“I sure as hell did. She started to pull out her checkbook last night to invest in it, but I convinced her to save that for later. I didn’t want her scaring you off before we even cut the turkey.”
It’s Thanksgiving, and Desiree and I are spending it with her parents. Last night, she and I ate Thanksgiving dinner at my parents’ house before they flew out to Chicago to spend the holiday weekend with my sister and her family. After dinner, Desiree and I are driving up to my family’s cabin in the mountains to spend the long weekend there. Meeting her parents and having dinner with them isn’t a concern of mine in the least.
“She liked them, huh?”
“Why do you sound so surprised? You know you’re an excellent baker.”
Her smile widens. “I know, but whenever someone new tastes something I made, I always hold my breath a little. Each cake or cookie or loaf is like a piece of me going out into the world to spread a little bit of happiness.”
I chuckle.
“I sound attached to it, don’t I?” She rolls her eyes.
“No, you sound like it’s your passion. Which is exactly why it needs to become your full-time job.”
“I knew I was setting myself up for a lecture about this.”
“No lecture,” I respond, shaking my head. “Take it as a simple reminder that your destiny is waiting for you.”
She pushes out a breath. “Well, let’s hope my destiny can wait until after Thanksgiving dinner.”
Chuckling, I make the turn for the on-ramp that leads to the town where Desiree’s parents live. As we drive, she tells me stories of her childhood. Her parents still live in the home where she and her sister grew up.
“And you tease me about being one of the other half,” I say as we pull into her parents' long driveway. The house isn’t a mansion or anything, but it’s a comfortably sized house for four people.
“No, you grew up very differently. My parents are relatively middle class, thanks to my father’s job as a professor, but they’re not wealthy.”
“Okay,” I say, chuckling.
Desiree parts her lips to respond, but then the sparkle in her eyes grows as she glances out the window over my shoulder.
I turn to see an older man stepping out of the door and coming down the front, red brick steps.
“Daddy,” she says, pulling the door open.
I recognize her father immediately, having met him a handful of times.
“Desi,” Mr. Jackson calls as she rounds the front of my car, moving to the stone pathway that leads to the front door of the family home.
I watch as she hugs her father tightly. Before I can step onto the walkway, I remember all of the food in the backseat of my car. Desiree spent all of yesterday cooking the desserts that we brought to my parents’ home and preparing pies, a cake, and sweet potatoes that we brought to her parents. She said that everyone in her family claimed she made the best sweet potatoes, and they refused to let anyone else even attempt to make them for the holiday.
That endorsement alone had me anxious to try them. Thankfully, my girl hadn’t made me wait when she prepared a separate dish for us two days ago. I have to say, I agree with her family. I doubt I can even order sweet potatoes at a restaurant anymore after tasting hers. In the same way, I’m sure there’s no other woman for me after being with her.
“Mr. McKenna,” Desiree’s father calls, bringing me out of my spiraling thoughts about his daughter.
“Sir, please call me Neil. I’m not at work,” I tell him.
“Habit,” he explains.
I nod.
“I hope you didn’t forget those sweet potatoes, baby girl,” Mr. Jackson says, turning to Desiree.
“And end up with you and mom forcing me to sit at the kids’ table? Not a chance. They’re in the car,” she says.
“I can bring them,” I volunteer.
“Let me help you. Go on in and see your mother, Desiree. She’s been waiting for you.”
