“Maggie!” he called up the steps.
Minutes later, Jenna’s mother, Maggie, came down the stairs, holding tightly to the rail to the point of trembling. When she hit the bottom step, Jenna rushed to her side. “Mom, what are you doing without your cane?”
Maggie brushed her off with the hand opposite of the railing. “Girl, please.” Then Maggie’s eyes turned to my mother. She squinted. “Mmmhmm.” Then her eyes made their way to me. “Well…well…well. Look at who we have here,” she announced dryly. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again… Unless you’re the type who can brave going to his wedding.”
“Well, you know what they say about the baby’s mother, Maggie,” I started, recalling her insertion of me calling her Mrs. Brown in Brazil. “You can never get rid of us, right?” I smile. “It’s been a while. How has your recovery been from the cosmetic surgery? What has changed?”
Maggie issued me the most deathly glower, and instead of allowing it to upset me, I had to keep from laughing in her face. It didn’t help that I’d had two shots of the expensive tequila Stenton kept at my parents’ before we left for Jenna’s.
“Maggie, this is Sarah Barrett, Zoey’s mother and Jordan’s grandmother.” Stenton poses to Maggie. He then turned to my mother. “Sarah, this is Jenna’s mother, Maggie.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Maggie. From my conversation with Jenna on the phone I could tell she’s a well-mannered young lady. I’m sure you’re to credit.” My mother smiled as her hand went straight out to Maggie. This was all for Maggie to take her sweet time reciprocating. It pissed me off beyond repair.
“Mother,” Jenna urged Maggie.
It took a few seconds more before she took my mother’s proffered hand for a quick shake and withdrew. Then I moved in.
Maggie may have been a miserable and antagonistic woman, but she would not attack Sarah Barrett. If she tried, I’d annihilate her without a second thought. I brought this drama to my mother’s door. I could be attacked, but not Sarah Barrett or Jordan Michael Rogers. We were in for an interesting evening.
“Sarah, let’s go eat,” Stenton demanded with more base in his voice than I was accustomed to. We all followed him into the modest sized dining room.
We’d just finished up dinner that was a bit on the lean side and nothing I was used to eating for Thanksgiving. There was a beef roast with no gravy, carrots and no yams, string beans yet no collard greens, roasted potatoes, but not mashed potatoes. It was, quite honestly, culture shock to me, and I’m sure my mother, who wouldn’t dare react to the skimpy menu. Jenna brought out my mother’s cream cheese pound cake and a pumpkin pie. Pumpkin pie? Black folks don’t eat pumpkin pie. Where’s the sweet potato? Instead of commenting on it, I took another chug of the 2010 Domaine Le Clos du Caillou Chateauneuf du Pape Reserve I brought over. It seemed to be the one thing Maggie and I agreed on tonight. I was one glass behind her.
Everyone except for Maggie opted for my mother’s pound cake. It was delicious as usual. She would have made her famous apple pie, and though she knew Stenton would enjoy it, she felt the cake would be more preferable to him. Why she gave so much thought to this infuriating man, I didn’t know.
“Oh, my goodness!” Jenna shrieked, snatching all of our attention. “This tastes… It tastes…” She looked to Stenton. “This tastes like the one you make me, but—no offense, honey—better. Did he share the recipe with you and you nailed it? I tried and couldn’t even get it as good as his.” She winked at my mother.
My fork slammed in my saucer. With hard eyes I observed Stenton. “You shared my family recipes?”
Stenton’s angled his head to the side and relaxed his eyes, begging my pardon.