The Build Up (57)

The table had gone still. Even the teenage girls had stopped gossiping. I feared that they were going to broadcast this entire fight on TikTok.

A hesitant member of the waitstaff brought out what appeared to be slices of my caramel pound cake to the table. I should have been happy that Eloise chose to share my cake with everyone but in that moment, I was hurt that she had to see her sons having what seemed to be a cyclical fight.

“I think I’ll take my cake to the other room. Ari, pleasure meeting you.” I watched as Todd snatched the dessert plate from the table, along with a fork, and tramped out of the dining room.

A few folks began murmuring about Todd’s behavior, embarrassing his “legacy,” but Eloise clapped her hands together, like the seasoned teacher she was, bringing the chatter to a halt. “Everyone, I’m sorry for that. Please, enjoy the cake that Ari so graciously baked for us.” Eventually, everyone began to dig into dessert and resumed their previous conversations.

Porter finally sat down, then turned to me, his voice low. “I’m so sorry you had to see that, Ari.”

“Hey, my family has had some lively Thanksgivings. You should see when we get the spades table going.” I chuckled, uncomfortably.

Porter shook his head. “Todd is...listen, I’ll understand if you want to leave.”

“Porter, don’t apologize. Seems like Todd has some things he’s going through.”

“Thanks for understanding. We’re trying to get him under control. It’s been tough.”

“I get it.” I smiled, squeezing Porter’s knee. “But I’m not leaving. Besides, after eating all this good food, I think it may be physically impossible for me to leave. That gumbo was serious! I probably could use a nap.”

“Word?” Porter chuckled. “I got the perfect place to chill post-dinner. Let’s head to the sunroom. There’s a TV there. We can wrap up under the blanket, light the fire pit, and see who loses the games. Neither one of us has a dog in the fight.”

I smiled. “That sounds wonderful.”

As we rose from the table, I noticed a look of worry etched across Eloise’s face as Des held her hand. I stopped, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Eloise looked up with a soft smile and patted my hand resting on her shoulder. “Oh, my dear. I’m fine. Embarrassment never killed anyone. Drama is par for the course it seems in this family. It’s nothing we can’t handle. We’ll talk to Todd. Don’t let this run you off, now.”

I looked at Porter, who stood waiting for me at the doorway to the hall. A genuine smile finally on his face.

“I’m not going anywhere.”



Chapter Twenty-One


Porter


The intro music to the evening news was just beginning as I woke up, buried under another thicker plaid blanket. I smiled, know that it had to have been my mother that added the extra layer of warmth. Ari was still napping, her head resting on my shoulder. She looked so at peace, so comfortable here with me. I buried my nose in her hair, smelling the familiar scent of her tropical conditioner. The gas fire pit was low, providing an amber glow in the dim sunroom. As I moved my arm, Ari stirred.

“Hey, sleeping beauty.”

Ari looked up with a smile. “Jesus, how long were we out? I guess the effects of tryptophan in turkey are real.”

I looked at my watch, then the television. “Well, we slept through the second game, that’s for sure. You up for something else?”

Ari stretched and pulled the blanket over her. “Sure. What do you have in mind? Des did mention playing dominoes.”

I turned toward Ari. “Listen, I know Thanksgiving didn’t go as planned, but I had something planned for us after dinner. So, will you go with me? I’d hate for my surprise to go to waste.”

“A surprise? On Thanksgiving? Just about everything is closed.”

My lips quirked up into a knowing smile. “Trust me. It’s going to be worth it. I hope you have a coat in that Honda. You’re going to need it.”

Given that it was a holiday, no one was on the roads. At least not at this time of night or in this general direction. A complete anomaly for Atlanta, with its notoriously terrible traffic. I put on a nice mix of jazz, ranging from Billy Eckstine to...

“Carmen McRae,” said Ari. “My dad used to love some Carmen McRae. He said her voice sounded like she made love to the notes. Caressed them. Made them breakfast in the morning.”

I laughed. “Your dad really had a way with words. You’re sure he was a utility worker and not a poet?”

“Nope, totally and truly a blue-collar guy,” Ari assured me. “But blue-collar guys can be poetic too.”

Typically, Thanksgiving in Atlanta is mild, but this year an arctic blast had taken over at sundown. The windows of my Porsche were struggling to stay defrosted. I looked over at Ari and saw that she was making hearts and circles on the misty fog of my window. That made my heart beat a little faster than usual. Maybe I childishly hoped one of those hearts were meant for me.

We exited the highway, and I eased into the lane that led directly to Truist Park. Ari turned to me, confused. I tried to hide my smile as best as I could.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“You’ll see,” I said. “Do you trust me?”