Chapter 11-Pa’ la Mesa
Lizzie woke up on Saturday feeling as if she had just crossed her personal Rubicon.
Having the accomplishment of surviving the night shift weeks, the Thanksgiving holiday week lying before her felt like a breath of fresh air.
She mainly had work-from-home projects to finish—that and getting her sleep back on track.
Monday morning, she was having her coffee with emails from Pemberley’s overseas offices, working to implement improvements at their sites as well.
Her phone rang. Ignacio.
“?Jefa!” he said by way of greeting. “I need your help. Did you see that email for the Thanksgiving charity event?”
Lizzie scanned her inbox. “The Pa’ la Mesa thing?”
“Yeah, it’s an annual thing they do every year. They have a kids area, and they feed like three hundred people, and you know, just give back to the community.”
“Okay, sounds nice…” Lizzie said, wondering where she fit in here.
“So do you have any plans Wednesday evening?”
“I mean, just working. But do you really need more people to hand out plates?”
“You hand out plates?! No! You’re the queen of efficiency! I need help working through the crowd! Every year, my team works on it, and it always takes forever. The lines are long, the food gets cold, it’s just… I can’t even feel good about doing it because it’s such a nightmare.”
“Oh…” Lizzie was happy to help, but the idea of spending time anywhere near Will made her stomach tight. “Are we sure that Mr. Pemberley is okay with getting help from me?”
“Why would he care? Plus, he doesn’t usually bother with the logistics. I didn’t even see him the last two years.”
Lizzie exhaled silently. “Okay, yeah, maybe tomorrow you can show me the space before the event on Wednesday?”
“You got it,” Ignacio said, and after coordinating times, Lizzie hung up.
“?Quién fue eso?” Abuela appeared next to Lizzie like a ninja, causing her to jump. (Who was that?)
“?Jesusito!” Lizzie yelped. “What are you wearing your stealth chancletas today?”
“Maybe less café?” Abuela suggested.
“It was a guy from work about a charity thing they’re hosting on Wednesday for Thanksgiving.”
“Oh? ?Cuándo?”
“I think it starts at like four. Why?”
“I want to make sure I’m ready,” Abuela said.
“Ready? Why ready?! Why would you be going?”
“Didn’t you say there was food being given out?”
“Yeah, but for like…”
“And it’s for a good cause,” Abuela added.
“Yeah, but not if you—”
“And I can see el hombre del email, no?”
“Well, he might not even be there,” Lizzie said, blushing and looking down.
Abuela came over and kissed her forehead. “Ok, mi vida. I’ll be ready by two.”
* * *
From the Desk of William Pemberley
Pemberley HQ Office- 4:45 PM
Lizzie’s coming to the charity event. I hadn’t seen her since that night on the roof. Since I told her.
She hadn’t spoken to me since. I may have gone overboard with the tape. I couldn’t help myself.
I’m nervous and excited. Anxious but also happy. And I have the sudden urge to have her meet Giana.
Giana wasn’t set to arrive until Wednesday night, but I can fly her in early. I hope that’s not too crazy.
I know that Lizzie isn’t interested in me, and that’s fine. But I want her to see the real me. The me that I am around the people I love. And Giana brings that out in me.
Giana squeals at the idea of coming in early. I hope I don’t regret this.
* * *
Only Miami natives know that if you head south and west, before you run into the Everglades, you’d run into an area known as the Redlands. Estate-like homes on acres of land, peppered between fields and nurseries; this is where you could find the Pemberley estate.
The day before, Lizzie toured the area, only seeing the house from afar as she pointed out where cars should park, how lines should be formed through different areas to maximize the comfort in the shade, and optimize the flow.
She talked about the assembly line and discussed how work should be divided so people could be fed quickly and efficiently.
She tried to picture it as it was described to her so that she wouldn’t miss a choke point, a potential obstacle, or a challenge.
Still, nothing had quite prepared her for the Cuban Thanksgiving fever dream that took over the estate the day of: three massive lechón pits turning slowly over wood fires, two salsa bands warming up, long tables draped in white, and a sea of folding chairs already filling with abuelas in their Sunday best, clutching Tupperware “just in case there are leftovers.”
Lizzie, in jeans and a simple black polo with the company logo, was directing traffic like an air-traffic controller on cafecito. Ignacio had given her a megaphone. A megaphone. It might as well be Christmas.
Abuela—wearing a floral dress, pearls, and her “visiting” chancletas (the ones with the slight heel)—was already deep in conversation with a circle of senoras, gesturing wildly about something that definitely involved Lizzie.
Still better than what she was doing at first: walking up to volunteers unsolicited, pointing at Lizzie, and letting them know she was in charge.
The crowd started arriving, and Lizzie only had to make a few small adjustments to keep things running smoothly.
Lizzie was proud of how quickly people were moving through, and Ignacio pointed out several times how much better things were going than in previous years. “I knew you were the right call!”
Lizzie was mid-yell—“?Por favor, una línea, no un arroz con mango!”—when a young woman in a Stanford hoodie, high ponytail, and light-up reindeer antlers that gobbled when she moved (bizarre combo), sprinted straight at her.
“Lizzie, right?” She said, beaming.
“Uh, yeah,” Lizzie looked around for Abuela. Surely she was behind sending this girl her way.
The girl launched herself at Lizzie like a heat-seeking missile. Lizzie barely caught her.
“I knew it! I’m Georgiana, call me Giana.
I’m Will’s sister.” She was talking a mile a minute, hands flying.
“I heard about you and all the amazing stuff you’re doing at Pemberley, and oh my God, you have to tell me all the stories!
Will told me about the warehouse and how you like showed him up, but I just know he left out the juicy details! I want to hear all about it from you!”
Lizzie’s brain short-circuited. “You’re… Georgiana?”
“Duh! Come on, I’m supposed to be helping in the kids’ area, they’re feral, and also I want selfies, and also—” Giana finally noticed Abuela twenty feet away, now staring with the intensity of a telenovela villain spotting her rival. “Is that your abuela? She’s iconic. Abuela! ?Ven!”
Abuela glided over like she’d been summoned by royalty.
Giana greeted her with perfect Spanglish and a cheek kiss.
Within thirty seconds, they were comparing recipes for arroz con leche and plotting against the antagonist on Orgullo y Dolores.
Abuela shot Lizzie a look that seemed to say, why couldn’t you be more like her?
Lizzie wasn’t sure what was more surprising: Giana seemed to speak Spanish pretty well, better than your average picked up from growing up in Miami.
Were Giana and Will Hispanic? She had just assumed he was your run-of-the-mill white guy.
How many assumptions had this self-proclaimed, open-minded observer made in the last few weeks?
And then there was Giana’s liveliness. She was chatty and friendly and all energy and silliness.
This was the polar opposite of Will, who seemed to be serious and stern.
She could see that they shared some physical features, but she couldn’t quite fathom that they were truly brother and sister.
Lizzie was still processing when a shadow fell over them.
Speak of the devil. Will.
In a simple white linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, looking like he’d rather be waterboarded than stand here. His hands were in his pockets, and pure panic was in his eyes.
Giana didn’t miss a beat. “Perfect timing! Will you remember Lizzie? And this is Senora Rosa, future abuela-in-law—”
Will made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh or a cry for help as his eyes snapped to Lizzie. First time in daylight since Halloween. He opened his mouth—like he might actually say something—but Giana was already steamrolling ahead. Whatever he’d been about to say died behind his teeth.
“—who already said yes to Thanksgiving tomorrow, by the way. I invited them. You’re welcome.”
Lizzie opened her mouth. Closed it. Found her voice. “I was actually not consulted, I wouldn’t want to impose…”
“Too late!” Giana sang. “I already texted Chef Ramón we’re six instead of four. He’s doing lechón AND turkey because Abuela said turkey alone is ‘triste.’”
Abuela nodded solemnly. “Seco como suela de zapato.” (Dry like the sole of a shoe.)
Will looked like he was calculating how many NDAs it would take to survive the next twenty-four hours.
Giana looped an arm through Lizzie’s and another through Abuela’s. “Come on, you have to see the dessert table before the kids destroy it. Will, grab us some lemonade like a good host.”
And just like that, Lizzie was being dragged toward the main house, Abuela cackling beside her, Giana narrating at 200 mph, and Will trailing behind them like a man walking to his own execution.
By the time the sun set over the Redlands, three hundred people had eaten, the lines had moved like magic, and Lizzie had exactly zero excuses left.
Tomorrow was Thanksgiving.
Tomorrow, she would sit across a table from William Pemberley in his family’s home, with his sister and her grandmother as co-conspirators.