She fills it, and I guzzle it down. “Now, make yourself useful and stir the gravy.” Kenya points to the stove. “Don’t let it get lumpy.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I must stir too forcefully because she snorts a laugh.
“First, don’t call me ma’am, and slow down, or you’ll create a funnel that spills over the sides.”
Taking a deep breath, I stir while she checks the temperature of the turkey. There’s a pot of greens with ham hocks on the back burner and a skillet of candied yams next to the gravy.
“Have you talked to your mom?” she asks softly.
“She texted me. I really appreciate your offer to host her. She was vague about her plans. I’m not sure if she’s on vacation, searching for her next husband, or spending as much money as she can before it’s gone.” My slim hope that she would turn to me during the King family crisis hasn’t panned out.
After I hired a lawyer and an accountant, John was investigated and arrested for embezzlement and financial fraud. He spent too much money and lost millions in poor investments. He used my money to keep the family solvent.
“What does your lawyer say?” Kenya prods.
Anyone else and I’d accuse them of judging me or trying to assess my financial viability, but she only wants what’s best for me. “If I recoup any money, it’ll be after bankruptcy, and it’s doubtful I’ll ever see it.” I shrug.
“That’s horseshit.” She folds me in her arms, and I soak in her comforting floral scent.
“I don’t care about the money. I’m happy to be free from John and his father. That sounds privileged, doesn’t it?” I lean back to read her expression. Only someone who doesn’t have to worry about money would say they don’t care about it. Stupid comment.
She hugs my middle and lets me go. “Yes, but you were raised with old Boston money. It’s hardly your fault.”
“I don’t want to seem too…” I trail off and tilt my head toward the kitchen door to listen to their family chatter and talking over each other. It’s shameful to admit I used to look down on them. But they would never steal from or abandon each other. John Sr. cut all ties with his son, calling him a failure and an embarrassment. “I hope they like me.”
“Boy, they are going to give you so much shit. They will make it their mission to cut you down to see how you handle it. But at the end of the day, they want Jamal to be happy. They’ve never seen him smile so much.” Her voice drops. “But as much as we try, we can’t replace your family. I have firsthand experience with that, so I understand, sweetie.”
I blush at the nickname. “Any luck reconnecting with your family?”
“A few texts here and there, but my family had trauma before my sister died. If she had lived, they would’ve disowned her for what she did to my baby.” We both shudder thinking of Jamal’s burn marks.
“So barbaric.” My stirring is finally congealing the gravy.
“With time, I’ve forgiven her. She had her demons and truly believed she was helping Jamal become a man.” She wipes the corners of her eyes.
“You’re a better person than me,” I grumble, because if I met his auntie, violence would be my first instinct.
“They’re family.” Kenya shrugs. “Like your mom.”
That is a different perspective. “Did you ever regret it? Taking Jamal?”
“No.” She bastes the turkey. “Don’t get me wrong, we had hard times and money issues, but we always had love. And that kept me going.”
“Thanks.” My voice cracks.
“For what?” She wipes her hands on a dishtowel and comes to my side.
“For not hating me for how I treated Jamal. For giving me a chance. For inviting me to a family dinner. And—”
“Sweetie, if Jamal loves you, we love you. You don’t need to thank us.” She gives me another mom hug. “Things are almost ready. I found a recipe for butternut squash.” She shoos me as if that isn’t the most thoughtful thing she could ever do. “Go on back to your man and send the aunties in. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re eavesdropping,” she says, raising her voice.
“You rang?” DeAndre’s oldest sister enters the kitchen, followed by a few more aunties.
Kenya shoots me an “I told you so” look and turns into a drill sergeant barking orders. I back out of the kitchen quietly.
Jamal threads our fingers together when I stand next to him. It’s a strange thing to find this level of acceptance. Not only am I the only white dude here, I’m with a guy. John would vet anyone I wanted to bring to dinner and would never have allowed me to date a man.
I join the football discussion of who will win the AFC this year. “Patriots,” I say unapologetically and get glares. “You can take the man out of Boston, but you can’t take—”
