Read Online Strangers at the Feast by Jennifer Vanderbes - Free Book Online
Authors: Jennifer Vanderbes
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Her long, sleek hair was pulled back with two tortoiseshell combs, accentuating her plump cheeks. She smiled shyly, revealing a dimple.
Ginny laughed nervously. “Yikes, this feels like a debutante ball.” But she studied her parents’ faces, gauging their response.
Well, thought Denise, the girl didn’t look like she’d set the curtains on fire. She didn’t look disturbed, or even malnourished. She looked Indian, sure. But not like an orphan, not like… what was the word Denise once heard? Not like an untouchable .
Laura reached for her hair. “Ma! Like Pocahontas!”
“A different kind of Indian, honey,” Denise said. “That’s your cousin.”
Douglas and Gavin set their crackers on the platter and sat up straight. Eleanor clasped her hands. Then an expression came over Ginny’s face that Denise had never seen: a shimmering tranquility. Her voice, usually loud and domineering, a lecture-hall voice, softened. “I need to do a few more things in the kitchen before I can kick up my feet and relax with you all.” She pet Priya. “You wanna help Mommy?”
Ginny led Priya into the kitchen and they all looked at one another. Denise was speechless. Maybe Ginny adopting a child wasn’t so outlandish. Maybe she could buy a house and raise a daughter. Maybe she didn’t need a husband.
Brian broke the silence: “How did she get here?”
“On an airplane,” Douglas said.
“Is an airplane like a stork?” asked Laura.
“A big stork with a big engine,” Douglas answered, leaning back in the sofa with a look of delight that suddenly irritated Denise.
“I’ll see if Ginny needs help,” she announced.
At the far end of the kitchen, Ginny set a piece of gingerroot in Priya’s hand. “ Gin - ger, ” said Ginny. “That’s also my name.”
The girl’s mouth hung open and Ginny set the root back on the counter.
Denise felt guilty for her earlier misgivings. “I gotta admit, Ginny, when I heard orphan and India and seven years old, I thought trouble. But she’s totally…” She stopped herself from saying normal. “Totally adorable.”
Ginny did not appear as moved by this confession as Denise had hoped, but she smiled graciously. “Thanks.”
Ginny looked around the kitchen, at bowls spilling peeled sweet potatoes and peas, the buttered baking pans. She tied on an old apron, and blew hair from her eyes. “I think this is more food than Priya’s seen her whole life. All they served in the orphanage were small bowls of watery dal.”
“How did you even end up in that place?”
“Research.” Ginny guided Priya onto a stepladder, tucked her purple dress beneath her, and had her sit.
Ginny started mixing what appeared to be stuffing, licking her fingers as she worked.
Denise made her way to the dishwasher. “I’ll see if I can squeeze in some more and then do a load before we eat. It’ll make the cleanup easier later.”
“I forgot you’re the former caterer!”
Ginny had shoved the dishes in at every angle, the cutlery crisscrossed like pick-up sticks. Flecks of food clung to the plates, crusted tomato sauce and peanut butter, determined flecks that would never,even in the face of scalding water, loosen their grip. Denise removed the dishes one by one, sponged them down (ignoring the brown and livery ancient sponge), and rearranged them.
The kitchen was small, with old oak cupboards and rusted brass handles that needed scrubbing. A Sierra Club calendar hung from a nail, open to the month of June. Her electric oven looked like a stage prop in some 1950s play. But she’d lined the windowsill with clay pots of pothos and aloe and gladiolas. The cheery greenhouse look. For all Ginny’s hippie ways, the only thing missing was a nice leafy marijuana plant.
Happy Thanksgiving!
God, it had been years since Denise smoked pot. Growing up in dreary Homestead with three brothers and a mother who spent most nights yelling at her husband to get on The Price Is Right so they could put meat on
Ginny laughed nervously. “Yikes, this feels like a debutante ball.” But she studied her parents’ faces, gauging their response.
Well, thought Denise, the girl didn’t look like she’d set the curtains on fire. She didn’t look disturbed, or even malnourished. She looked Indian, sure. But not like an orphan, not like… what was the word Denise once heard? Not like an untouchable .
Laura reached for her hair. “Ma! Like Pocahontas!”
“A different kind of Indian, honey,” Denise said. “That’s your cousin.”
Douglas and Gavin set their crackers on the platter and sat up straight. Eleanor clasped her hands. Then an expression came over Ginny’s face that Denise had never seen: a shimmering tranquility. Her voice, usually loud and domineering, a lecture-hall voice, softened. “I need to do a few more things in the kitchen before I can kick up my feet and relax with you all.” She pet Priya. “You wanna help Mommy?”
Ginny led Priya into the kitchen and they all looked at one another. Denise was speechless. Maybe Ginny adopting a child wasn’t so outlandish. Maybe she could buy a house and raise a daughter. Maybe she didn’t need a husband.
Brian broke the silence: “How did she get here?”
“On an airplane,” Douglas said.
“Is an airplane like a stork?” asked Laura.
“A big stork with a big engine,” Douglas answered, leaning back in the sofa with a look of delight that suddenly irritated Denise.
“I’ll see if Ginny needs help,” she announced.
At the far end of the kitchen, Ginny set a piece of gingerroot in Priya’s hand. “ Gin - ger, ” said Ginny. “That’s also my name.”
The girl’s mouth hung open and Ginny set the root back on the counter.
Denise felt guilty for her earlier misgivings. “I gotta admit, Ginny, when I heard orphan and India and seven years old, I thought trouble. But she’s totally…” She stopped herself from saying normal. “Totally adorable.”
Ginny did not appear as moved by this confession as Denise had hoped, but she smiled graciously. “Thanks.”
Ginny looked around the kitchen, at bowls spilling peeled sweet potatoes and peas, the buttered baking pans. She tied on an old apron, and blew hair from her eyes. “I think this is more food than Priya’s seen her whole life. All they served in the orphanage were small bowls of watery dal.”
“How did you even end up in that place?”
“Research.” Ginny guided Priya onto a stepladder, tucked her purple dress beneath her, and had her sit.
Ginny started mixing what appeared to be stuffing, licking her fingers as she worked.
Denise made her way to the dishwasher. “I’ll see if I can squeeze in some more and then do a load before we eat. It’ll make the cleanup easier later.”
“I forgot you’re the former caterer!”
Ginny had shoved the dishes in at every angle, the cutlery crisscrossed like pick-up sticks. Flecks of food clung to the plates, crusted tomato sauce and peanut butter, determined flecks that would never,even in the face of scalding water, loosen their grip. Denise removed the dishes one by one, sponged them down (ignoring the brown and livery ancient sponge), and rearranged them.
The kitchen was small, with old oak cupboards and rusted brass handles that needed scrubbing. A Sierra Club calendar hung from a nail, open to the month of June. Her electric oven looked like a stage prop in some 1950s play. But she’d lined the windowsill with clay pots of pothos and aloe and gladiolas. The cheery greenhouse look. For all Ginny’s hippie ways, the only thing missing was a nice leafy marijuana plant.
Happy Thanksgiving!
God, it had been years since Denise smoked pot. Growing up in dreary Homestead with three brothers and a mother who spent most nights yelling at her husband to get on The Price Is Right so they could put meat on
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