“Ah.” She took a deep breath. “Does she know you’re here?”
If she didn’t know now, she would before the end of the day. Dallas would definitely share with her. “Probably.”
“Hmph.”
“What is that?” I asked. “Hmph?”
“Nothing. I just… I know that smile, that look in your eyes. You used to be that way with me. I can’t help but wonder how long it’ll take for you to realize that you’re in love with her.”
Carolyn comparing herself to Demi felt wrong. And talking about my feelings for Demi to her wasn’t about to happen. “She’s family,” I told her.
I continued my work in silence while Carolyn watched. Once the pie was in the oven, I cleaned up and packed my bag. When Ola walked back into the kitchen, I gave her instructions on how to reheat the food.
Wringing her hands, Carolyn asked, “Can you stay?” Her eyes darted back and forth between me and Ola. “Please,” she begged. “Trinity will be here any minute.”
I glanced at Ola, then back at Carolyn. “I can’t stay.”
“She’ll want to see you,” she cried. “Maybe you two can talk things out.”
“Why don’t you go lie down?” Ola smoothed a hand over Carolyn’s back. “Remember what the doctor said about your blood pressure? Try to stay calm.”
Gripping my sleeve, Carolyn pleaded, “You can’t go. You have to wait for Trinity.”
Ola attempted to steer Carolyn away, but she clung to me like a lifeline. I tried to comfort her, but she was inconsolable as she called for Trinity over and again. As Ola grabbed her medical bag and pulled out a syringe, I choked back my own tears because I knew Trinity wasn’t coming. There would be no talking things out. Trinity wouldn’t be at Thanksgiving dinner, Trinity wasn’t getting engaged, Trinity would never get married…Because Trinity is dead.
ChapterFour
DON’T WASTE MY TIME
Demi
When I’d decided to go to law school, I had one goal. To be better than my father. For years, he’d earned a reputation for being the worst divorce attorney a woman could hire. And I wanted to be the best attorney for women married to assholes like him. Period. So when I graduated with my Juris Doctorate, I immediately went to work at one of the best family law firms in Washtenaw County, Michigan.
I’d worked long, hard days and nights to earn my nickname, The Divorce Whisperer. And I dared any man to come into court with me unprepared because they thought I was unqualified. The first case I won against my father had been the most memorable. The moment he’d entered the courtroom like he owned it had been seared on my brain. He’d underestimated me when I was a teenager, and he’d underestimated me that day too. And I’d beat him, getting my client a seven-figure settlement from her philandering husband. That wasn’t the only time I’d bested him in court. He hated to see me coming, and I liked it that way.
Moving to California hadn’t changed that. I still regularly worked in Michigan, representing my clients’ best interests in divorce court. But my decision was made based on two things—attracting more celebrity clientele and building a relationship with my mother and sister. Mom had moved to Los Angeles with the same man I’d seen her with at our house the day she’d left. Two more husbands later, she was still there. She was also still a liar, still manipulative, and still selfish. Upon my arrival in California, she’d promptly asked me for money and a car. I’d quickly distanced myself from her, but she was my mother. Despite how much she’d hurt me, there was a part of me that would probably always want her in my life. Even if she was full of shit.
Lately, she’d been calling me, begging me for another chance to be a good mother. I wasn’t sure when the change of heart happened—orifshe even had a heart—but I was pretty sure she was working an angle. The last time we’d spoken hadn’t been a good experience for me and had essentially devolved into an argument about howI’dbeen awful to her since I was a kid.Me. When she’d left me like yesterday’s trash with my abusive father.
Even with the past between us, and against my better judgment, I’d accepted an invitation to Thanksgiving “dinner.” I’d regretted it from the moment I arrived. It was more like brunch, though, because it would be served at noon.Who the fuck does that? Her reasoning was because she had another event to attend. Which meant I’d be hungry by actual dinnertime.
Walking in the door that morning, I’d been greeted by a strange man with a wandering eye who’d promptly made me extremely uncomfortable when he suggested I call him Daddy. Then, my sister’s boyfriend leered at me while my sister doted on him. And let’s not get started on the food. The meal was already done. Well, the turkey looked undercooked. The rest of the sides were in serving dishes, ready to go out on the table. In other words, everything would be cold as hell when we ate.I guess it’s up to us to warm our own plate up.
As a kid, I didn’t remember seeing my mother in the kitchen. I recalled a housekeeper coming to the house to cook sometimes and my grandmother making chicken one day. But that’s it. My father had once told me he married my mother for her beauty, because she looked good on his arm, not because she was a great homemaker. He’d told me that when he’d forced me to make his dinner three times a week so that I didn’t end up like her.
“Demi, please check on the ambrosia in the fridge,” my mother instructed, re-entering the kitchen after she’d excused herself to shower. Her sandy, blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore a pair of black jeans with a green silk blouse. She once told me that green was her color, so she rarely dressed without incorporating it into her outfits. Even the smoky eyeshadow she wore drew attention to her green eyes. And she donned tear-drop emerald earrings. “I want to be sure it’s set.”
My mother was biracial and was raised by her white mother. Before I got there, she’d been so excited to share her mother’s recipes with me for the first time. But when I saw that turkey? All I could do was think about how Ma was probably making the shit out of her homemade rolls. And that potato salad…Lawd, I miss my family. The thought was sobering, that I was actually with mybiologicalfamily while simultaneously wishing I was with myrealfamily.
While my mother sang an old school R&B jam I didn’t recognize, I opened the fridge to check the ambrosia.Yuck. I studied the contents of the bowl. Marshmallows, cherries, oranges, pineapples. Coconut?Are those pecans? “I think it’s…”Disgusting? I frowned as I eyed the dessert again. “…ready. Do you have pound cake?” The desperate tone in my voice surprised even me.
My mother frowned. “No. I’m not a fan. But I did buy a delicious pumpkin pie at the grocery store for another dessert option.”
“Oh,” I mumbled, making my way back over to the dining room table.
There were always plenty of desserts at home on Thanksgiving. Ma handled the pound cake, Paityn usually took care of the peach cobbler, while Duke slayed the sweet potato pies.He probably made about five of them mugs too. The house probably smelled like a mixture of nutmeg, cinnamon, and everything else that was good. My stomach growled.Shit.
Everly set a bowl of wet-ass mashed potatoes on the table. They weren’t fluffy like Blake’s. Or even mine. I made great potato dishes. My specialty was fried with onions. I peeked in the bowl and was surprised there was no evidence of butter, not even a small pat.I should’ve offered to bring something. “Did you make these?” I asked my sister.
