The day before, Lizzie toured the area, only seeing the house from afar as she pointed out where cars should park, how lines should be formed through different areas to maximize the comfort in the shade, and optimize the flow. She talked about the assembly line and discussed how work should be divided so people could be fed quickly and efficiently. She tried to picture it as it was described to her so that she wouldn’t miss a choke point, a potential obstacle, or a challenge.
Still, nothing had quite prepared her for the Cuban Thanksgiving fever dream that took over the estate the day of: three massive lechón pits turning slowly over wood fires, two salsa bands warming up, long tables draped in white, and a sea of folding chairs already filling withabuelasin their Sunday best, clutching Tupperware “just in case there are leftovers.”
Lizzie, in jeans and a simple black polo with the company logo, was directing traffic like an air-traffic controller oncafecito. Ignacio had given her a megaphone. Amegaphone. It might as well be Christmas.
Abuela—wearing a floral dress, pearls, and her “visiting”chancletas(the ones with the slight heel)—was already deep in conversation with a circle ofseñoras, gesturing wildly about something that definitely involved Lizzie. Still better than what she was doing at first: walking up to volunteers unsolicited, pointing at Lizzie, and letting them know she was in charge.
The crowd started arriving, and Lizzie only had to make a few small adjustments to keep things running smoothly. Lizzie was proud of how quickly people were moving through, and Ignacio pointed out several times how much better things were going than in previous years. “I knew you were the right call!”
Lizzie was mid-yell—“¡Por favor, una línea, no un arroz con mango!”—when a young woman in a Stanford hoodie, highponytail, and light-up reindeer antlers that gobbled when she moved (bizarre combo), sprinted straight at her.
“Lizzie, right?” She said, beaming.
“Uh, yeah,” Lizzie looked around for Abuela. Surely she was behind sending this girl her way.
The girl launched herself at Lizzie like a heat-seeking missile. Lizzie barely caught her.
“I knew it! I’m Georgiana, call me Giana. I’m Will’s sister.” She was talking a mile a minute, hands flying. “I heard about you and all the amazing stuff you’re doing at Pemberley, and oh my God, you have to tell me all the stories! Will told me about the warehouse and how you like showed him up, but I just know he left out the juicy details! I want to hear all about it from you!”
Lizzie’s brain short-circuited. “You’re… Georgiana?”
“Duh! Come on, I’m supposed to be helping in the kids’ area, they’re feral, and also I want selfies, and also—” Giana finally noticed Abuela twenty feet away, now staring with the intensity of atelenovelavillain spotting her rival. “Is that your abuela? She’s iconic.Abuela! ¡Ven!”
Abuela glided over like she’d been summoned by royalty. Giana greeted her with perfect Spanglish and a cheek kiss. Within thirty seconds, they were comparing recipes forarroz con lecheand plotting against the antagonist onOrgullo y Dolores. Abuela shot Lizzie a look that seemed to say, why couldn’t you be more like her?
Lizzie wasn’t sure what was more surprising: Giana seemed to speak Spanish pretty well, better than your average picked up from growing up in Miami. Were Giana and Will Hispanic? She had just assumed he was your run-of-the-mill white guy. How many assumptions had this self-proclaimed, open-minded observer made in the last few weeks?
And then there was Giana’s liveliness. She was chatty and friendly and all energy and silliness. This was the polar oppositeof Will, who seemed to be serious and stern. She could see that they shared some physical features, but she couldn’t quite fathom that they were truly brother and sister. Lizzie was still processing when a shadow fell over them.
Speak of the devil. Will.
In a simple white linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, looking like he’d rather be waterboarded than stand here. His hands were in his pockets, and pure panic was in his eyes.
Giana didn’t miss a beat. “Perfect timing! Will you remember Lizzie? And this is Señora Rosa, future abuela-in-law—”
Will made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh or a cry for help as his eyes snapped to Lizzie. First time in daylight since Halloween. He opened his mouth—like he might actually say something—but Giana was already steamrolling ahead. Whatever he’d been about to say died behind his teeth.
“—who already said yes to Thanksgiving tomorrow, by the way. I invited them. You’re welcome.”
Lizzie opened her mouth. Closed it. Found her voice. “I was actually not consulted, I wouldn’t want to impose…”
“Too late!” Giana sang. “I already texted Chef Ramón we’re six instead of four. He’s doing lechón AND turkey because Abuela said turkey alone is ‘triste.’”
Abuela nodded solemnly. “Seco como suela de zapato.” (Dry like the sole of a shoe.)
Will looked like he was calculating how many NDAs it would take to survive the next twenty-four hours.
Giana looped an arm through Lizzie’s and another through Abuela’s. “Come on, you have to see the dessert table before the kids destroy it. Will, grab us some lemonade like a good host.”
And just like that, Lizzie was being dragged toward the main house, Abuela cackling beside her, Giana narrating at 200 mph, and Will trailing behind them like a man walking to his own execution.
By the time the sun set over the Redlands, three hundred people had eaten, the lines had moved like magic, and Lizzie had exactly zero excuses left.
Tomorrow was Thanksgiving.
Tomorrow, she would sit across a table from William Pemberley in his family’s home, with his sister and her grandmother as co-conspirators.
Chapter 12- El Sanksgiving
