That made me crack up. “You’re willing to hit your grandmother for me?” I whispered.
“I’ll knock all her teeth out her mouth. She’ll be gumming all this Thanksgiving dinner.”
We started walking again. “If she says something crazy, just . . . protect me. This is your family. I don’t wanna get all out of pocket and make a bad impression.”
“No worries. I’ll take the entire fall. I’ll make a whole ass of myself while you stand there looking dismayed, like you don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. Like you’re confused about why I’m making such a big deal out of it.”
“I like that plan.”
“I’m on it.”
We moved through the kitchen. Of course, it was extravagant. A chef’s dream kitchen with all the bells and whistles done in a pristine creamy white and a coastal blue. An elaborate chandelier hung over an oversized marble island. It was gorgeous. Everything I had seen was gorgeous. My anxiety mounted.
We walked out of the double French doors and onto an expansive deck. The backyard was the size of a park, and people were everywhere. He made a beeline toward an elegant looking group of seasoned black women sitting on casual but expensive looking patio furniture. I knew one of those women was hisgrandmother, and the others were probably her sisters or her sisters-in-law.
He stopped in front of the prettiest, most regal looking woman. “Nana, happy Thanksgiving.”
She looked up and broke into a dimpled smile that was similar to Kaynaan’s. “Juney!” She clapped her hands together. “You’d better bend down here and give me my hug and kiss.”
“I know that’s right,” one of the other women seconded.
He gave his grandmother a squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. “Hey, ladies.” He included them all with a big smile. “Aunt Hilda. Aunt Rose. Aunt Gloria. Aunt Vida.”
Greetings went through the group.
When it was finally quiet, he spoke again. “This is my lady, Wyndi. Wyndi, these are my aunts and this”—He pointed at his grandmother—“is Georgia Israel, my grandmother.”
“Hello.” I didn’t recognize my own voice; it was so demure yet bubbly. “It’s so nice to meet you all.”
The aunts all shared small smiles and greetings. The grandmother’s face remained impassive. “Wyndi? Is that your given name?”
“It’s a nickname. My given name is Wyndsor.”
“How beautiful,” one of the aunts muttered.
“That’s unusual and very formal. Is that a family name?”
“It’s a name that my mother favored.” I prayed she wouldn’t ask me my last name. The gig would totally be up if she did.
“Well, it’s lovely, Wyndsor, and so are you. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” His grandmother extended her hand, and I shook it. “My Juney here has never brought any young lady home to spend Thanksgiving with the family. We’ve all been very curious.”
I had no idea how to respond to that bit of information, so I kept that fake smile plastered on my face.
“Now you’ve met her,” Kaynaan said, breaking the awkward silence that had fallen over us. “I’m about to take her and introduce her to Eden.”
“Make sure you introduce her to your mother,” his grandmother suggested.
“She already met mom . . . and dad and Shiloh.”
Eyebrows were raised, but no one spoke, until his grandmother piped up. “Wyndsor, you’ve met my son and my daughter-in-law?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh. My grandson must be very smitten with you.”
Kaynaan pulled me into a side hug. “Facts.”
I wanted to laugh because no matter how upper crust and pretentious a person tried to be, there was always that one relative who wasn’t going. And that relative was Kaynaan.
She rolled her eyes at her grandson, but I could tell it was all in love, and she gave me a genuine smile. “Welcome.”
I breathed a huge sigh of relief as we walked away from the group of older ladies. I felt like I could finally relax. “So uh,” I began, “why didn’t the house smell like food?”
He chuckled. “Because my grandmother and her sisters-in-law are ladies who lunch, not ladies who cook lunch. Those women probably wouldn’t remember where to start cooking a Thanksgiving dinner if they tried. They outsource that type of stuff. A catering company will show up in a few hours with everything we need to have a traditional dinner.”
“Really? That sounds very . . . old money.”
“That’s them, old money.”
