Kick The Candle (Knight Games) (11 page)

“What is it, sweetheart?”

“The turkey is going to take a few hours. I don’t mean to be rude, Seraphina, but I’m going to be working in the kitchen for a while.”

“Grateful, I didn’t mean to leave that all to you. Let me finish this drink and I’ll be in to help.” Dad scooted to the edge of his seat.

Seraphina gave me a pouty smile. “I’ll help too. I trained as a chef at a prestigious school in France.”

Was she kidding me? A chef? Over my dead body. I could only imagine what Seraphina would think of the frozen turkey on the counter, and there was no way I was suffering her critique of my lacking culinary skills for… as long as it took to cook a frozen turkey. It was a matter of pride. Maybe I hadn’t attended a European culinary school, but I could cook dinner for my dad. “You know what? Why don’t I get the turkey started while you guys enjoy your drinks, and then you can help with the salad a little closer to dinner?”

The two lovebirds didn’t argue with me. In fact, my dad scooted closer to Seraphina as he nodded his head. Great. I was officially relegated to third wheel status. I shook it off and headed back into the kitchen where I dialed Logan. He answered on the first ring.

“How do you thaw a turkey?”

Logan cleared his throat. “Two days in the cooler.”

“I’ve gotta cook this sucker this afternoon.”

“How big?

“Twelve pounds.”

“I’ve heard you can cook it from frozen but it takes five hours and the results are inconsistent.”

“Inconsistent?”

“It might taste like rubber.”

I groaned. “Six isn’t too late to eat rubber turkey,” I said hopefully. “So just throw it in a pan and pop it in the oven?”

“Melt some butter over the top, salt it inside and out. You and the bird will be golden.”

“Thanks.”

“You are still coming Saturday, right?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Good, because we need to talk about us. No interruptions. I need to know where I stand in your life.” Metal clanked against metal in the background.

“Where are you?” I changed the subject, desperate to avoid the inevitable conversation, even though I was dying to invite him over to help cook dinner.

“Volunteering at the mission. My dad’s coming into town later for a low key dinner though.”

The mission! As if Logan could possibly be any more attractive, now he was backlit by a halo. But oddly, when I thought about seeing Logan on Saturday, I didn’t tingle with excitement. I dreaded it. Every day he’d been out of my attic, my thoughts of him had gravitated more toward planet friendship than over the moon. And it wasn’t because of Rick or my commitment to him. Something had shifted between us. Maybe it was the loss of the connection we’d shared when I was sorting his soul. I wasn’t sure. My feelings for him were garbled and confused. Random memories of our time under the same roof mixed with feelings at odds with each other.

“Thanks again and happy Thanksgiving,” I said in a voice more cheerful than my disposition.

“Grateful, one last thing.”

“Yeah?”

“You could always bamboozle it.”

“Bamboozle?”

“You know, bippidy boppity blip, perfect Thanksgiving dinner.”

I huffed in offense. “Logan Valentine, I’ll have you know, I am woman enough to make a Thanksgiving dinner without the use of magic.”

“That’s my girl!” He wished me luck and said his goodbyes.

I found an apron in Dad’s drawer that said
Realtors Do It in Every Room of The House.
Eww
.
A quick dig through the lower cabinets and I located the heavy duty roasting pan we’d used when I was a kid. I tossed the frozen turkey inside. The icy flesh clanked against the metal. You could ice skate on this sucker. I hoped when Logan said I could cook the turkey frozen he meant Antarctic tundra style because no part of this bird was even partially thawed out. To combat the risk of rubberized meat, I microwaved a stick of butter and poured it over the top. Everything was better with butter, right? Into the oven it went.

I took a sip of wine to celebrate my accomplishment.

Then I got my Martha Stewart on, yanking veggies and potatoes from the fridge and selecting a blade from Dad’s drawer. I had nothing if not knife skills. Like a culinary pro, I cubed potatoes, and chopped broccoli with mechanical precision. The taters went into a pot of water and the broccoli into the steamer. I pulled Dad’s crystal salad bowl from its place under the counter, rinsed out a year’s worth of dust, and positioned it on the butcher’s block island.

I drummed my fingers on the counter. Four hours to go. Seraphina and Dad had said they wanted to help with the salad. No putting this off, I needed to go socialize. Pushing the door open, I moseyed into the living room. Yes, moseyed, a slow drift rather than a beeline.

As I turned the corner, a tangle of arms and legs slapped my visual cortex.
Gah!
They were making out on the couch. Hastily, I receded back into the kitchen. What the hell? How long had that been going on? Apparently, Dad and Seraphina were in the hot and heavy stage of their relationship. Could this possibly get any more awkward?

Resolved that help was not coming, I chopped the lettuce and some carrots, tomatoes, and peppers for the salad. When there was nothing left to do, I checked the turkey, hoping a time warp in the oven had magically cooked it for five hours instead of one and a half. No such luck. In fact, it was ice cold, as was the oven…which I’d forgot to turn on.

My head hit the counter with a thud. I could not hide in this kitchen for another five hours. I snatched my phone from my pocket and searched my new
Book of Light
app for help. There wasn’t a spell for instant Thanksgiving, but I could control the elements. Water— ice—was an element. Air was my element of choice, mine to control. I had an idea that maybe I could bamboozle Thanksgiving after all.

To start, I lit the burner under the potatoes, but I didn’t wait for them to boil. I raised my flattened palm to my lips and blew gently across the top of the water. Instantly, the liquid came to a rolling boil. I pumped my fist. Being a witch had some definite perks.

The turkey was next. I preheated the oven while I set the roasting pan on the island. Again, I blew across my palm, using my power to ask the air to coax the water molecules inside the bird to heat up. The breeze hit the turkey. Steam billowed. The skin where my breath hit began to brown. Hot damn! I circled the island as I blew out breath after breath. When the turkey’s skin had taken on an even, golden glow, and I was feeling a bit light headed, I stopped.

“Starting to smell good, Grateful!” I heard my Dad call from the family room.

At least I knew he was up for air. I dug out a meat thermometer from the drawer next to the stove and slid it into the breast. One hundred eighty degrees! I slid the bird back into the now warm oven, and grabbed the salad out of the fridge. “Should be ready in a few minutes,” I yelled.

I stomped through the door, loudly placing the bowl at the center of the dining table. When I dared to glance in their direction, they were on opposite sides of the couch, straightening their clothes.

“Already?” Dad said. “I meant to come in and help you, but I guess I lost track of time. Seraphina here does that to me.”

She giggled.

“I see that.” I supposed I should make conversation. “So, ah, Seraphina is a beautiful name. Is it a family name?” I plopped down in one of my father’s leather chairs across from the sofa and crossed my legs, pumping my foot in the air nervously.

“Yes it is. It means ‘burning one.’ In my family, most names have to do with the elements. My uncle’s name is Kai. It means ocean. My mother’s was Gaea.”

“Earth. How interesting.” Hippies. “And you’re a chef?”

“No.” She laughed. “I’m an art and antiques dealer.”

“I thought you said you went to culinary school?”

“I did. Just for fun. My masters is in Art History.”

“No kidding?” Now I was dying to know how old she was.

“Seraphina interned at Christie’s,” Dad chimed in.

Christies? “You’re practically a child prodigy,” I blurted. Damn, that came out catty, but I couldn’t get over how young she looked and how much she’d accomplished.

She straightened her back and raised her chin. “I finished early. Discipline is the key. I’ve never shied away from hard work.”

Was she looking down her nose at me? Blink. Blink. “I’m a nurse.”

“Good for you,” she sang in a patronizing tone.

Enough chat. This chick rubbed me the wrong way, and I really didn’t think it was because she was the cradle my dad was robbing. There was something about her, an arrogance that made my chest tighten. She hadn’t even asked about my name. Had my father told her the story behind Grateful or was she too self-centered to care? By the smug look on her face, I was going with self-centered.

“Excuse me. I better check on the potatoes.” I stood and moved toward the kitchen.

As I cut through the dining room, I heard my dad brag about my meager achievement of being first in my nursing class. But I didn’t graduate early, and I didn’t have my masters. Frankly, it was embarrassing, like he was showing off my participation awards to an Olympic medalist. Not to mention, this wasn’t a competition. Sure felt like it though.

I repeated the mantra, “I will not be jealous of my father’s girlfriend. I will not be jealous of my father’s girlfriend.”

A minute later, Dad swung through the door and joined me in the kitchen. “Isn’t she great?”

I let my breath out all at once, smiled, and lied. “Yeah! Oh, she is charming, Dad.” I bobbed my head.

“You don’t like her?”

“Of course I do,” I said in a pinched voice.

He looked at me skeptically. I changed the subject.

“Everything’s done. Let’s bring it out.” Four o’clock and I had a fully cooked, golden brown turkey with all of the fixings, which I had prepared myself. Take that, Seraphina.

Dad carried everything out while I whipped the potatoes. By the time I emerged with a pretty china bowl heaping with spuds, the table looked sponsored by Norman Rockwell.

“I for one am thankful to have a daughter who can cook. Thank you, Grateful. Everything looks perfect.”

“You’re welcome, Dad.”

He stood, knife poised over the crispy golden skin, and smiled at Seraphina and then at me. Not so bad. Chances were this May/November romance of theirs wouldn’t last anyway. This was a beautiful moment. I decided to accept it for what it was.

The knife sliced the breast portion, a curl of steam rising gently toward the chandelier. Perfect.

Then, Seraphina opened her mouth.

“What is that?” Her long, manicured finger pointed at my masterpiece. Near the neck cavity there was a tiny piece of paper poking out from under the flap of skin. Dad poked it with his fork, then gave it a good pull. A white bag flopped out onto the tablecloth.

Seraphina giggled. “The giblets. You forgot to take them out.” She pressed three fingers over her lips and looked at me like I’d made a major faux pas.

Dad joined in the laughter, poking the neck gently with his knife. “Eh, your mom used to do the same thing. Meat will taste fine.”

“My apologies, Grateful. This is my fault. I should have insisted I help you in the kitchen,” Seraphina said, as if I was twelve and she’d overestimated my abilities.

I decided right then that I hated her. Sorry Dad. She had to go. I started filling my plate. She passed me her stuffing casserole.

“Allergic,” I said, casting aside the dish.

She frowned and locked eyes with me. Game on.

T
he next morning, the emergency room at St. John’s was unusually quiet. Good thing because I was distracted by the horror of my father’s new romantic interest. What did she want from him? Money? Probably not. She made her own. Attention? Maybe. I told myself for the fiftieth time that it wouldn’t last. I wasn’t going to worry about it. She’d realize he was all about his work and leave him the minute the novelty wore off.

Hours ticked by filled with average, run-of-the-mill illnesses and broken bones. I had a patient with an appendicitis around ten, and otherwise uneventful cases the rest of the day. Around six that night though, an ambulance phoned ahead, something paramedics do for the seriously ill and injured, and I was called in to respond.

“Dr. Anderson needs you in the trauma room, stat!” Julie, my charge nurse, pointed at the trauma room. “I’ll take your beds.”

My heart started racing from the adrenaline zing that flooded my system. It had been months since I helped in trauma. It wasn’t my specialty. With my limited experience, I couldn’t have been Julie or Dr. Anderson’s first choice, but the day had been so slow she’d sent a few of my fellow nurses home, leaving us short staffed. To call
me
in, the situation had to be desperate.

I shoved the door open with my shoulder and eyed my friend Jay with a sigh of relief. A Certified Trauma Nurse Specialist, nothing shook this guy. I’d seen him reach into a gunshot wound half the size of New Hampshire to clamp down on a nicked artery. Jay was made of fortified steel.