He sat at the end of the table he’d bought for Rachel at some tony furniture shop in New York, gazing at them all, as the meal was hardly edible (the turkey terribly dry, the dressing missing some major ingredient, the gravy lumpy. The only thing that was any good was the wine).
There were the two black women, who, while highly entertaining, were really not who he pictured bent over the looms he imagined Rachel used when she was doing her earth angel thing, instructing people how to weave tapestries or whatever. And the old dude. Jesus, who’d died? He was as morose as he could possibly be, and every expression, every gesture, telegraphed his desire to be elsewhere. And Sandy, the hypochondriac. Whoa, what a nut job that one was. If she laid one more ailment on him, Aaron was going to call her bluff, ask her if she’d ever had cancer, then match her chemo for chemo, surgery for surgery. There was a name for that, the need to be sick all the time, he was pretty sure. Rachel’s friend Dagne had to be the nuttiest of them all, what with all the crap about witchcraft, then getting upset when everyone laughed at her.
The kid dressed in black sort of fascinated him, for Aaron couldn’t make what he was supposed to be. From where he was sitting, it looked like the kid was wearing eye makeup. But it was clear the kid was crazy about Rachel, and who could blame him?
Aaron was not surprised by how engaging his daughter was. She had an uncanny ability to relate to each and every one of these fruitcakes. She was the bright spot at the table, the one to whom everyone naturally gravitated. Nothing at all like the meek girl she was around him, preferring the shadows and leaving Becky and Robbie up front. Here, she was the sunlight.
What did surprise him was how uncommonly talented she was. The nut job Sandy had shown him a tapestry she was doing on the loom, apparently one she had taken from a picture in a magazine and calculated onto her loom. She was an artist. The things Aaron had been wrong about in the last sixty years never ceased to amaze him.
His good mood was dampened, however, when The Professor strolled in halfway through the meal, all smug-looking, and carrying a single six-pack of beer.
He first stopped to bless the children, all five of whom were eating off paper plates in front of a movie. The asshole bent down to speak to each one of them. Like he cared. Like they cared. The oldest kid, a girl, looked at him with the complete disdain he deserved.
So did Aaron.
“Hello, everyone, I’m Professor Tidwell,” he announced with a smile and a bow.
Mostly, they just eyed him curiously. But then he strolled down the length of the table and kissed Rachel on the top of her head. Aaron did not miss her grimace at that, or Dagne’s roll of her eyes.
The Professor continued on into the kitchen, during which time Rachel hastily explained he was a friend. He returned a few moments later with a plate and a chair, which he put next to Rachel and asked for a variety of things to be passed to him, filled his plate, cracked open a beer, then looked around the table. “So,” he said, interrupting another conversation, “you’re all Rachel’s students, are you? I once oversaw her on a teaching internship, and I know she’s an excellent teacher. I am sure you all agree.”
“Myron—” Rachel started, her self-conscious blush evident to Aaron at the other end of the table.
“It’s okay, Rach,” The Professor said with a laugh. “They won’t say anything disparaging while you’re sitting here.” He laughed again. No one else did, but Professor Tidwell didn’t notice, as he was diving headfirst into that turkey like he hadn’t eaten in days. “No, I’m serious,” he continued with his mouth full. “Rachel’s got a gift for teaching.”
“Hey Myron, did you bring beer for anyone else?” Dagne asked, and Aaron thought perhaps he’d misjudged her—that little fruitcake might have more sense than he’d originally thought.
“I brought a six-pack. I figured you’d have plenty.”
“That was very thoughtful,” Dagne said coolly, earning herself another brownie point with Aaron. “Can I get anyone anything? I’m going to the kitchen.”
“I’d like one of those beers, if you don’t mind, Dagne,” Aaron said, his gaze on The Professor.
“Sure thing, Mr. Lear,” she said, and The Professor jerked his head up, wide-eyed, and looked at Aaron.
“Hello, Byron,” Aaron said. “I’m Rachel’s father, Aaron Lear.”
“Ooh, girl, this is gonna be good,” one of the black women said with a snicker.
“Mr. Lear?” he said, and suddenly didn’t seem quite so full of himself. “I, ah . . . I didn’t know you’d be here,” he said, and came to his feet, wiped his hands on his cords, and hurried down the length of the table to shake Aaron’s hand.
“I just couldn’t stay away,” Aaron drawled, looking the ass straight in the eye.
The ass quickly dropped his hand, returned to his plate of food, and was, thankfully, silent, allowing one of the black women to wonder why her dressing had dried out so.
“Probably the moon,” Dagne opined with a sigh.
Everyone looked at her blankly; and then one of the other women stood with her plate.