Five
Thanksgiving
“ Come on, just a taste,” Michael pleaded.
I was standing between my husband and Juana, who was holding a large baking pan containing a succulent, golden turkey.
“It’s not fully cooked yet, Mr. Adams,” Juana said.
“Please?” he persisted.
“You heard the woman, it’s not cooked. You’ll get sick,” I warned.
He wasn’t convinced, however. “It certainly looks cooked.”
“See?” Juana pointed at the thermometer stuck in the bird’s chest. “It hasn’t popped out yet.”
A slight frown creased Michael’s brow as he looked at me. “I remember someone pleading for something a couple of months ago and I gave in,” he said, referring to the park incident.
“That was then and this is now,” I retorted playfully. “Besides, I didn’t get what I wanted, did I?”
Michael pouted and let the matter drop . Nothing had come from the sexy park incident last September. The teenage boys had seen nothing. The matter was laid to rest and I never asked anything risky of my husband again.
“Dinner will be served shortly, Mr. Adams,” Juana said consolingly.
“Sure thing,” he said, finally giving up and leaving the kitchen.
Mar ia was at the sink peeling and chopping potatoes while Juana continued to baste the turkey. A peppy tune was coming out of the surround sound system, and the autumn sunshine was pouring in from the many glass walls. It was a good day.
I didn’t tell Michael th at I had invited Lance for today’s feast, nor did I tell him about the date I enjoyed with his brother at the Smithsonian the week before. Lance had initially refused my Thanksgiving invitation, but after much persuasion, he finally agreed.
“ I’m going out for a walk,” Michael said, poking his head through the kitchen’s entrance as he put on his jacket.
“D on’t be too long. The guests should be here shortly,” I said.
He nodded and walked out the front door.
“Mrs. Adams?” Maria called from the sink.
“Yes ?”
“Which of the table linens shall I use to set the table?”
“Good question. I wonder if Michael kept the set my grandmother gave me.”
Maria gave me a sly look. “Maybe it’s in the trunk upstairs.”
There was something contrived about the way Maria had mentioned the trunk. Juana’s reprimanding look confirmed that she had indeed spoken out of turn.
“What trunk?” I demanded.
“Maria doesn’t know what she’s talking about, Mrs. Adams,” Juana replied, visibly flustered. “It’s just an old trunk Mr. Adams keeps in the attic with some odds and ends. I’m sure your grandmother’s linens would not be in there.”
“ Oh, I’ll go and have a look anyway.”
Juana took a step forward as if to bar my way. “No!” At the sight of my surprised expression, she quickly added, “It won’t be in there. I’ll check the top shelf in the pantry, instead.”
“No, I’ll check the trunk. Maria, please take me to it,” I said.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Maria’s satisfied expression.
Juana pursed her lips. “ You have so many lovely linens and your guests will be here soon,” she persisted.
Now I had to see what was inside that trunk. I grabbed Maria’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.”
Juana moved as though she would accompany us and I held up my hand in protest. “No, Juana, you stay.”
Juana gave Maria a warning look before we left the kitchen. I walked beside Maria in silence until we reached the attic. There were several boxes and old furniture strewn about the large space.
“Where is it ?” I asked.
Maria pointed towards a large window. I walked over and found a brown leather trunk hidden behind a partial wall. It reminded me of a set of classic Louis Vuitton ocean voyage trunks that I had once spotted in a vintage shop several years ago. Only this one was custom-made to look old when in fact it was new. Even the brass trim and corners were still
Thanksgiving
“ Come on, just a taste,” Michael pleaded.
I was standing between my husband and Juana, who was holding a large baking pan containing a succulent, golden turkey.
“It’s not fully cooked yet, Mr. Adams,” Juana said.
“Please?” he persisted.
“You heard the woman, it’s not cooked. You’ll get sick,” I warned.
He wasn’t convinced, however. “It certainly looks cooked.”
“See?” Juana pointed at the thermometer stuck in the bird’s chest. “It hasn’t popped out yet.”
A slight frown creased Michael’s brow as he looked at me. “I remember someone pleading for something a couple of months ago and I gave in,” he said, referring to the park incident.
“That was then and this is now,” I retorted playfully. “Besides, I didn’t get what I wanted, did I?”
Michael pouted and let the matter drop . Nothing had come from the sexy park incident last September. The teenage boys had seen nothing. The matter was laid to rest and I never asked anything risky of my husband again.
“Dinner will be served shortly, Mr. Adams,” Juana said consolingly.
“Sure thing,” he said, finally giving up and leaving the kitchen.
Mar ia was at the sink peeling and chopping potatoes while Juana continued to baste the turkey. A peppy tune was coming out of the surround sound system, and the autumn sunshine was pouring in from the many glass walls. It was a good day.
I didn’t tell Michael th at I had invited Lance for today’s feast, nor did I tell him about the date I enjoyed with his brother at the Smithsonian the week before. Lance had initially refused my Thanksgiving invitation, but after much persuasion, he finally agreed.
“ I’m going out for a walk,” Michael said, poking his head through the kitchen’s entrance as he put on his jacket.
“D on’t be too long. The guests should be here shortly,” I said.
He nodded and walked out the front door.
“Mrs. Adams?” Maria called from the sink.
“Yes ?”
“Which of the table linens shall I use to set the table?”
“Good question. I wonder if Michael kept the set my grandmother gave me.”
Maria gave me a sly look. “Maybe it’s in the trunk upstairs.”
There was something contrived about the way Maria had mentioned the trunk. Juana’s reprimanding look confirmed that she had indeed spoken out of turn.
“What trunk?” I demanded.
“Maria doesn’t know what she’s talking about, Mrs. Adams,” Juana replied, visibly flustered. “It’s just an old trunk Mr. Adams keeps in the attic with some odds and ends. I’m sure your grandmother’s linens would not be in there.”
“ Oh, I’ll go and have a look anyway.”
Juana took a step forward as if to bar my way. “No!” At the sight of my surprised expression, she quickly added, “It won’t be in there. I’ll check the top shelf in the pantry, instead.”
“No, I’ll check the trunk. Maria, please take me to it,” I said.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Maria’s satisfied expression.
Juana pursed her lips. “ You have so many lovely linens and your guests will be here soon,” she persisted.
Now I had to see what was inside that trunk. I grabbed Maria’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.”
Juana moved as though she would accompany us and I held up my hand in protest. “No, Juana, you stay.”
Juana gave Maria a warning look before we left the kitchen. I walked beside Maria in silence until we reached the attic. There were several boxes and old furniture strewn about the large space.
“Where is it ?” I asked.
Maria pointed towards a large window. I walked over and found a brown leather trunk hidden behind a partial wall. It reminded me of a set of classic Louis Vuitton ocean voyage trunks that I had once spotted in a vintage shop several years ago. Only this one was custom-made to look old when in fact it was new. Even the brass trim and corners were still
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