Chapter 17 #2
“Aunt Meredith was drunk?” Taylor voices his question to his mom, but Hannah blurts out another giggle in response.
Great. More to sort out later. No need for my niece and nephew to think their aunt is a lush.
Still clutching my arm, Molly gawks. “Dear Lord. It’s like staring at the sun. He’s so pretty, my eyes are burning.”
“Mom,” Hannah hisses as her entire body lurches in our direction. “Stop talking. I’m begging you.”
Harlan’s lips twitch, and he glances at me.
Molly gasps, faces me, and clutches my bicep. “Are you dying? Is this some kind of Make-A-Wish thing?”
A small burst of laughter escapes my mouth as my gaze locks with Harlan’s, and I shake my head.
“Should I leave the room?” Harlan asks Taylor.
“No. Stay here.” Taylor widens his stance and crosses his arms. “This is when it gets good.”
Molly peeks at Harlan, then back to me. “What I can’t understand is how you were normal enough to meet him.”
Yanking my arm from her hold, I glare at my sister. “I did just fine, thank you very much.”
Harlan stares down to his boots while his shoulders shake.
“What?” My arms go out in question. “I think my issue has to do with the little amount of time I spend with famous people.”
“Oh, please.” My sister folds her hands in a praying position. “Please, Meredith—”
“If I had gotten more time with Rachael Ray—”
“Aaaaaaanndd here we go.” She sighs.
“—I think she would have understood my Adult Easy-Bake Oven design. We would have bonded and become best friends.”
“No, sweetie.” Molly pats my hand. “That was never going to happen. No amount of time changes the fact that in a sixty-second book signing, you pitched the idea of the microwave to a beloved chef.”
Harlan grimaces. “That’s rough.”
I grab a dish towel and wrap it around my hand. Traitor. Does no one understand my ingenious concept?
Molly offers Harlan a tight smile. “That’s when we came up with the rule.”
Harlan’s gleaming eyes sear into mine. “So . . .”
“Yeah.” Molly nods. “She can’t do famous people. Hence the Famous People Probation.” She steps toward Harlan and swirls her finger in the air, directing him to turn around. “So we’re going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Mom!” Hannah’s hummingbird presence takes a splat into a window.
Molly shrugs. “Or give up your super successful career, disappear for about five years, and reenter our lives as a carpenter. Then you might have a shot at being her friend.”
“I think I’ll take my chances.” Harlan’s amused brown eyes cut to Molly, then return to me. “Besides, People magazine passed on me this year. Which means I’m not as famous as I was when I met her. Things should go a lot smoother now.”
“You were robbed,” Hannah says under her breath.
Harlan hears it and winks at me.
The YouTube sensation about him died down weeks ago, and People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive issue came out this week without mention of the hometown hero.
Now he’s just movie-star Harlan. Except really, now he’s just a man standing in my kitchen with dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes, but eyes full of vulnerable hope nonetheless.
What happened to you over the last six weeks? I know he was filming. I know he said he would be busy. But was it more?
“Well, Harlan Holcombe,” my sister says, “welcome to our family Thanksgiving. I’m hoping we don’t scare you away before dessert, but if we do, it was wonderful to meet you.
” Molly shifts my direction, and in a quick private moment with me, she bugs out her eyes. “You have a lot of explaining to do.”
Trying to conceal my giggle, I cover my mouth and cough just as I hear my parents enter the house through the front door and call out their greetings.
I shoot a panicked look between Harlan and Molly.
My mom walks into the kitchen. “Oh, good, you’ve all met Harlan.”
Because the last five minutes weren’t bizarre enough, this happens right as my dad scoots into the room and gives Harlan a manly pound on the back. “Come on in here, son. We’ll find a football game while they finish the meal preparations.”
Harlan jerks his chin up at me, winks, and leaves the room with my dad.
Glancing around, I take note that we all appear related not because of our common genetics but because of the matching gaping mouths.
My mom approaches and wraps her arm around my waist in a side hug. “He’s a nice boy, Meredith.”
“But how did you . . . ?”
“He was getting out of his car when we left the house. Don’t tell your father, but I think I saw that young man without his shirt on once. All the ladies at Wednesday morning Bible study were watching something on YouTube. If I recall, he has a nice chest.”
I’m worried Hannah’s head is going to explode after hearing her grandmother talk about seeing a man’s pecs. “Gramma. Gah.”
My head may explode too, but for different reasons.
Molly turns to her kids, snaps her fingers, and holds out her hand. “Hannah and Taylor. Phones. Now.”
The memory of Harlan’s pecs is snatched from my mind as reality sinks in. “Oh my gosh. Yes. You guys, you cannot tell your friends he’s here. No pictures. No posting anything, anywhere.”
“Huh.” My mom furrows her brow while she fiddles with her phone. “I should probably take down the selfie of Harlan and me on my Facebook page.”
“Mother.” I hold my hand out, opening and closing my fingers twice.
“Look at that. Seventy-two likes.” She looks at the screen and her smile wanes. “Oh. Kathryn messaged and she wants to meet him.”
“Mom. Gah.” I make an unsuccessful nab for the phone.
Hannah snickers.
“I’ll fix it.” My mom shoos me off. “I’ll tell her it was my first attempt at Photoshop.”
“Okay. Everybody out.” My firstborn, drill-sergeant sister swirls her finger in the air, directing everyone to the door. “There’s a Thanksgiving meal to prepare, an explanation to be told, and a famous person in the living room. Man your stations.”
Molly stashes the confiscated phones on top of the refrigerator while everyone else shuffles out of the kitchen. The only action I’m capable of right now is blinking.
What just happened? Blink.
Why is he here? Blink.
How am I nauseated but also full of glee? Blink.
With a drone-like perspective of the bigger picture, I pull back. And then it hits me.
“I should have told everyone.” Small, panicked thoughts pelt me like a hard rain.
Staring aimlessly at the living room, I whisper to no one, “I should have asked if this was okay. Taylor and Hannah were so close to Steve and the kids—what if this hurts them? What if Mom thinks it’s too soon to bring someone home? What if Dad doesn’t approve?”
Molly takes my hand. “Meredith. It’s okay.” She squeezes.
Tears prick my eyes. “I want everyone to be normal. If they want to talk about Clayton or Chloe, I want them to tell their stories. And if a memory of Steve comes to mind, they should voice it. I know I didn’t tell you anything about Harlan, but he would want us to be normal. ” My gaze turns to Molly and I swallow.
Her smiling face surprises me. “You asked a handsome man to Thanksgiving. Other than your not sharing the girly details with me, it’s fine.” She grabs my other hand. “It’s time. We all knew this was coming someday.”
“Yeah?” I release the word on a shaky breath.
“Maybe not the part where you bring home a movie star.” She chuckles, our hands shaking with her laughter. “But we all understood this day would come.”
Something small and far away aches inside of me. I miss this Molly. Before life imploded, she was my person. But our relationship morphed into a codependent puzzle that’s missing pieces, and neither of us can decipher how to put it back together.
Molly lowers her chin and peers into my eyes. “You wouldn’t have asked him here if he wasn’t safe. You and I will lead the discussion at dinner by example. Everyone will follow. It will be okay, Meredith.”
The downpour of my anxiety decreases to a light drizzle.
But even though her words were calming, her current expression is unreadable. “What are you not saying?” I ask.
“Nothing. I’m withholding my opinions until later.”
On a giant exhale, I release some of the tension. “Thank you.”
She drops my hands, ambles to the silverware drawer, and pulls out another spoon. “But don’t think you’re getting away with anything. I want details later. All of them.”
She offers the utensil to me and nods to the unfinished ambrosia salad.
I wave off the spoon. Surveying the remaining jobs to be done in the kitchen, I figure out what will help my current emotional state. “I need the cleaver. And the turkey.”
“Another beautiful bird, Meredith.” My mom walks into the dining room, nodding at our turkey in the middle of the table.
“It’s only still beautiful because I hid the cleaver from her.” At Molly’s statement, everyone groans in agreement.
Everyone except Harlan. He hasn’t been exposed to the abstract art that is my cutting of the turkey.
We create a circle, connecting our hands for the prayer my dad will pray.
Harlan follows suit.
We bow our heads and listen as my father leads our prayer of gratitude. At the end, his voice takes on a gruff tone and he pauses. “Today we are thankful for the old and the new. Amen.”
The echoed “Amen” is tentative at best. There’s always an elephant in the room. I just didn’t realize my dad would invite it to the table.
Darting glances at everyone, I move to my seat. Harlan moves to the one next to me. Steve’s spot.
Everyone stills.
My mom stares at him while he sits. “Perfect.” She clears her throat. “Let’s be seated.”
Following her lead, the others take their chairs.
If Harlan is thrown off, he doesn’t show it. But I don’t think there’s any way he can miss the heaviness in the air.
Sounds of clanking silverware fill the room as we unroll our napkins and release the spoons, knives, and forks.
“Meredith”—Harlan points to the turkey—“since this bird is sitting in front of me, would you like me to do the honors?”
Without my consent, tears sting my nose. That was Steve’s job. It was always Steve’s job. My father filling in the last few years has been a silent reminder of our loss. But Harlan’s request to carve the turkey is a screaming announcement of it.
I shrink into my chair and look down at the table. I am an idiot. I’ve placed Harlan in a field of emotional land mines. It will be a miracle if any of us make it out alive.
Molly, seated next to me, reaches under the table for my leg and offers a squeeze of support. Or maybe it’s that she can’t bear the stress of waiting for Dad to respond. Either way, I’m thankful for the contact.
“Son, since you’re our guest, I’ll take a crack at it.” My dad rescues all of us, stands, and positions himself closer to the turkey. He claps Harlan on the shoulder. “Thank you for the offer, though.”
I catch Harlan’s uncomfortable smile at my dad, and my heart sinks.
In taut silence, we pass the side dishes while Dad works on the turkey, handing out slices as he goes.
“Harlan,” my mom says while scooping green beans out of a casserole dish, “does your family do anything special for Thanksgiving?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Harlan grabs a roll from the basket in front of him.
“Once we recover from the big meal, we play a huge game of Monopoly. It goes on for hours. Through the first round of desserts, the leftovers, the evening coffee. Some years we play late into the night.” He hands the basket to Taylor.
“I was wondering if Taylor and Hannah wanted to play later.”
With wide eyes, I stare at Taylor. His grinding teeth are his only response.
Michael shoots a compassionate look to me, then quietly says to Taylor, “Can you pass the salt, son?”
Sweet, well-intentioned, clueless Harlan concentrates on spreading butter on his roll. “I’m usually the race car.”
Hannah snaps her napkin down on the table, causing me to jump at the abrupt sound. “Uncle Steve was the—”
“Hannah.” Molly flashes an admonishing glare at her daughter.
“No, Mom.” Her blazing eyes brim with tears. “You guys tell us we should talk about Uncle Steve, Clayton, and Chloe whenever we want to. So I’m going to now.”
Harlan gently sets his roll and knife down and gives my niece his complete focus.
Hannah balls her hand into a fist. “Uncle Steve was the car. Chloe was too little. But Clayton played with the shoe because he liked to say the word. Only he said it wrong and it came out ‘soo.’ We all thought it was cute, but you were worried he was going to swallow the piece. Remember, Aunt Meredith?”
“I remember, sweetie.” I offer a watery smile with my whispered words.
Harlan folds his hands in front of him and massages the inside of one with a thumb. “I, uh . . .” His eyes down, he nods. “I really messed this up, didn’t I?”
I reach over and cover his fidgeting hands with mine.
“I’m sorry, you guys. Sometimes I dive in too fast without thinking.” He shrugs, shaking his head, still looking down. “Maybe I should leave.”
I close my eyes, and a tear escapes.
But a clap from the opposite end of the table jolts all our attention.
“All right,” my mother says in a commanding tone. “Harlan, we’re learning how to navigate this part of life right alongside you. There’s no need to apologize. Sometimes it gets a little messy. But if you can handle a few tears in your mashed potatoes, we’d love for you to stay.”
He fixes his eyes on my niece. “Hannah, would it be better for you if I left and came back another time?”
I suck in a breath.
Something works behind her eyes. After a beat, she sits up straight. “Instead of the race car, I think you should be the top hat. Because you’re in show business.”
Harlan takes a moment to swallow. “I think,” he says, his voice low, “that’s a really great idea.”
The deflating tension is almost tangible, and I release my hold on Harlan. When he shifts his focus to me, I offer him a smile of forced confidence.
We defused that bomb.
But whether it be during this meal or on another day, there will be more explosions of grief. And I wonder if Harlan will want to stick around in the craters left behind.