Rachel awoke with a start Thanksgiving morning with the sick realization that in the time it took to make a gigantic faux pas with Flynn, she hadn’t heard a word from Dad since sending him that e-mail. Was he coming?
She tried to call him, but there was no answer at either his penthouse apartment or his cell.
Dagne was the first to arrive with her so-called famous Brussels sprout and cauliflower casserole and found Rachel frantically picking up the clutter in the living room when she came in. But Dagne walked straight through to the living room and into the kitchen without a single word.
As it was unlike Dagne to do anything without speaking, Rachel followed her.
Dagne was standing in front of the fridge, a beer in hand.
“Hey,” Rachel said.
“Hey.” She took a big long swig of her beer, then put it down on the breakfast bar with a huge bang.
“What’s the matter?”
“Glenn.”
“What—did something happen? Is he bugging you?”
Dagne rolled her eyes, swiped up the beer, and took another long swig of it before answering, “Hardly.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Remember that date we had? You know, the night we did the spell? I thought it went great. I met him at Fratangelo’s, we had a couple of drinks, we went back to my place . . . and I haven’t heard from him since. Not a peep.”
“But that was only two or three days ago,” Rachel reminded her.
“It was four, thank you. I think he dumped me. And don’t try and talk me out of it. That asshole dumped me, I can feel it.”
“But what about the spell?” Rachel tried, in spite of having decided yesterday that it was, at least in her case, a bunch of hocus-pocus crap.
“I don’t know,” Dagne said, staring thoughtfully at the peeling wallpaper above the window. “I just have this really funny feeling that something isn’t right . . . Where’s Flynn? Is he coming?”
Rachel had not told Dagne about her brush with stupidity yet, and quickly turned her attention to the potatoes on the stove. “Supposed to,” she muttered.
“Great. At least one of us is going to have a good time. I can’t wait to—”
“Hel-lo-oh!”
Dagne looked at Rachel. “Chantal,” Rachel said.
Chantal and Tiffinnae had come along with their five children in tow. Rachel never did get which child belonged to which woman, but after a lot of standing around in the living room, they began to disappear, one by one, out the front door. Neither Chantal nor Tiffinnae seemed to notice, as they were too caught up walking around and admiring Rachel’s things while Rachel pulled their very large and heavy cooler into the kitchen.
“Mind if we go upstairs?” Chantal shouted from the top stair.
Dagne opened the cooler, started sorting through. “Oooh, pumpkin pies. And look at this, a green bean casserole,” she said, her eyes getting wider. “Where’s the turkey? Who’s got the turkey?”
Someone was knocking at the door. Flynn. Please let it be Flynn. “I do. It’s in the oven,” Rachel said, tripping over Dagne in her haste to get to the front door. Nervously, she threw it open with a huge smile . . . but no one was there.
There was, however, the distinct sound of children giggling around the side of the house.
Rachel closed the door, returned to the kitchen to check the turkey while Dagne tried to fit all the food Chantal and Tiffinnae had brought into the fridge. Another knock at the door, and Rachel told Dagne to ignore it. “The kids,” she said.
But when Chantal and Tiffinnae finally came downstairs again, she heard Tiffinnae say, “Well, come on in, Jason. Was you just going to stand out there and wait for someone to figure out you was here?”
Rachel instantly came out of the kitchen. “Jason, I’m so sorry—I thought it was the kids again.”
“Whose kids?” Chantal instantly demanded with a dark and defensive frown.
“Come in, Jason,” Rachel said, taking his hand and ignoring Chantal.
She led him to the couch; he sat cautiously on the edge. “Was I supposed to bring something? I didn’t bring anything.”
“That’s all right, there’s plenty,” Rachel said over Chantal’s snort of disapproval. “Just come in and make yourself at home.”
“Well, I certainly didn’t come empty-handed,” an effeminate male voice sniffed. Mr. Gregory had arrived.
“Look what Mr. Gregory brought!” Chantal said, holding up a box with several bottles of wine. “Mmmmmm, we gonna have us a fine time,” she informed Tiffinnae.
“Clara was rather fond of her wine,” Mr. Gregory said. “But I have no use for it. By the bye, I was viciously attacked with small mud pellets on my way in,” he added as he shrugged out of his coat and handed it to Dagne without so much as a glance.
Chantal marched to the door and flung it open, stuck her head out the screen. “RAY. SHON. DRA!” she hollered. “YOU BETTER NOT BE DOING MUD BALLS OR I WILL SKIN YOUR BLACK HIDE, YOU HEAR ME?”
Whether Rayshondra heard her or not, they would not know, for Chantal instantly slammed the door shut, then turned and walked into the living room. “That a new shirt, Jason?” she asked pleasantly.