Chapter Twenty-Three
“Callie, there’s someone here to see you,” my mother announced, sticking her head through my slightly open door.
For five days, Quinn and I had been eating our way through the leftover Russian tea cookies, fudge, and peppermint bark from my parents’ annual Boxing Day open house.
It was the one day a year my father tolerated my mother claiming British roots, though, on her side, we hail from an Eastern European and Bavarian mix.
Helen was a bona fide Anglophile, and part of my father’s Christmas gift to her each year was that he played along.
I found that the cookies paired perfectly with profound heartbreak.
I had taken to my bed for repeated viewings of the movie Father of the Bride on the VHS player I received as a Christmas gift instead of a plane ticket.
“Quinn, dear, why don’t you come help me in the dining room. I need you to climb up the step stool to put away my serving dishes on the top shelves.”
“Mom, can’t it wait? This is the best part of the movie. The bride’s about to play basketball in the driveway with her father the night before the wedding,” I whimpered and clung to Quinn, my emotional-support person.
“That is not the best part. Trust me,” Helen announced with finality before punching the power button on the VHS off.
Spurred on by sympathy for my mother’s demand for order, Quinn agreed.
“Coming, Mrs. Steele.” She hopped out of bed, abandoning me at my time of need for my mother’s need to put away her Waterford glass bowls.
Helen couldn’t help but wipe into her cupped hand the crumbs from the warm sheets where Quinn had just lain next to me, eating treats.
“Get up, Callie. Go wash your face, brush your hair, and come meet us in the kitchen for some real food. You’ve successfully sulked your way through Christmas, and there is no way I am going to let you ruin New Year’s Eve too. It’s time to turn the page on 1992.”
“What are you doing in New York?” I bellowed at the mountain of a man who, for the first time since knowing him, looked much smaller and full of remorse as he sat at my kitchen table.
Porter’s eyes frantically searched my face—for what, I wasn’t sure.
Perhaps forgiveness for not allowing me to visit him in Manning because at least now he was here?
Happiness to see him regardless of the circumstances that played out two weeks ago?
Maybe he had memory loss over what went down in my dorm room.
I took in the entire surreal scene before I considered addressing Porter further.
The empty cut-glass bowls sat on the kitchen table exactly where they were last night when I went to bed, only now they were filled with fresh fruit and an assortment of pastries from Dean and two, men have delicate egos that need to be stroked often.
She was walking the talk on Number Two right now.
Thinking back on our conversation about traveling together the afternoon before his abdominal surgery, I did have to acknowledge it was sort of a big deal that Porter got on a plane and flew up here to see me .
. . not us. I bit my tongue to avoid correcting my mother.
As far as I knew, the only places Porter had flown were in and out of Newark to get to and from school and his one trip to the Bahamas for spring break.
“So where did you tell your family you were going?” I asked Porter, softening my tone just slightly.
“I told them I was going to visit friends in New York,” Porter admitted, his words shaky.
Quinn elbowed me hard before I could snap in reaction. “And we’re so happy you’re here, Porter. Does Charles know?”
Porter looked up at Quinn, relief in his eyes while I rubbed my arm. “Yeah, I called him yesterday to see if I could stay at his house.” Porter’s eyes moved from Quinn and locked in on mine.
I was not going to be the first one to look away. Instead, I was the first to start crying. Hard.
“Cal-lee,” Porter whispered, gently pushing his chair away from the kitchen table and standing.
I put my hands over my eyes and shook my head, willing Porter to both stay away and come closer.
“Cal-lee.” Porter walked over and wrapped me in his arms, not at all concerned that my parents were watching.
Kissing the top of my head, Porter held me, regret in his embrace, like he knew he had messed up.
The tension in his body relayed that letting me go the first time had been a colossal mistake by a man who did his best to ensure he rarely made one.
I sensed by the strength of his hold and the pounding of his heart against my collarbone that letting me go again was a misstep he would not take. “Callie, you are my everything.”
There was only one way to know if Porter was speaking the truth. “What about August Wilson, and Herman Melville, and that one lady, Zora Neale something?” I half teased through tears and a less-than-attractive snot bubble, daring him to place my importance among his favorite novelists.
Porter let out a hearty, guttural laugh, then said, “Zora Neale Hurston. And they’re all dead.”
I shrugged. They still felt like competition.
“You are my favorite writer and my one and only girl.” Porter punctuated his sincerity with a long, slow kiss on my lips.
My mom and Quinn awwwed at the romantic made-for-movies scene playing out in our kitchen. My dad coughed uneasily.
“So, Callie, are you two sticking with the graduate-school plan?” my dad asked, leaning against the kitchen counter, desperate to shift the topic to something more practical.
“I think so,” Porter replied to all of us gathered in the kitchen but keeping his eyes on me. “Right?”
“You may want to reconsider Wall Street,” my dad advised, biting into the crisp Red Delicious apple he had just shined on his khakis. “Steele women do not come cheap.”