be epic or a complete failure.
“You have an Aunt Bea?”
“No. My sister married into Aunt Bea. The woman has serious skills in the kitchen. Most times when she brings me into the kitchen she offers wine and suggests I watch and learn.”
Mary groaned. “We’re screwed.”
“It’s a turkey! And with Aunt Bea’s instructions it can’t go wrong.”
Dakota flat-out laughed. “We’re screwed.”
Monica shook her head. “Have faith, ladies. Mary,” she instructed, “start shredding the bread, Dakota, cook up the sausage, and I’ll get this bird ready.”
While Monica pulled crap from inside the bird, Dakota cooked a good pound of sausage.
“Who is this Aunt Bea and how is she going to help us?”
Monica shoved the turkey under the flow of water in the sink as she explained. “Aunt Bea is Beatrice Morrison, sister of Gaylord Morrison. That would be Jack’s dad . . . Jack is Jessie, my sister’s, husband.”
Dakota was certain something inside her brain short-circuited.
Monica paused and tried again. “My sister’s aunt through marriage.”
Dakota met Mary’s gaze. They nodded. “Aunt Bea is the cook in the family?”
“She’s amazing . . . makes it look easy.” Monica patted down the turkey and started rubbing spices over the outside. “Thanksgiving always meant burnt or undercooked turkey in my childhood home.”
Mary moved from shredding bread to chopping celery. “I had a slew of foster homes growing up. Depending on the ethnicity, Thanksgiving changed every couple of years.”
Monica paused, looked over her shoulder. “Really?”
Dakota had heard parts of Mary’s story over the years and knew what was coming. “Yep. There was the Von Goosens, I don’t remember much of them. Thanksgiving wasn’t a part of their culture, I know that. Then there were the Beckers, they tried the whole turkey thing but spent most of the time drinking and we would end up with grilled cheese.” Mary sighed, moved on to the onions. “The Mendez family, they celebrated with traditional Mexican flair.”
As much as Mary tried to hide her childhood pain, Dakota saw through it.
“Suddenly my mother and all her posse of boyfriends feel much more stable,” Monica said.
Mary shrugged. “Friends are often more important than family. I’m not sure if my real parents were just kids, dead, or not willing to take on another liability.” She looked at the both of them and offered a smile. “Stop looking at me like that. We all have a past.”