Page 55 of Kick the Candle (Knight Games 2)
I repeated the mantra, "I will not be jealous of my father's girlfriend. I will not be jealous of my father's girlfriend."
A minute later, Dad swung through the door and joined me in the kitchen. "Isn't she great?"
I let my breath out all at once, smiled, and lied. "Yeah! Oh, she is charming, Dad." I bobbed my head.
"You don't like her?"
"Of course I do," I said in a pinched voice.
He looked at me skeptically. I changed the subject.
"Everything's done. Let's bring it out." Four o'clock and I had a fully cooked, golden brown turkey with all of the fixings, which I had prepared myself. Take that, Seraphina.
Dad carried everything out while I whipped the potatoes. By the time I emerged with a pretty china bowl heaping with spuds, the table looked sponsored by Norman Rockwell.
"I for one am thankful to have a daughter who can cook. Thank you, Grateful. Everything looks perfect."
"You're welcome, Dad."
He stood, knife poised over the crispy golden skin, and smiled at Seraphina and then at me. Not so bad. Chances were this May/November romance of theirs wouldn't last anyway. This was a beautiful moment. I decided to accept it for what it was.
The knife sliced the breast portion, a curl of steam rising gently toward the chandelier. Perfect.
Then, Seraphina opened her mouth.
"What is that?" Her long, manicured finger pointed at my masterpiece. Near the neck cavity there was a tiny piece of paper poking out from under the flap of skin. Dad poked it with his fork, then gave it a good pull. A white bag flopped out onto the tablecloth.
Seraphina giggled. "The giblets. You forgot to take them out." She pressed three fingers over her lips and looked at me like I'd made a major faux pas.
Dad joined in the laughter, poking the neck gently with his knife. "Eh, your mom used to do the same thing. Meat will taste fine."
"My apologies, Grateful. This is my fault. I should have insisted I help you in the kitchen," Seraphina said, as if I was twelve and she'd overestimated my abilities.
I decided right then that I hated her. Sorry Dad. She had to go. I started filling my plate. She passed me her stuffing casserole.
"Allergic," I said, casting aside the dish.
She frowned and locked eyes with me. Game on.
sgiving
I arrived at Dad's brownstone in the city around a quarter to one, having already put in a half shift at the hospital. Dad wanted a traditional Thanksgiving, so I'd changed out of my scrubs and into a form fitting chocolate brown sweater with an ankle length skirt and tall boots. Since I'd promised to help him cook, I'd gathered my honey blonde waves into a messy bun.
Dad came to the door in a suit and tie. Geesh. He was really taking this seriously. Seemed like a lot of fuss for just the two of us. I returned his hug.
"You look great," he said, kissing me on my forehead.
"Well, I have good news."
He pulled back, raising his eyebrows. "Do tell."
"I have the money for the house. I'm going in for the loan as soon as possible."
He smiled stiffly. I expected him to argue that I shouldn't live there or ask me how I'd gotten the money. Instead, he seemed distracted. He shifted from foot to foot in front of his traditionally decorated living room. Since I'd moved out, my dad's house always looked "staged", as if he could put a "For Sale" sign out front without so much as dusting. But then as the owner of one of the few historical buildings in the city, he was often asked to show the place for newspaper and magazine features. He took the privilege seriously. Usually, though, there was some hint of the man behind the decor. I instinctively looked toward the decorative cabinet on the far wall, the source of what I considered to be the house's dirty secret. The doors were closed. The TV wasn't on.
"Aren't you going to watch the game?" I couldn't remember a time he hadn't had the cabinet open for football on Thanksgiving.
He shrugged. I glanced across the foyer into the dining room. Flowers. My father had purchased centerpieces. "What the hell is going on, Dad? Are you going to tell me you have cancer? I don't think I can take a cancer diagnosis right now."
