Page 59 of Kick the Candle (Knight Games 2)
"I did. Just for fun. My masters is in Art History."
"No kidding?" Now I was dying to know how old she was.
"Seraphina interned at Christie's," Dad chimed in.
Christies? "You're practically a child prodigy," I blurted. Damn, that came out catty, but I couldn't get over how young she looked and how much she'd accomplished.
She straightened her back and raised her chin. "I finished early. Discipline is the key. I've never shied away from hard work."
Was she looking down her nose at me? Blink. Blink. "I'm a nurse."
"Good for you," she sang in a patronizing tone.
Enough chat. This chick rubbed me the wrong way, and I really didn't think it was because she was the cradle my dad was robbing. There was something about her, an arrogance that made my chest tighten. She hadn't even asked about my name. Had my father told her the story behind Grateful or was she too self-centered to care? By the smug look on her face, I was going with self-centered.
"Excuse me. I better check on the potatoes." I stood and moved toward the kitchen.
As I cut through the dining room, I heard my dad brag about my meager achievement of being first in my nursing class. But I didn't graduate early, and I didn't have my masters. Frankly, it was embarrassing, like he was showing off my participation awards to an Olympic medalist. Not to mention, this wasn't a competition. Sure felt like it though.
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.
