Chapter 7

Liza

 

 

Taking a minute, I inspected my table. It looked good. Maybe a little on the formal side for just the three of us, but I liked to make a big deal out of the holiday gatherings. I wanted them to be special for Ainsley, and I liked to show my dad how much I cared by going all out.

I could hear the game on in the other room. He could watch the game, but I didn’t want to hear about it. Who did what and how good or bad a play was didn’t interest me right now. These family dinners were our time. No football allowed. I laughed out loud at the thought—no football allowed, right—as if that would ever happen. But, you can’t blame a girl for trying.

Looking out the big kitchen window, I checked on Ainsley. She was keeping Dad’s big golden retriever entertained. Or rather, she was scaring the poor dog to death.

“Ainsley, be nice to Bart. He doesn’t like when you throw that stick,” I said, through the window screen.

“Mom, he’s a dog. He’s supposed to like sticks!” she argued.

Bart hadn’t got that message. He was defective in the retrieving department, preferring lounging on the couch or digging holes in what used to be pretty flower beds all around the backyard. My dad didn’t care. Bart was a companion, not a hunting dog.

I grabbed the hot pads off the counter and opened the oven. The smell of the turkey was amazing. I always loved the way the aroma filled the entire house. I wonder why they didn’t make a roasted turkey scented candle, I mused.

The tender timer button on the turkey was popped up. The turkey was done! I pulled it out and set it on the counter, then popped in the rolls and the other dishes to heat them.

“Dad!” I shouted, hoping he could hear me over the noise from the television. “Turkey’s done!”

I may have heard a response, but I couldn’t be sure. I busied myself setting the rest of the table with copious amounts of food. There was no way that the three of us could eat even a fraction of what I had prepared.

My dad ambled into the kitchen. “Got enough for everyone?” he asked, looking over the dishes I had on the table.

“Yes, Dad. Is anyone planning on coming?” I asked.

He shrugged, “No one said they were, but you never know. Sometimes plans change. There’s a snowstorm up north, so some of the guys may have had their flights canceled. Best be ready in case you get a bunch of hungry football players at the door.”

Nodding, I smiled. It was the same story every year. I had been preparing a huge Thanksgiving feast every year since I was fifteen and old enough to be in the kitchen by myself. Every year, Dad put out an open invitation for any players to come by. Lots of the guys were in school on scholarships, and either didn’t have family to speak of or couldn’t afford the cost to fly home.

I didn’t mind a bit. It beat a Thanksgiving dinner with just me and Dad.

“I’d best get carving that turkey,” he said, grabbing the knives and getting to work.

I handed him the new plate I had bought. “Put it on here.”

“Oh, this is nice,” he said, complimenting my new, festive plate.

Laughing, I rolled my eyes. I knew he had no real preference and would be just as happy putting the turkey on a paper plate.

“Thank you.”

I pulled the rest of the dishes out of the oven and set them on the table.

“This looks great!”

“Ainsley!” I called out the back door. “Ainsley, it’s time to eat. Wash up and come sit down.”

I watched as she came in, with Bart close behind her. The dog was usually afraid of her, but he knew the word eat very well. He had come to learn that Ainsley was his best friend at the dinner table. No matter how many times I had told her not to feed the dog from the table, she did it anyway. It was that damn redheaded stubborn streak.

It only took another five minutes to get situated before we all sat down at the table.

“You sure I can’t put the game on in here?” Dad grumbled.

“No. You can watch the highlights later. Watching in real time isn’t going to change the outcome,” I argued.

He sighed, but he knew better than to argue. I may have been his daughter, but it was the one rule I had.

“This is delicious, Liza. You are an excellent cook.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Papa, how come we can’t talk about football?”

“Ainsley, we talk about football all the time.”

“Can we talk about the team, at least?” Dad asked.

I laughed. “Oh, I know you’re dying to tell me. Spill. What happened?”

He grinned. “Well, nothing happened, yet, but I am hoping for great things. My young QB seems to have grown up a lot. He still has a problem flirting with the ladies, but I can work with that.”

Ignoring that little tidbit of information, I went on, but Ainsley wasn’t prone to do the same.

“What’s flirting?”

I nearly choked on the bite of mashed potatoes I had just put into my mouth. “Nothing, dear.”

My dad chuckled. “Flirting is when people try to be extra nice to someone they think is attractive.”

She squished up her nose. “That sounds dumb.”

“It is. So, don’t ever do it,” I ordered her.

A scoffing sound from my dad had me turning my eyes on him with a glare. He held up his hands in surrender.

“Anyway, we still have some ruffled feathers and I think the guys are giving him a hard time, but I had a talk with him yesterday. I think he’s grown up and isn’t going to let those guys interfere with his drive.”

I nodded my head, not really wanting to talk about how great Milo—my baby daddy—was. I was not inclined to think he was so mature or spectacular. The five minutes I’d had to observe him the other day, him he seemed much like the same cocky guy I remembered from college.

“Ainsley, stop feeding the dog!” I growled.

“Mom, he’s hungry,” she protested.

“No, he’s not. He can eat dog food if he’s hungry.”

“Oh, come on now, Bart doesn’t want plain old dog food when he can have turkey,” Dad pouted, taking Ainsley’s side as usual. “Who would?”

“You guys are going to make that dog fat.”

“He’s already overweight according to the vet,” my dad said with a smile. “What’s a few more pounds?”

“Death,” I shot back.

“Mom!” Ainsley said, in horror. “Don’t say that!”

I rolled my eyes and shoved more food into my mouth.

“I’m stuffed,” Dad proclaimed. “I want to save some room for pie.”

I nodded, knowing what he was really up to.

“Go check the score, Dad. I’ll clean up and get the pies out.”

He grinned and bolted out of his chair, making a beeline for the living room. Ainsley and Bart were on his heels.

I sighed and looked around the kitchen I’d destroyed. Hours of cooking to be consumed in minutes with nothing but a huge mess and indigestion to show for it. As usual, there was more food than we could eat. Some of the dishes hadn’t even been touched. I always bought a new case of Rubbermaid storage containers to use for the leftovers. We would keep some, and the rest would be given to shelters in the area.

It took me less time than I had thought to get things cleaned up. Dad came in to help during commercial breaks.

“I’m going outside for a bit,” I told him. “Enjoy your peace and quiet.”

He smiled. “I love the commotion. You know that.”

“I know you do. I just need to go work off some of that dinner I stuffed into my face,” I said, rubbing my full stomach.

I had worn leggings with a long flowing top today, knowing skinny jeans or anything with an actual waistband could be deadly if buttons started flying.

“Let’s go play, Ainsley,” I said, grabbing her hand and leading her outside.

I left the sliding door open into the backyard. The kitchen could use some fresh air after all that cooking. It smelled great, but it had gotten awful stuffy in there.

It was enjoyable to push Ainsley on the swing that had been in the backyard since I was her age. Bart laid in the shade and lazily watched. I heard the doorbell ring inside the house and knew right away it was one of Dad’s players. Someone missed their flight or decided to take him up on his offer, even if they were nearly two hours late.

“I need to go inside and get out some dinner, Ainsley. Be good and don’t scare Bart with that stick anymore.”

“I thought we were going to have pie?”

“We are. You can come in and get pie, but one of Papa’s players is here, and I suspect he would like some turkey dinner before dessert,” I explained.

“I want chocolate pie. And pumpkin.”

She made me laugh. Definitely the daughter of a football player, she could pack away the food like no other four-year-old little girl I knew of. Lucky for her, she had an excellent metabolism and managed to stay fairly lanky. That part came from me I thought, with a great deal of pride.

Ainsley plopped herself on one of the barstools.

“Which one?” I asked her again, knowing she would change her mind when she saw the selection of pies to choose from.

Once again, I had bought too many. I think I made the quarterly sales for Marie Callender with my pie purchases. I had one of everything. I never knew who liked what and if there were allergies, so I always bought it all. The pies were left in the box. If no one touched them, off to the food bank they went.

Ainsley stared at the pies. “That one,” she pointed to a chocolate pie drizzled with caramel and topped with heavy whip cream and chocolate shavings.

I smiled. “I think I want that one, too. It looks really yummy!”

My dad cleared his throat, and I spun around with a smile to greet our guest.

I nearly choked when I saw Milo standing there. He stared at me for several long seconds before holding up a pie in the same kind of box that was littering the countertop. Marie was going to have a very nice Christmas, I mused.

“I didn’t know what to bring,” he said, sheepishly holding the pie out. “I figured I couldn’t go wrong with a pie.”

I nodded my head but couldn’t quite find the words to respond.

“Oh, you didn’t have to bring anything, you know,” Dad said, taking the pie and setting it on the counter with the rest. “You boys know this is a standing invitation. We always have plenty of food.”

Milo and I were still staring at each other, and I wanted to crawl into a hole or run out the door.

“Mom, you said you were going to get me some pie,” Ainsley whined.

I blinked and quickly spun around, breaking eye contact. My heart was racing, and my hands were shaking as I reached for the pie. I managed to cut a piece and put it on a plate for my daughter. Thank God, she was sitting at the bar. I don’t think I could have carried it to the table without dropping it.

“Are you going to have some pie?” Ainsley asked, looking beyond me.

I knew she was talking to the man who had just entered the kitchen. I felt as if I were standing in the center of the train tracks with two speeding trains heading right for each other on either side of me. Worlds were about to collide, and I had a feeling it was going to be very ugly. There was no way for me to avoid being caught up in the wreckage.