The Bff Bride. Allison Leigh
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“Sounds like.” The older woman glanced over her shoulder when her sister-in-law Jaimie entered carrying an empty oversize bowl. “More tortilla chips?”
“And salsa.” Jaimie smiled at Tabby and bussed her cheek on her way to the far counter where a variety of bags were stacked. She deftly tore open a large one and dumped the entire contents into the wooden bowl. “You’d think the hordes hadn’t eaten in a week.”
“Or that they weren’t going to sit down to turkey and ham in only a few minutes.” Hope grimaced but handed Jaimie the near-industrial-size container of salsa she pulled from the refrigerator. “I know better than to warn any of them.”
Tabby didn’t bother hiding her smile as she began scooping the steaming potatoes into the ricer, which Hope had left on the counter next to the sink along with two large crockery bowls. At the diner, she made mashed potatoes by the ton, so the work was simple and easy. But unfortunately, it also allowed her mind to wander down the hallway to the great room and the people there.
Her parents traditionally spent every other Thanksgiving with her grandmother. Tabby’s brother, Evan, and his family had gone this year, too. Tabby could have accompanied them. She still wasn’t sure why she hadn’t.
She grimaced at her own thoughts and scooped more potatoes into the ricer. Steam continued rising up into her face, but she barely noticed as she squeezed out the fluffy fronds, filling the first bowl, then the second.
Who was she kidding?
There were only a few times every year when she was guaranteed to see him. Thanksgiving and Easter. He’d missed Christmas for years. Birthdays? Forget about it.
Seeing him was like picking at a wound that wouldn’t heal. She couldn’t stop herself, to her own detriment.
She huffed a strand of hair out of her eyes and refilled the ricer yet again. Fortunately, the contraption was just as large and sturdy as the ones she had at the diner, so the work went quickly.
“Don’t you agree?”
She realized the question had been directed at her, and she looked over her shoulder at Hope, only to realize Jaimie had left the kitchen with her chips and salsa and she’d been replaced with another one of her sisters-in-law, Emily. Tabby racked her brains, trying—and failing—to recall their conversation. “Sorry?”
“Thanksgiving is an easier holiday than Christmas,” Hope repeated.
“Oh. Sure.” It was a lie, and she looked back down at the potatoes. “None of the Christmas gift shopping stress.” Just all the stress of knowing Justin would be back in town.
She huffed at her hair again and scooped the last of the potatoes into the container, making quick work of them before running the ricer under the faucet.
“Frankly, I don’t know what to get anyone this year for Christmas,” Emily was saying. She moved next to Tabby, holding a saucepan filled with steaming cream and melted butter. “I don’t suppose you have any ideas for my son-in-law, do you?”
Tabby made a face and left the ricer to drain while she grabbed a long-handled spoon from the drawer. “I don’t have any ideas for him, and Evan’s my brother.” She gestured for Emily to begin pouring the liquid into one of the bowls while she gently stirred the riced potatoes.
Hope stepped up behind Tabby, watching over their shoulders. “I swear, honey, watching you work is like watching a cooking show on television.”
At that, Tabby snorted outright. “Only doing the same thing your grandmother taught me to do when I started working at her diner.”
“Hope’s grandma was quite a cook.” Emily drizzled more hot cream into the second bowl at Tabby’s prompting. “But I’m just thankful Ruby taught you how to make her cinnamon rolls.”
“My hips aren’t that happy,” Hope said drily. “I can’t tell you how many times Gram tried to teach me how to make her rolls.” She shook her head. “I can make them, but not like she could. Or you.” She patted Tabby’s shoulder. “She would roll over in her grave hearing me say so, but I think yours have got hers beat.”
“Good grief, don’t say that.” Tabby looked up at the ceiling, as though she was waiting for lightning to strike. “I loved Ruby Leoni, too, but oh, man, did she have a temper.”
Hope laughed. “You nearly finished there, honey?”
Tabby focused on her work again, giving the creamy potatoes a final stir. “All set.” She picked up both bowls, cradling them against her hips. “You want them on the table now?”
“That was twenty pounds of Yukon Golds. I should get one of the boys—”
“No worries. I’ve got them.” Tabby quickly cut her off and carried the bowls out to the dining room, placing one at one end of the main table and the other on the kids’ table. Hope and Emily followed along, bearing platters of freshly carved roast turkey and glazed ham.
“I have a good mind to let them all watch football while we feast on our own,” Hope said when a caterwaul of cheers and jeers burst out from the other room. She adjusted one of the platters just so and stood back to admire the display.
Emily, meanwhile, was counting off chairs and place settings. “I think we’re a few short,” she warned.
“We’re always a few short,” Hope returned. “That’s what happens these days when nearly the whole family turns out.” She stepped to the archway opening onto the wide hallway. “Food’s on,” she called briskly. Her onetime schoolteacher’s voice cut across the racket of televised sports and thirtysome family members debating the latest call. Considering they weren’t all rooting for the same team, it was chaotic, to say the least.
Nevertheless, at Hope’s announcement, the television volume immediately went mute and those thirtysome individuals turned en masse toward the dining room.
She didn’t rush.
For as long as she could remember, she’d sat at the kids’ table.
“Tabby! I didn’t even hear you come in.” Hope’s husband, Tristan, grabbed her up in a bear hug that lifted her right off her toes. “Thank God we’ll have decent mashed potatoes.” He kissed her forehead and dropped her back down. “When Tag said he and your ma were visiting Helen this year, I was afraid it was gonna be boxed potatoes.”
Hope gave him a pinch. “Since when have I ever made you mashed potatoes from a box?”
The tall man, still blond in his sixties, grinned and gave Tabby a quick wink before he made his way toward the head of the big table, jostling his relations while Hope directed butts to seats and ultimately determined that Emily had been right. They were short of chairs. Erik—Hope and Tristan’s eldest—immediately pigeonholed his adopted son, Murphy, to help him search down more.
Tabby, long used to the process, just moved out of the way as far as possible and bit back a chuckle when Squire brushed past everyone to take the first seat—which happened to be Tristan’s at the head of the table. “All that fancy money you earn, boy, seems you ought to have a bigger table ’n’ chairs.”
“That’s my chair, old man,” Tristan said mildly. But Tabby could see by the humor in his blue eyes that he wasn’t offended. Or surprised. “And the way this family keeps growing, we’d need a reception hall to seat everyone at one table.”
Erik and Murphy returned with two more chairs and a piano bench, and the shuffling began again.
“Same thing happens every year.”
Tabby stiffened inwardly at the deep voice. She didn’t look at the tall man who’d stopped next to her, bumping his elbow companionably against hers. She didn’t need to.
There’d been a time when she knew everything there was to know about Justin Clay. And he’d known everything about her. They’d been