Page 39 of About Last Christmas
“I’m grabbing Leo a plate.” I motion at the barstools. “Leo, you can take a seat at the counter if you want. Oh, and that’s Oggy.” The schnauzer lifts his head from the rug as if hopefulone of us will toss him a crumb. “He’s harmless and surprisingly the quietest out of all of us.” Seriously, the dog is too silent for his own safety, considering I nearly tripped over him last week. “Though he does have a penchant for burying things in the yard.” Oggy tilts his head as if offended but is soon caught up in Leo’s attention.
As Leo’s preoccupied with Oggy, Mom leans to whisper in my ear, “Did you invite him?”
I’m thankful the dishwasher’s running, keeping Mom’s low tones from reaching Leo. “No, Leonard did.”
“Is he single?”
“Leonard? Yes, I believe he’s been single for about two decades.”
She nearly swats me with a spoon. “You know who I mean.”
“I know.” I angle away from Leo. “But all I care about right now is making it through Thanksgiving without any fake body parts dropping onto the food.”
Her face pales. “Please tell me that didn’t happen before.”
Glass eyeballs, toupees, and false teeth, to name a few. I warned Leonard not to buy his dentures off eBay because he needed a custom fit, but he never listened, claiming it was a steal. I dared not ask if they were used. “Enough for me to keep back a whole pie.” I point at the lone pumpkin pie on the counter.
“The things that go on in this house amaze me.” With that, she grabs the bowls of whipped cream and leaves.
Mom’s oblivious to my Secret Santa duty. She has no idea that her mother was wealthy. Though I couldn’t help but wonder, what if Gran had left Mom all the money? Would Mom leave again? It’s sad that I can’t answer this.
“Anything I can do to help?” Leo’s question yanks me from my dismal thoughts.
Ugh, the poor man’s probably starving. “I got it.” I grab a plate from the cabinet and the covered dishes from the counter. I prepare him a plate large enough to induce a food coma and warm it in the microwave. Leo joins my side as I’m rinsing off the serving spoons.
“I feel bad you’re waiting on me. Can I do anything?”
I move toward the beeping microwave. “You can grab a drink from the fridge, if you want. Coke and bottled water are in the bottom drawer. There might be some Sprite left.” That is, if Bruce didn’t steal it all. Those men act like teenagers, raiding the kitchen and leaving their shoes everywhere.
“Greta?”
“Yeah?” I grab some silverware and glance at Leo, who’s staring into the open fridge with a bewildered expression.
“There’s a hand in here.”
I try not to wince. “Ah, yes. The mannequin.” I reach inside and grab it by its chilly fingers. “Pap was looking for this. I’ve no idea why it’s in the fridge.”
“Do you usually have plastic appendages lying around?”
As if I needed another reminder that Leo’s upbringing was a stark contrast from mine. We are from different worlds, but—I raise my chin—we share the same stars. I have nothing to be ashamed of. Mostly. “This is the Mavericks’ esteemed trophy.” I explain its concept and history, though I don’t think I succeed at making the Mavericks seem less eccentric. But Leo’s a good sport, and if he thinks we’re all weirdos, he doesn’t show it. We rejoin the others, and while Leo inhales turkey and mashed potatoes, Pap tries to teach him the rules of Hearts.
“You never want to be stuck with the queen of spades.” Pap talks like he’s instructing a five-year-old, making me snicker. “She’s worth thirteen points.”
Leo takes a large swig of his Coke. “And points are bad?”
“The fewer, the better. Your goal is to stay at zero.” Pap makes an “O” with his hand as if Leo needs the visual, but what Leo really needs is an escape. These men are intense about their cards. “If you get the queen of spades, pass it along to your neighbor at the beginning of the round.”
After some painful moments that involve a pop quiz and more monologues, I rescue Leo from Pap’s clutches. I turn on the television so Leo can watch football—a game that actually makes sense to him—and go help Mom with the coffee. I approach Professor with a pot of decaf, and he holds out his mug.
“Ah.” Professor leans back in his chair, a satisfied sigh escaping. “It’s been a great week, Greta. First, I get what you kids call aside hustle, and then tonight, I have your Gran’s pumpkin pie. You copied the recipe to a T.”
“Side hustle?” I pop my free hand on my hip. “Leonard’s not recruiting you for another pyramid scheme, is he?”
“The day I join Leonard Faulk in business is the day I say the Oxford comma’s outdated.”
“Wow, that’s serious.” I pour his coffee and hand the pot to Mom as she passes. I claim the vacant chair beside Professor. “Tell me, is this new job at the local delicatessen?” I wag my eyebrows, but the second I mention the deli, Professor’s gaze turns distant.
“I wish.” The poor man’s got it bad. “The way Phyllis works the slicer is like watching poetry.”
