Chapter Twenty-Three Thanksgiving #3
I swallow several times.
Does he not realize how that sounded?
Does King?
I think we both have our flaws, both have things that make us a catch—and we’re best when we’re together, building each other up.
King’s smile is cold. Vicious. I’ve seen some footage of his previous games in the past couple of weeks, sometimes stopping by practice when he’s there and they’re reviewing games and plays. That’s the same look King has before he bulldozes someone.
I hear the bones in Uncle Luke’s hand make a crunchy, popping sound, and he lets out a bark like a startled hyena.
“Oops. Sorry, Luke. I don’t know my own strength sometimes.
And to answer your question, I don’t know what a gorgeous goddess like Ingrid wants with a ‘day-old burger’ like me.
All I know is that I’m grateful she’s willing to let me love her.
” King drops my uncle’s hand and squeezes his arm around my shoulders.
My mother smirks, and I feel a little spark of happiness shining through all the crappy family drama. I kiss Aunt Lillian on the cheek. “Want some apple cider?”
Ilove Ingrid’s mother. She’s no-nonsense, like Ingrid.
She seems warm and interested in getting to know me, keeps trying to talk to me and get me involved in things—but she’s also in the throes of hostessing.
I’m happy that Ingrid asked her to come up for a visit next weekend.
I’m already envisioning the two of them having fun as the town gears up for the winter holidays.
Twinkly trees in the Night Market. Choral concerts.
Hot cocoa at The Pine Loft Coffee Shop. Ingrid’s mother, giving me her blessing. ..
I don’t mind Jonathan, who just seems tired and content to let anything short of a house fire happen around him.
Dillon is an ass. Janice is a micromanager.
They both have very nice spouses who look like they desperately want to leave, and five kids between them who seem to be mesmerized by the idea of getting on each other’s nerves.
“How about a drink?” Dillon asks as the food is being brought to the table. Half the bottle goes into his glass, and he chugs it noisily. Jonathan sighs. “Dad, King. Wine?”
“Thanks.” I raise my glass so he can fill it, clutching Ingrid’s hand under the table as we wait.
“Is he old enough to drink?” Uncle Luke asks, already knee-deep in a very large flask.
“Cougar alert!” Dillon says, raising a glass in Ingrid’s general direction.
Don’t snap the stemware, don’t snap the stemware.
Ingrid’s mother bustles around, carrying casserole dishes with oven mitts. “Dillon, that’s plenty. You pour the rest of that—fine, open the other one on the sideboard. Lillian and I will finish getting the bird and stuffing on the table.”
“Why don’t we all say what we’re most thankful for?” Janice claps her hands and shines a Brady Bunch smile on all of us. “Daddy, you start.”
“Shouldn’t we wait for everyone to sit?” Ingrid says, her tone pointed and just a little bit frosty. I massage her leg under the table.
My mate. So powerful. Calm. Queenly. A diplomat. I lean over and rest my cheek to her shining brown waves, inhaling her scent.
“I thought you two couldn’t wait to get off for a little ‘physical therapy.’” Dillon gives a tipsy laugh.
“I just thought we could start now. I still have to get to my mother’s house for another dinner, and you know I like to keep the kids on a schedule.
” Janice covers her glass with her hand and puts one over her husband’s as well.
“We have to drive two hours after this,” she explains and glares at Dillon.
“Hey, don’t look at me. Mom and Dad have been alternating holidays for twenty-five years, sis. I’m not the one with a bug up my—”
“Wow, what a beautiful turkey!” I shout, and the table falls silent.
Ingrid’s mother looks startled. “Oh. Thank you, King.” She puts the bird on the table and smiles proudly. “Twenty-two pounds and perfect, in my opinion. All right, shall we say grace?”
Dillon groans.
The seven-year-old screen addicts look confused. “We don’t say it at our house. Daddy says praying is for emergencies and speeding tickets only.”
Jonathan sighs. Uncle Luke laughs. Ingrid leans against me.
“I know what Ingrid’s thankful for. Finally getting some,” Dillon drains the rest of a second glass.
“Dillon!” his wife, Sarah, looks mortified.
“Young man. Company.” Jonathan doesn’t look up from the tablecloth.
“Sorry, sorry. I’m not so uptight that I can’t say what we’re all thinking. Unlike some people, Dad.”
“I’m thankful my husband knows what tact is,” Janice says, voice loud and expression unbearably prim.
Dillon fires back, “I’m thankful my wife isn’t some wannabe Martha Stewart’s frigid little sister who keeps her husband’s balls in her purse! Sorry, Tyler, no offense.”
Shouting overflows on all sides. Ingrid’s mother looks like she wants to sob. Dillon and Janice are in each other’s faces. Tyler is defending his wife, who is starting to sob. Aunt Lillian is violently shushing Uncle Luke.
“I’m sorry.” Ingrid cups my cheek and directs my face towards hers. “I should never have brought you here.”
“Babe, this is nothing,” I whisper. “Did I ever tell you how my great-times-a-dozen grandparents met? She shot him with an arrow, and he returned it. Family conflict is crucial to the Silverbow clan. I feel right at home.” I kiss Ingrid and we laugh together, chaos breaking all around us.
Somewhere in the midst of shouting and accusations, and Jonathan quietly carving up a turkey like his children aren’t about to stab each other with forks or smack each other with gravy boats, it clicks.
All the storms and little rocky hills in life are still smooth and sweet when Ingrid is with me.
I rise, silent, startling Ingrid. The noise slowly dies, except for the three-year-old who is now having sobbing hiccups, and Chip and Daisy, who are running, whimpering, and whining because of all the a-holes screaming, disrupting their peace and their mom’s happiness.
When I stand, they come and sit on either side of me, Chip carefully moving his paws back from my cane.
“I would like to share what I’m thankful for now,” I announce in a voice that warns off any interruption.
“I am thankful for Ingrid. Without her, life doesn’t feel right anymore.
She’s my happy place, and my joy, and she’s given me two of the best fur babies in the world, Chip and Daisy.
She’s generous, and brave, and in my culture—she’s what we call a War Maiden.
Incredibly strong, beautiful women that you hope and pray will even look at you.
Ingrid helped me get my head on straight when my world was falling apart, and thanks to her, I have a much better world.
A life I like better.” I pause. The room is quiet.
All eyes on me. Ingrid’s mouth is open in shock, her eyes shining with happy tears. At least, I hope they’re happy.
“I can’t get down on one knee right now, but I don’t want to wait another second to ask this. Ingrid, will you be my wife? Will you marry me?”
Ingrid swallows air, clutching the tablecloth.
“What kind of soppy women’s story put on is this—”
Whatever Uncle Luke was gonna say, he doesn’t get to finish it. I hurl a loaf of uncut paska at him, smacking him square in the face, making him careen back in his chair, and he goes over, brown loafers waving wildly above the white tablecloth as Aunt Lillian shrieks.
The shouting starts all over again. Someone’s elbow takes down the gravy.
Chip and Daisy are in heaven.
Paska, the traditional Polish holiday bread, must be a little denser than I thought. Or maybe all the upper-body workouts have improved my pitching speed.
But I don’t care about that. Ingrid looks at me and nods.
“Yes?” I confirm in a croak.
It’s a mere whisper, a mouthed word. “Yes.”
“Oh! She said yes!” I cheer.
“Congratulations!” One of the screen twins says politely before throwing a handful of mashed potatoes at Dillon.
I don’t blame the kid.
Jonathan stands up, but the chaos just keeps spiralling. He clears his throat. “Stop that.”
No one listens.
“Stop!” I shout.
Everyone listens. The china reverberates.
“We have to go. Mom, see you next weekend?”
To her credit, Ingrid’s mother simply nods, steps over her brother-in-law, and comes to hug us. “You’re sure you can’t stay?”
“No, Mom. I think it’s a little crowded.”
“We’ll have a nice, quiet Christmas. King, we’ll have to meet your parents.”
I hug my future mother-in-law, my head still spinning. “Thanks. I look forward to it. I’ll get our bags and put them in the truck.”
“I’ll help.”
“Oh, no, Mrs.—”
“You’ll have to call me mom, now.”
“I got a second mom and a bride in one day. Best holiday ever.”
I’m shaking. Happy shaking. Upset shaking. Just shaking.
“Dillon is an ass.”
King nods.
“Janice is a bitch.”
“Such a bitch.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I’m so happy. You did say, yes, right?”
“I did. But now our first Thanksgiving as an engaged couple is—”
King waits at the red light with his phone in his hand. “Our first Thanksgiving is going to be epic. Hang on.”
I see him swipe through his contacts, and in a minute, a deep voice answers. “Young lad!”
“Hi, Ian. Happy Thanksgiving. I have a favor to ask. Two.”
“All right. Fenclans and Silverbows have been allies for donkey’s years. What d’ye need?”
The more the voice speaks, the more I can tell about the person on the other end. It’s a thick, Scottish voice, and too deep to be human.
“Do you know if they’re still having the big dinner up at White Pines?”
“Aye, with Minegold in his element and Gloria playing hostess.”
“Are you going?”
“Nay, lad, we have Georgie and Claire, Georgia and Douglas, and Madge and Ray coming in an hour. Wild bird, two of them, from my own lands.”
“Well, Ingrid and I just had a change of plans. I was wondering if—”
“Get yersel’ here with your pretty lass!” Ian laughs, his voice booming in the car.
“What can we bring?” I interject, sniffling. My emotions are set on overflow, and they’ve channeled it into my eyes.
“Hmm. Cheese and crackers would be nice.”
“We can handle that. What’s the other thing?”
King takes a deep breath. “I, King Silverbow, of the Silverbow Clan, ally of the Fenclan Clan, and brother in honorable combat and in peace, wish to ask you, as a Fenclan elder, to read the Duties of Marriage at my wedding to Ingrid Antol.”
“Wheesht! You’re havering.”
“I’m not.”
“What’s havering?” I whisper.
“Having him on. Pulling his leg.”
“You’re serious. When is the wedding?”
King looks at me. “Ingrid?”
I shake my head, dazed and happy. “June?”
“June.”
“Aye. Well, we’ll put out the good whiskey.”
“All of your whiskey is good, Ian.”
“That it is,” he laughs, and King ends the call.
“You fixed that.”
“I can’t fix everything, but I’ll always try,” he promises, taking my hand. “And I’m going to be busy tomorrow. Shopping.” He taps my finger.
“Oh my God. We’re engaged.”
“Uh-huh. I know what I’m going to call my next Pine Ridge video. ‘She said yes! Local hockey player becomes happiest person in the world.’”
I lean on him and let Daisy snuffle my hair from her perch in the back seat. “Second happiest.”
“Nope.”
“Yes.” I put a hand over my heart. “I’m... I don’t have words.”
“Fine. Tied for first.” He kisses my hand as he lifts it to his lips. “All right, pups. Let’s get home.”