“Any idea if Max has a pie pan?” Marilyn Fournier asks me from across the island counter of Max’s kitchen.
I look up from the green bean casserole I’m putting together, the last item on the list of dishes I’m making for Thanksgiving. I nod toward the stacked set of cabinets beside his refrigerator. “Try in there.”
She turns and walks two steps to the cabinets, opens up the top set and hits pay dirt. “Hot damn,” she says as she reaches inside. “He actually has a pie dish.”
I laugh and return to my task, sprinkling french-fried onions on the top of my casserole.
Max’s mother is nothing like I thought she’d be. When he told me she was a public speaking coach, I just assumed that meant she would be professionally sedate. Instead, she’s an absolute firecracker, and while I haven’t met his father because he’s at a medical conference, I totally see he gets his humor from his mom.
Marilyn’s just a tad shorter than I am, with golden blond hair that’s worn a few inches above her shoulders in big barrel curls. Her face is so youthful, I can’t believe she has a twenty-seven-year-old son, and about the only thing that gives her away as a mom is that she does wear mom jeans that sit high on her slim waist.
I only met her yesterday but that was not the first time we’d talked. Max had put me on the phone with her the night he called to invite his parents for Thanksgiving, and I was at an utter loss as to what to say. Turns out, Marilyn was chatty enough for the both of us and she was very excited for the opportunity to come see her son. Since that first talk, she’s continued to text me, including several times this week so we could iron out the Thanksgiving meal.
Marilyn is American so she’s all on board with the traditional turkey and side dishes, but she’s also making some classic French-Canadian dishes for Max and his brother Lucas, who should be arriving very soon from the airport. Max left to go pick him up about half an hour ago and he’s beyond excited. He’s super close to Lucas, and given that he’s just a short plane ride from New Jersey, Lucas also jumped on the chance to come to Raleigh to see his mom and brother.
I am beyond excited as well, to get to know his family better. I’m not quite sure the extent of what Max has told them about me but they’ll figure it out soon enough.
Glancing into the den that bleeds right into the open-air kitchen, I see the kids are still firmly rooted to the couches, watching The Incredibles. They’ve been angels today and I can’t decide if it’s because they’re in Max’s house for the first time or if they have sensed something’s changed between me and Max or even that they’re a little shy because of Marilyn being here, although she’s been quite engaging with them. Still, she’s an older authority figure and maybe that’s it.
“I’m going to make a tourtière for Max and Lucas,” Marilyn says. “It’s one of their favorite dishes.”
“What is it?” I ask companionably as I pull a piece of Saran Wrap off and cover the casserole. It won’t go into the oven for a few hours yet, once the turkey’s done.
“It’s a meat pie with ground beef and pork, sage, thyme, garlic, cloves. I’ll give you the recipe if you want and you can make it for Max.”
She smiles at me as she starts pulling items from the refrigerator. Marilyn arrived last night, and first thing she did this morning was hit the grocery store so she could make her dishes, which include obviously the tourtière, but also sucre à la crème, a sweet, creamy treat the consistency of fudge, and pouding chômeur, which is a vanilla cake with maple syrup sauce.
Because it was me and Marilyn doing the cooking and because I had to work yesterday, I went with store-bought pie, even though that brings me a little shame. Still, her homemade desserts will more than make up for it, and we’ll just have to suffer with Mrs. Smith’s pumpkin pie.
“So how’s the painting going?” Marilyn says as she moves to Max’s spice cabinet. I wet a washcloth and start to wipe down the counters. “Your work is just stunning.”
One of the first things that happened after Max introduced me to his mother was that she raved over the painting Max had bought and shipped to her. She went on for over thirty minutes, which completely embarrassed me. Max got a total kick out of it though.
“It’s going well,” I say, not willing to admit it’s going so much better than I’d expected. I’m still having a hard time accepting that my talent is really worth money. “I’m hoping maybe I can cut back my hours at the nursing home since the money from my art is so much more than I expected. Certainly better than what I made at the gas station.”
Marilyn chuckles and shakes her head. “I still can’t get over that story about how you met. You know Max called me after he saw you the second time at Sweetbrier and told me how he got your job back for you at the convenience store?”
“He did?” I ask with surprise.
She nods and gives me a sage look. “That boy knew from the start you were the one, Jules.”
My heart swells, contracts, and then swells larger with this knowledge, remaining full and light with happiness. “Took me a bit longer to give in to it,” I admit candidly. “Your son is so…overwhelmingly confident. I’m still convinced he’s crazy to be attaching himself to me.”
“Why would you say such a thing?” she asks, her head tilted to the side and a jar of cloves in her hand.
My eyes flick to the kids and then back to her. “I’m not an easy person to be with.”
“Max isn’t easy either,” his mom says, and I blink at her in surprise. “He has a grueling work schedule and is gone fifty percent of the time. That has to suck in a relationship.”
“But it doesn’t,” I tell her quickly. “I mean…I accept that about him. We work with it.”
She nods wisely. “Just as he accepts those kids come with you. And all the trials and tribulations that come with that.”
Huh.
Is it that simple?
Do we just accept all those things about our lives, be thankful that there’s more good than bad, and work with what we’ve got?
I think that’s what she’s saying.
“I love your son,” I tell her, my eyes once again sliding over to the kids, who are still engrossed in the TV.
She smiles, her eyes warm and soft. “I know. And let me tell you something about Max. He’s the type that loves deeply. He’ll not only give you every bit of his heart, but he’ll give you his soul.”
Oh, wow.
Marilyn pauses, and while the smile remains as warm as ever, I see a bluntness filter into her eyes. “He deserves to have that back.”
A lump forms in my throat and I nod in agreement. Max absolutely deserves that in return from me, and with all my heart, that’s my intention. I just hope I’m good enough for a man such as him. I hope that as strong as Max thinks I am, I can prove to be exactly what he thinks.
Before I can offer reassurances or at the least a wan smile of agreement, I hear the front door open and a man’s voice yell out, “Marilyn Fournier, your favorite son has arrived!”
That is not Max’s voice, although there’s the same understated accent that Max has. I’m going out on a limb and say it’s his brother Lucas.
My guess is proven correct when Max walks into the kitchen, and a man that could pass as his twin walks in behind. Lucas Fournier is almost the exact spitting image of Max, except he wears his wavy hair much longer. But past that, their facial features are almost identical, as well as their body size and height.
Unreal.
Lucas locks eyes on his mother, who puts the spices on the counter and rounds it to greet him. He opens his arms and scoops her up from the waist and spins her around until she cries out, “Stop it, Lucas. I’ll get sick.”
Max comes to stand beside me, his hands going to my shoulders and his lips to the back of my head briefly.
When Lucas sets his mother down, he turns immediately to me and grins. “And this must be the angel that is rocking my brother’s world?”
“Hi, Lucas,” I say as I step around the counter and start to reach my hand out for him to shake.
But he’s having none of that, also grabbing me around the waist and spinning me like he did his mother. My hands grab on to his shoulders and I hang on for dear life until he puts me down and gives me a smack of a kiss on my cheek. “And you can call me Luc. Only my mom really calls me Lucas, but I will answer to both.”
He steps back, runs his eyes up and down me—not lewdly but more in an analytical way—and then he turns to Max. “I approve, bro. Totally approve.”
“I’m so glad,” Max says dryly and then points into the den. I look over and notice the kids are not watching TV but are instead turned around, all three staring at Luc with their mouths hanging open.
“That’s Annabelle, Levy, and Rocco, in order,” Max says to introduce my brood to his brother.
Luc takes one look at them, then the TV screen, and says, “Dudes…The Incredibles. I love that movie.”
He walks into the living room and plants himself on the couch right in between Levy and Annabelle. The kids only take a moment to accept his presence then they turn and resume watching TV again.
All but Annabelle. Her gaze slides back to Luc and she says, “You look just like Max.”
Lucas winks at Annabelle. “Not true, princess. I’m way better looking than he is.”
“I don’t think so,” she says solemnly.
Luc grins at her and then says, “I’m way more fun though.”
Annabelle glances at Max, then back to Luc, trying to ascertain if this is true. She can certainly tell from a glance that Max is absolutely better looking than Luc.
Hands down, in my opinion.
She’s not so sold on the fun aspect yet.
“What can I do to help?” Max asks me and his mom.
“I think we’re all good,” I say as I push past him, giving him a tiny pat on his stomach as I do. I open the oven door and peel back the foil on the turkey to check it out.
When I stand back up, Max is leaning his hip against the counter and his arms are crossed over his chest, and he’s blatantly staring at me.
I close the oven door and ask him in an affronted voice, “Were you just staring at my butt?”
“Yup,” he says with no remorse.
His mother snickers.
“And it’s a damn fine butt too,” he adds.
I roll my eyes at him and point to the fridge. “Get a beer for yourself and your brother and go away. You’re only in our way.”
Max grins at me, but rather than do as I command he merely pulls out the barstool next to him and plops down. He crosses his forearms on the counter and leers at me. “I’d rather watch you.”
“Pervert,” I mutter under my breath.
“Is your friend Hawke still coming?” Marilyn asks Max.
He glances at his watch and says, “I think so. He told me when I talked to him last night that he’d probably make it.”
“How’s he doing?” I ask as I pull a pot out from a cabinet beside the oven before setting it on the stove burner and filling it with water from the totally awesome pot filler Max has built into the wall. It’s time to get the potatoes going.
“He tries to act like everything’s okay but I know it’s not,” Max says, and I can hear the worry in his voice for his friend.
“What happened?” Marilyn asks, curious.
“His girlfriend broke up with him last week,” Max supplies, but doesn’t elaborate. While I got full details, I think that’s only because I’m Max’s girlfriend, and I believe there’s some rule that you share shit like that or something. But moms probably don’t need the minute details.
“Oh, that’s so sad,” Marilyn says. “Holidays are a tough time to be alone.”
Wiser words.
I wonder what my dad’s doing. He totally backed out of Thanksgiving dinner, telling me by phone a few nights ago that the load he’d expected to be driving east from the West Coast got delayed and he wouldn’t be able to make it. But he’s going to try to come in sometime before Christmas.
I wish I could say I was angry he’s not coming but I’m not. We’ve never been close, and because he was away so much of my time growing up, we just sort of have this very casual relationship. If I see him, great. If I don’t, that’s fine too. He checks in with me a few times a month, lately a little more frequently since Melody died. He took it really hard, I think perhaps out of regret for not having a better relationship with his daughters and then his grandchildren. But as Melody told me once when he would miss yet another holiday or birthday with us, “You can’t really miss what you never had.”
So true.
Now, Max, on the other hand?
I’ve only had him for just about two months. I’ve known my father infinitely longer than Max, and yet I think if Max walked out of my life, I’d never get over that loss. That’s how deep my feelings are where he’s concerned.
So sit on that little barstool, Max, and stare at me all you want. You can even think you’re being cute and annoying me in that adorable boyfriend kind of way.
Only I know the full truth, that I like having you close by because that’s when I’m happiest, so sit on that stool all day long, Max.
I like it.