Chapter 46
Forty-Six
T hanksgiving brings a cavalcade of thoughts and emotions. Normally I’m focused on surviving another Hall-iday, but this screams high stakes. Or maybe I’m being overly dramatic.
Wanting to make a good impression—the entire Hamilton family will be there today—I don a shirred ruffle, rust-orange dress that hits mid-calf, and my favorite suede boots.
I leave my golden hair long, my makeup tasteful, and damn if I don’t look like a walking advertisement for autumn.
I gather my purse, coat, and the sweet potato pie I made from scratch.
My coworker Val assured me this was an appropriate southern dessert for the occasion.
My mind chants we’re doing this…we can do this all the way to the car.
As my Toyota warms up, I sift through my tape collection, searching for anything to ease the trepidation shadowing my every move.
Oh yes…Van Halen’s 1984 will do nicely. The synthesizer intro plays, bringing a pang of melancholy.
It’s their last album before David Lee Roth quit the band.
Granted, he was a total prima donna but replacing him with Sammy Hagar—as much as I love me some Hagar— ruins a good thing.
Another reminder that nothing stays the same .
I make my way to the interstate, volume cranked. Roth sings, “Go ahead and jump” and I wonder if Van Halen is imparting wisdom specifically for me. A grin erupts before I belt out the lyrics.
Singing, headbanging, and tapping out guitar riffs on the steering wheel keeps my nerves from taking over for most of the ride. Good call.
After I exit the main highway, the landscape illustrates just how fast indeed everything changes.
The grass leans toward gray. Trees are barren, their once vivid leaves browning and seeping into the earth.
As sad as this transition to the next season looks, I’m excited for my first winter on the east coast, stoked at the prospect of snow.
The only time this California girl previously experienced that phenomenon was if I drove four hours to frolic in it—a rare event.
Entering Hampton Springs proper, I slow my speed and reduce the volume on John Mellencamp’s “Scarecrow,” but my heart pounds harder and faster with every mile closer to the Hamilton household.
Butch. Emmy. The parents. Other family members. Overwhelm creeps up, but then again, there’s safety in numbers. Maybe it will be easier, put me less on the hot seat? Right. My hunch is this brood protects their own, which means I’ll be scrutinized and interrogated...and I might not measure up.
I steer down the drive, exhale a long breath.
Might as well jump.
Butch jogs out of the house and down the porch steps before I’ve shut my car door.
He doesn’t say a word, just pulls me into his arms and kisses me. My heart lurches at the intensity in it. His lips find my ear, his words raw, honest. “I’m so fucking happy you’re here. That you’re giving us a chance. Thank you.”
I stroke his cheek, grazing the coarse hair from the beard he’s growing, and he sinks into my caress. “Thank you for believing in me.”
He closes his eyes a moment, as if savoring my touch.
We part and his brow lifts. “You ready for the circus?”
“As long as there are no clowns. I just can’t add the stress of that into my day.”
Butch chuckles. “We’re all clowns, baby.”
I collect the rest of my things, and he offers to carry my pie.
He escorts me to the door and as we step inside, I’m assaulted in the best way by Thanksgiving aromas: roasting turkey, cranberry, citrus, cinnamon, and nutmeg.
Music plays underneath a chorus of voices coming from different directions.
Thundering footfalls round the corner. Emmy tears through the foyer wearing a cape, as are the little boy and girl on her heels. “Hi, Jacqui!” she squeals as she runs past.
“Hi, Emmy!” I call out.
Butch takes my coat, letting out a slow whistle when he sees my dress. “Hot damn,” he murmurs.
He leads me into the kitchen, where his mom envelops me in a hug like we’re already the best of friends.
“So pleased you could join us.”
“Thank you for having me.” I collect my dessert from Butch and hand it to her. “It’s sweet potato pie. I, uh, made it.” And hope I didn’t butcher it.
Mrs. Hamilton lets out a happy gasp. “It’s official. We’re keeping you. That’s my favorite !” She’s effortlessly warm and welcoming, setting me more at ease.
“I hope I did it justice. I’m a little nervous about it.”
“I’m sure it’s fabulous. We’re all pie fiends, but I’m not sharing this with anyone. Except you.” She raises her eyebrows and flashes another smile.
An older couple waits expectantly, and Butch guides me there next. “These are my grandparents on my mother’s side, Henry and Mabel.” They both have those signature green eyes, only paler—clearly a defining feature of this clan.
We shake hands and exchange pleasantries.
Butch leads me into the living room to continue introductions.
A fire blazes in a massive brick fireplace under an elaborate wood mantle.
Hemi stretches five feet long on the rug before it, barely sparing me a sleepy glance.
I greet Gus and meet his mother Dot, then Butch’s sister Liz and her husband Dan.
The next time their kids run through (the pair chasing after Emmy), Liz threatens them with no dessert if they don’t stop “the ruckus.” Her tone brooks no argument, stopping them in their tracks.
A breathless Emmy swivels toward me and scans me from top to bottom. “Your dress is pretty. I want one.”
“Emmaline Rose Hamilton, you hate dresses,” Butch says.
“Nuh uh. Not if they look like that.”
A furrow forms between Butch’s eyebrows as he scrutinizes his daughter. After she runs off, his perplexed gaze finds mine. “I think you have a fan.”
A smile inches up my lips. I know what I’m buying one little girl for Christmas.
Liz snags my hand. “I’m stealing her. Don’t try and stop me,” she tells her brother as she tugs me down the hall.
“She just got here!” I’m nearly out of the room when he yells, “You don’t have to answer any of her nosy questions!”
Liz shuts the door on a study lined with brimming bookshelves, abundant light casting a glow upon the titles. A cushioned reading nook nestles in a bay window—a refuge if I need it. I can’t help scanning the spines…until Liz pulls me from my happy gaping.
“Not to freak you out, but I wanted some girl time,” she says with a sly smile. “Big brother never brings anyone home, which means you’re special.”
“Oh…I don’t know about that. ”
“I do.” Her grin grows wider. Liz isn’t lumberjack sized like Butch but stands about my height. Her long brunette hair blazes with auburn hues, and her blue eyes sparkle gleefully. “Tell me about you.”
Where to start? “I’m from California. I moved here in April to work for a magazine in Richmond. You probably heard I wrote the article about your family’s business?”
She dips her chin. “Pop was happy. That’s saying something. You live in the city then?”
“Crammed into a studio apartment that’s all mine. It’s convenient for work but also cool being near all the metro stuff.” I leave off and lonely .
She makes a face. “Oof. That’s a drag of a drive for you and Butch to spend time together.”
“A bit,” I agree. “But it’s forced us to take things slow, which we both need.”
“Mm-hmm. Guess if there’s a silver lining, it gives you the chance to get to know one another. Become friends?”
“Exactly.”
“But y’all like each other, don’t you? I mean, a lot .”
My expression, even without verbal corroboration, clearly pleases her. “Are you here to warn me off or threaten me if I hurt him?”
She barks a laugh. “Butchie can take care of himself. Although…” She turns thoughtful.
“He’s been hurt, and by hurt, I’m talking almost mortally wounded, by what happened with Emmy’s…
” She falters. “I can’t even say the word.
Let’s just call her the…incubator. I would do anything and everything in my power to stop that from happening again. ”
I nod, my affection for her growing. It also makes me wonder how the family’s coping with Butch’s ex-wife trying to insert herself back into Emmy’s life. “You’re a good sister.”
“And you’re making my brother happy for the first time in years.”
Our eyes meet, hers reflecting nothing but sincerity.
“He’s doing the same for me.”
As the day unfolds, the Hamilton family dynamic sets me further at ease.
They get along, tease each other, help when needed.
Butch wrestles with the kids, throwing them around like they’re weightless.
The younger generation frolics…like they should.
No one drinks too much or zones out in a haze of narcotics.
No one yells. No one gets angry or upset. No one’s ignored.
Delicious food flows, from the appetizers to the big meal to the array of desserts, giving me my fill and then some.
I’ve never eaten homemade stuffing the likes of Jerri’s and the cranberry sauce isn’t from a can but made with tart berries sweetened by sugar.
Every dish—the mashed potatoes, sides, salads, and pies—were crafted from scratch.
The time and energy infused into making this beautiful spread fills me with a foreign emotion.
It’s so personal, generous, meaningful…as if love is the main ingredient in feeding us all.
Butch is attentive, but not overly demonstrative. When his hand finds mine under the table, he lightly strokes my skin, and even that simple touch electrifies.
As we’re nearing the end of a collective cleanup effort, Butch’s lips graze my ear. “Want to go for a walk?”
My body protests from overeating. “Mm-hmm, but you might have to roll me.”
He snickers, and I return the dish towel to its hook.
“We’re sneaking out of here. I want you all to myself ,” he whispers.
Liz gives us a covert thumbs-up. I glance at Butch, who mouths “thank you,” to her. Ah.