Page 44 of Queen of Ruin

A few searches on my phone, one call which was received enthusiastically, a twenty-minute drive later, and we’re standing outside of the Living Word Ministries.

“I think you planned this,” Cleo accuses.

“It’s a Methodist church, it would be like cheating on the Catholic. They can smell guilt like a bloodhound, ya know,” Alistair declares to Darren.

“Quit making excuses. I would worry less about what your Catholic brethren think and more about your waiter skills.” I raise an eyebrow.

“Darren,” Alistair whines, ignoring me. “I gave up Caroline and Remington’s actual Michelin chef thanksgiving dinner for this.” He peers up at the welcome sign that says Feed your faith, and your fears will starve to death. He points dramatically at the red brick building.

Darren is staring at me with a smile, his eyes alight with that ever-present mischief, but now there’s something deeper within the hazel swirls. Even though he may have been hesitant about coming here in the beginning, I can feel that hesitation start to ebb away.

Cleo clears her throat breaking the spell. “Kinda cold out here.” She pulls me forward, her ankle length leopard print fur coat flapping against my leg.

From behind, I hear Darren chastising Alistair, “If I hear one more complaint, I’m gonna throw you in the lake when we get back to the house.”

Inside, the dining hall is decorated with turkey printed table cloths and filled with people. Through the crowd, I notice a young woman with gloves wearing a hair net making rounds refilling cups with a different variety of drinks. I catch her eye and she makes her way over.

“I’m Evangeline. I called earlier,” I explain.

“Oh yes!” she exclaims excitedly. “I’m Maria. Thank you so much. We’re short on volunteers and could really use the help,” she says breathlessly, balancing a tray of drinks.

“You can put your coats over there.” She points to a small room off the kitchen and then assesses the four of us. “You,” she points to Alistair, “you look strong.”

“Well, I mean looks… looks can be deceiving,” Alistair stutters.

“Here,” she hands him the tray. “Just refill drinks, there’s iced tea, lemonade, and water, and you can grab more in the kitchen if you run out.”

Alistair balances the tray and wobbles over to a nearby table, looking back at us with a distressed look.

“I could use some hands filling up plates,” she orders, pointing to me and Darren, and motions for us to follow her to the line of guests at a buffet style table.

“Why do I feel like the last kid picked for basketball?” Cleo steps forward, placing a hand on her hip.

“Do you have any experience prepping food?” Maria questions.

She inspects her long fingernails before answering. “No time like the present.” We all follow Maria into the kitchen where she hands us each a plastic hair net and gloves.

“Do I really have to wear this?” Darren bemoans, holding the plastic cap with disdain.

I grab it from him and snap it on his head. “Picture perfect,” I declare, holding out my hands to frame his face.

“You are loving this aren’t you?” he grouses while his hands wrap around my waist and he stares down at me, his eyes dropping to my lips. Instead of kissing me, he grabs the plastic cap and shoves it on my head, pulling it over my eyes.

“Hey!” I pull away, adjusting the cap and tucking a few stray hairs in.

Alistair passes by. “If you want to switch, the answer is hell to the no,” he laughs and then stops at a nearby table. “Iced tea, lemonade, water?” he asks as if he’s a nineteen fifties cigarette girl in a speakeasy.

“Aren’t you a cute one,” one of the elderly women at the table says to Alistair.

I hear a troubled squeak from him. “Keep your hands to yourself!”

There's a line of people extending outside the door, and I hand Darren a large spoon for the green beans and grab one of my own. We get right to work scooping vegetables, potatoes, and gravy, onto countless plates.

“You look familiar,” one of the men says to Darren.

“I have one of those faces,” he smiles, but I can tell it makes him uncomfortable.

The man moves along, and I glance behind me to see Cleo in the kitchen placing more cuts of turkey into large aluminum pans, her dark curls barely contained in the plastic cap. She peers over at me, posing with her gloved hands, one sharp nail poking through the plastic. She looks so out of place, but I love it. In fact, I love that we’re all here, because this is the first holiday I haven’t felt alone.

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