Chapter 13 #5
The space wasn’t nearly at full capacity—I was sure it could hold close to a hundred—but it was a lively din, that was for sure.
There were sitting areas dotted all along the edges, some more formal with giant, overstuffed, velveteen couches, and some were fold-out tables and plastic chairs.
Most of the adults and older folks sat in the softer, sturdier furniture and a lot of the kids, teenagers, and young adults in the more casual scene.
It wasn’t like there wasn’t any room at the fancier seats—no, at least half of them were empty—it just seemed to be a natural way the group segregated themselves.
How interesting.
“I’m not entirely sure that I haven’t fainted, hit my head, and come up with the most delicious hallucination ever known to man,” I said, and even though I was struggling to come to terms with the absolute decadence in front of me, pride surged through me when Remy chuckled at my remark.
“Hallucination or not, we better eat while the getting is good. Once more people show up, it can get a little sparse in here.”
“Not that we’d ever let the table go empty!” Cuz said. “It’s just the favorites do be going fast.”
“Yeah, I can get that,” I said, following in Remy’s much longer footsteps as he strode toward the table.
But I was barely to the length with a plate in my hand when a middle-aged woman approached me, her blond hair piled atop her head in a meticulous, messy bun that was somehow both effortless and incredibly styled and her dark, dark eyes warm and welcoming.
“Why, hello there, sugar, and who might you be?”
“This is Jeannie,” Remy said quickly. “I brought her and her son to celebrate Christmas with us.”
“Oh, this is your friend! I heard about you!”
“You did?” Had Remy needed to like… warn them all about me?
You stop that, I told my anxiety firmly. As a person who basically did a whole lot of thinking and examining for a living, it was easy for me to slip into my own head, but I was not about to let that venom-tipped voice ruin my meal. Because I could already tell it would be one hell of a good one.
“Sure did! Ain’t often that my cousin ever asks for much. Last time you brought someone that wasn’t Zara was…”
“Bellamy,” Remy said with a fond grin. Although I was very much an interloper coming in on so much history between people who’d known each other possibly longer than I’d been alive, I found it interesting rather than alienating. “Our exchange student from France. Sophomore year of high school.”
“That’s right,” the woman said, letting out an almost musical trill before she looked at me with mischievous glee. “Very polite young man, but disappeared Christmas Eve for several hours until we found him doin’ a little bèk-bèk with De’vaugh.”
“Bèk-bèk?” I repeated, a touch confused.
“Kissin’, darlin’. Straight up mackin’ under some mistletoe!”
Remy shook his head. “How you be presentin’ that as juicy gossip decades later, Jahmoni?”
“Because it’s romantic!” the woman objected before her attention fully returned to me, her expression full of commiseration. “These men just don’t get it.”
I heaved the tiniest sigh of relief. She was telling me the story because she thought it was cute, not because she was horrified about two high-school boys kissing.
Considering that my son had only narrowly survived his young childhood, I had way more things to worry about than other people’s sexuality.
“I getcha,” I said. “Nothing like young love.”
“I’mma have to argue with you at that!” Cuz said. “I think old love is where it’s at!”
“What kind of old love?” Jahmoni countered. The chemistry and comfortability of the family was so apparent that it was putting my high-strung ass at ease. “Old love, as in two elderly people falling in love? Old love, as in people who have been in love a long time?”
“Both of ’em!”
“Really?” I asked as I placed four deviled eggs on my plate. Normally, I would consider that a touch selfish, but since there were seven different types, I didn’t feel bad. And next? The collard greens! “Would you care to elaborate?”
“Well,” Cuz continued. “The way I look at it, when you’re young everything is all fresh and new, you got that energy, you ain’t been beaten down by the world yet, ca va?
But us older folks? We’ve been around a time or two, had our bumps and bruises, and we’re tired.
So, when two people manage to get past all of that and make something bonne together, I think that’s real special.
“Now, as for old love as people who have been in love for some long-ass time? I mean, that should be obvious. That’s special. Worth cherishin’, the way I see it.”
“That’s really beautiful,” I said.
I had been so busy with my nose down, trying to get through the grind and see my son safely through a really rough patch, that I hadn’t even put thought into what it would be like to be old and gray with someone I trusted more than anything else. Before, I would have thought it was impossible.
Now? Maybe not so much.
Funny how things changed like that, wasn’t it?
“That’s high praise coming from Jeannie,” Remy said. “Seeing as she’s a professional editor and all.”
“Oh, is you now?” Jahmoni asked, her cheerful grin somehow going even wider.
“Well, now we gotta talk! I’ve just finished reading this five-book series I was completely obsessed with, let me tell you, but I swear to high heaven that the last two books sound like they’re written by someone entirely different. ”
“Probably because they were.”
“Whatcha mean?”
“The publishing industry is struggling, so it’s not uncommon for authors who are popular enough to hire ghostwriters to write books for them or alongside with them as a team effort.
Part of it is to make more money by using that author’s name, but also to increase their output more than a single person can do on their own.
After all, most writers cannot produce at the prolific level of Stephen King. ”
“Ghostwriter? Yeah, we definitely gotta talk! Getcha food, honey, because I gotta snatch you up before all these jouda realize you’re here and come sniffin’!”
“Jouda?” I murmured to Remy. I felt like most of the time I could use context clues to figure things out, but not so much this time.
“Nosy Nellies. Busybodies.”
If anyone thought it was strange that I had to ask, none of them mentioned it.
The conversation continued while I loaded up my plate.
I would be back later with Max to make sure he got dinner, but it was impossible to resist the spread of amazing food in front of me.
Besides, an afternoon meal meant that maybe, if I timed things right, I could have an evening snack without getting heartburn when I went to bed.
Ah, the joys of aging.
Naturally, the conversation didn’t stop once I got my food—not that I expected it to.
Jahmoni launched into a conversation about the book series as well as what a ghostwriter was.
It wasn’t like she dominated my time, though.
All throughout our meal, about two dozen or so people approached, some casually introducing themselves with a quick “excuse me”, while others waited for a natural break in the conversation.
Already, I could feel my brain getting a bit overloaded with names, but it helped that they were all very different from each other.
There were the francophone names, like Remy himself, Mathieu, Uncle Maurice and Auntie Lucie, as well as Auntie Annette. There were the more Spanish sounding names like Carlos, Auntie Benedita, Nana Bibiana, and Av? Francisco.
Then there were the traditional Southern names, like Ashley (for a guy), Nash, and Auntie Birdie. Generic Americana names like Emily, Annie, John, and Chris. Then what sounded like islander names with Jahmoni, Zion, and Taliah.
The accents, slang, and mannerisms were just as blended.
At first, I struggled following along with the older individuals, but as more time passed, I was able to pick up on different phrases and guess which root language they belonged to.
It was kind of fun to feel my brain learn in real time, and it proved that you could teach an old dog new tricks.
All in all, it was a wonderful melting pot, and I was honored to be included.
Honored, and maybe a little overwhelmed.
Somehow, like he was locked into exactly how I felt, Remy sensed when my social battery went to shit. I was maybe halfway through my plate—my eyes having turned out to be bigger than my stomach—and people’s words were starting to sound more like the teachers from Charlie Brown than actual dialogue.
“Sorry, y’all,” he said, as charming as ever. “We gotta go check on the kiddos and make sure Ana gets a break.”
“No worries. We have been keeping you a bit.” Jahmoni patted my hand. “It has been a right blast talking to you! We’ll have to catch up later, you know, once you get settled.”
“Sounds great.”
“Here, let me take that plate and get it wrapped up in the kitchen,” Remy said, extending his hand.
The idea of leftovers was most certainly a welcome one, especially since it increased my chances of the aforementioned evening snack.
Was I thinking with my stomach? Yes. But that was part of the fun of the holidays.
Besides, when was the next time I would have access to this kind of bounty?
Most of my groceries already consisted of ramen, rice, beans, and chicken.
If I did splurge on something, it was usually for Max, because his dietary needs were much more vital and complicated than mine.
“Thank you,” I said softly, my mind beginning to slip away on one of its tangents.
I wasn’t a skinny girl—not by a long shot—and I had been that way ever since I turned nine and needed a training bra.
From then until sixteen, my parents or other members had restricted my food intake.
I’d never taken more than a few bites before my plate was taken away and I was told I’d had enough.