The Right Time (70 page)

“That’s nice,” she purred, a sated grin on her face. “You do it rough!”

“I’m not going to do it at
all
at this rate.” She flopped down in her molded plastic chair, belatedly recalling that her ass hurt. “I don’t remember having ice storms in Boston this early in the year.”

“I’ve lived through ice in October and snow in April. It’s not the most hospitable place on earth.” She dropped down next to Hennessy. “I was sure looking forward to a hospitable pair of…” Her mouth twitched into a devilish smile as her hands grasped at a pair of imaginary breasts. “Arms to snuggle up to.”

“We’re not going to make it out of here tonight. We should go home and try again tomorrow.”

“Supposed to be worse tomorrow.”

“Friday?” She asked, hoping Townsend’s frequent reconnaissance had given her a scrap of good news about the rest of the weekend.

“Doubtful. Today’s supposed to be our best chance.”

“I do believe we’re going to have to satisfy ourselves with ribs, rather than…” She tried to match Townsend’s innuendo-filled grin. “Arms.”

“Ribs?”

“The Boudreaux family tradition. The pilgrims would be flummoxed, yet delighted.”

The next afternoon, Hennessy drove Grandaddy’s truck to Noot and Bud’s, their favorite local rib joint. As always, a line of hungry folks stood out in the sun, angling their bodies so the rays didn’t hit them directly in the face.

Townsend didn’t seem to mind the unique holiday menu, not even asking how it came about. The lady in front of them was clearly bored, having spent the last ten minutes talking to the guy in front of her. She must have worn out her conversational opportunities with him, since she turned to say, “Do you girls hate turkey too?”

She had a doozy of a Low Country accent, and Hennessy wondered if she’d have to translate for Townsend’s sake. “No, ma’am,” she said. “I love turkey, but my grandparents run a restaurant. Thanksgiving to them means not cooking.”

“What kinda restaurant?” The woman asked, narrowing her close-set eyes and leaning in to gaze more carefully at Hennessy. She was probably in her forties, probably with a few kids, or grandkids, given the orange and green stains on her shirt—at the perfect height for a kid in a high chair to hit when he hurled his pureed carrots.

“A fish shack,” Hennessy said, seeing a hint of recognition in the woman’s eyes.

“You’re Dawayne Boudreaux’s girl, aren’t you,” she said, slapping Hennessy on the shoulder. “Look at you, all growed up!”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m as grown as I’m gonna get. This is my friend, Townsend.”

“Good to meet you, Townsend,” the woman said, her speech pattern so rapid-fire it was like dodging bullets. “I’m Rita Lu Gibbons. Your daddy and me went to high school together,” she said, turning back to Hennessy. “We both dropped out at the same time, matter of fact.”

“Oh, that’s nice. I’ll tell him you said hello.”

“Damn,” she groused. “Them kids are about to rub my last nerve raw.”

“Is that them…honking?” Hennessy asked, not having paid much attention to the horn beeping every two seconds.

“Hold my place in line, will you, honey? I’ve got to go put the fear of the Lord into that bunch.” Rita Lu ran off, leaving Hennessy to chuckle at her plight. “You shouldn’t make your momma mad on Thanksgiving. Especially when she’s fetching you ribs.”

“I had no idea what she said,” Townsend whispered, leaning in close. “Was that English?”

“After a fashion.” They moved up a place in line after a guy emerged from the tiny shop loaded with boxes. “That sure does smell good,” she moaned. The smoke from the pit billowed out of the narrow chimney, making the air smell more like pork than oxygen.

“Have you ever had a Thanksgiving turkey?” Townsend asked.

“Oh, sure. Until I was about ten or eleven, we had the whole thing. Pickled shrimp, turkey, stuffing, spoon bread, cranberry sauce. All of Gramma’s family and most of Grandaddy’s showed up every year. We filled the shack and the house and a few card tables people brought.”

“Did you have a falling out?”

“Huh?” Hennessy was so fixated on their place in line and how slowly things were moving she was missing parts of the conversation.

“Your family. Why’d you stop having Thanksgiving?”

“Well, one year, ‘round October, I asked Gramma if she was looking forward to having everyone over. She looked at me like I was crazy and said, ‘About like I’d look forward to a hot poker in the eye.’”

“Ooo, that would hurt!”

“It truly would,” Hennessy agreed. “Turns out she hated the whole thing. No one chipped in. Half of the people didn’t bring what they said they’d bring. And there were usually some cross words exchanged between factions of the clan. She was sick of it.”

“So…?”

“I took matters into my own hands,” Hennessy said, still proud of her actions all these years later. “I called every limb of the family tree and told them Thanksgiving was cancelled. Then I worked any little job I could find. Washing cars, minding babies, cutting grass. By the time Thanksgiving rolled around I had enough to buy Gramma’s favorite food. I treated,” she added, in case that wasn’t clear.

Hennessy stumbled when Townsend’s arms encircled her for a rough hug. “You are just about the best grandchild in the whole world, baby girl.”

“Just about? Who’s better?” she demanded, touched by Townsend’s show of emotion. “I can surely step up my game if need be.”

On the way back home, the ribs smelling so powerfully good it was all she could do not to reach in the box and grab one, Hennessy started when Townsend’s phone rang.

“Yeah?”

That was a funny way to answer, Hennessy thought.

Townsend said, “Okay. Thanks for calling.” She placed her phone on her leg and sighed.

“What?”

“No flight tomorrow. We can rebook at no charge. Lucky us.”

“It took us two hours to get it booked!”

“I know. I was the one on the phone,” Townsend reminded her. “It’s your turn.”

“I’ll call Kate and see if she wants me to bother. Given she’ll be at work on Sunday…”

“Nicole won’t be.” She reached over and patted Hennessy on the leg. “You don’t mind if I take next week off, do you?”

“Of course not. You
should
,” she added.

“Then I will. I’m not sure what her schedule is, but if she can squeeze even a night or two free, I’ll go.” She gave Hennessy a sidelong look. “Don’t care to join me?”

“Can’t. I’ve got a couple of people coming in next week to interview in person.”

“You could always Skype,” Townsend reminded her. “I still talk to my therapist in Boston every week.”

“Yeah, I guess I could…”

She let it go, hoping Townsend did too. She
could
change things around, but showing up after the holiday, then having only half of Saturday together simply didn’t seem like it was worth the cost.

Hennessy drove carefully down the long, chalky drive, then parked and jumped out in front of the house. Gramma was standing in the doorway, her grin catching Hennessy by surprise. They said a smile took years off a person’s face, but that wasn’t true for Gramma. She actually looked older, for reasons Hennessy couldn’t understand.

Townsend opened her door and they all toted the feast inside, where Gramma had set the table with her best dinnerware, which wasn’t very good at all. But it matched, sort of. Once everything was placed in bowls, they sat down at the table and Gramma squeezed Hennessy’s hand, silently thanking her for once again making Thanksgiving a true day of rest.

It might be non-traditional, but Hennessy loved this meal more than she would have loved the most elegant turkey and fixings ever made. The most important people in her life were all together, Gramma and Grandaddy and Daddy…and Townsend. She swallowed the knot in her throat. The last name on that list should have been Kate. It wasn’t. It was Townsend, and that fact swept through Hennessy on a wave of nausea. Kate wouldn’t appreciate this meal. She’d be disappointed they didn’t do a traditional spread, and Gramma would pick up on that. Kate was never rude, never difficult. She was just…not part of the family.

And she never would be.

Townsend was piling ribs onto her plate and slathering them with Noot’s fantastic mustard-based sauce. She looked like she was about to dig into a five star meal at Boston’s finest. Why couldn’t, why
wouldn’t
, Kate do the same? After all these years, Hennessy still couldn’t answer that question. Part of loving someone meant accepting a few things you didn’t like. But this was a big one—a very big one. And watching Townsend so effortlessly blend in made acceptance of Kate’s standoffishness a hard pill to swallow.

Given that Townsend couldn’t get a flight until Sunday, they decided to go back to Hilton Head on Saturday morning. Townsend got big points for not complaining about sleeping on the raggedy mattress on the floor, but she couldn’t have been comfortable. And given how much she was looking forward to being with Nicole, and what they planned on doing, she needed to store up some shut-eye.

When they went out to the car, Hennessy pulled out a cardboard box and handed it to Townsend.

“What’s this?” She started to take it, but Hennessy held on.

“This,” she said, trying for solemnity, “is another tiny step in your journey to being a South Carolinian.”

“It is? My journey’s in a box?”

“Do you know what today is?”

“Uhm…” She bit at her bottom lip, like she was trying to answer a question on a pop quiz. “Saturday after Thanksgiving?”

“True. It’s much more than that, though. Today’s the biggest day of the year. The Palmetto Bowl,” she intoned. “I bought you a flag for your car. It’s important to show your allegiance.”

“Uhm…” She wrinkled up her nose. “Who are we allied with? And for what purpose?”

“USC!” Hennessy stepped back, stunned Townsend didn’t seem to know the first thing about this red-letter day. When recognition didn’t dawn, she continued. “Football! You’re born into a USC or a Clemson family and you never waver.”

“Go USC!” she said, making fists and sticking them into the air. “Our favorite team!”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Hennessy grumbled. She took the flag from the package and affixed it over the window. “You wouldn’t know Cocky if he bit you on the ass.”

“Cocky? Our team is called cocky?”

“Our mascot,” Hennessy protested. “Our
team
is the Gamecocks. We hate the Tigers. Passionately,” she added, trying to make that crystal clear.

“Got it.” They got into the car and as Townsend turned it on, she said, “Is the Tigers’ logo an orange paw print? The people on either side of me have huge flags in front of their houses.”

“Regrettably,” Hennessy allowed, wishing Townsend hadn’t moved to such a lousy neighborhood.

“Then we’ve got to stop somewhere and buy a big…what? Gamecock? I want to have a big-ass flag up by the time the game starts.”

That
was how you fit in.

It was so fucking simple.

Yet so hard for Kate to do….

Hennessy never felt taller
than she did while trying to fit into a coach seat on an international flight. She’d been looking forward to flying to Boston with Townsend to kick off their Christmas break, but she’d learned her lesson over Thanksgiving: if you didn’t have to fly into Boston in the winter—don’t. Given the flight from Charlotte was also several hundred dollars cheaper, the deal was sealed.