A New Hope (Thunder Point #8)(31)

“That would be so lovely.”

“Does your family have traditions like that? Sunday dinner together?”

“My married brothers have split all the holidays with their wives’ families, but we have some. Then there’s the occasional gathering—a backyard barbecue, a Sunday brunch and numerous company parties, often at one of my brothers’ homes. Richard has a boat and RV—there are family trips to the lake now and then. It’s nothing like your family. I was at the reception, remember.”

“That’s not a typical family dinner. But when we’re harvesting, that’s when everyone turns out—we need the help. They work like mules, men, women and kids. Then they eat like vultures. Then they drink and dance.”

“I did see some of that at the reception,” she said with a laugh.

He took her hand and they began to walk down the road to his parents’ house. “Sunday is different. It’s the only day Paco sits in his favorite chair and spends hours on the newspaper. Or he might read his magazines—all about agriculture. The television stays off and doesn’t come on until 60 Minutes when he argues with the TV and accuses them of having everything wrong, but he never misses it.”

“We have that in common,” she said. “My father does the same.”

She enjoyed the walk, the hand-holding, the fact that they had everything and nothing in common. There’d been those divorces, but that seemed to be where it ended. Their families were completely different but both had built family businesses. Her family was so vanilla and ordinary while he had that rich Basque culture. Between them there seemed to be a unique understanding that allowed them to explore each other’s lives and emotions.

When they got to the house they found it bursting at the seams. She had trouble counting them all—it was the mother lode. Matt reintroduced her to people she’d met at the wedding reception—the women were in the kitchen, the kids were all over the place, everyone was smiling a little wildly as they said hello and she knew, then and there, they were hopeful that Mad Matt had found a woman. What the devil was she to do about that? They had gone over that—they weren’t about that, they weren’t able to couple up, even though just for a moment she thought about how comforting that could be.

“They set a place for you,” he whispered to her.

That’s when she was able to count. There were nineteen plates on the long oak table. Nineteen! Soon she was settled into her place next to Matt, beside his mother, his father not far away. There was a momentary silence for a brief blessing. Then everyone was again talking at once. Paco was pontificating to one of his sons-in-law while simultaneously loading up his plate, mothers reprimanded children, women laughed, kids argued. She looked at them, seeing a few pale brunettes and blondes among the in-laws and children. Serving platters and tureens crowded the table and people moved them around quickly. Much to her disbelief, Corinne picked up Ginger’s plate and served her, heaping a little of every dish, filling her bowl with soup, tearing off crusty bread with her hands and placing it on the bread plate. Her glass was filled with white wine.

“Oh, no,” she protested. “I have a long drive ahead!”

Without a word, Corinne switched wineglasses, taking Ginger’s full one and pouring a small amount into her empty one, then placing it in front of Ginger.

“Don’t worry, you don’t have to eat it all,” Matt whispered to her. “And you don’t have to drink the wine. I want you to have a safe drive.”

The plate Corinne had filled was placed in front of her and she stared at it in disbelief. There was enough food for at least three meals before her. She looked at it uncertainly. She picked up her fork, not knowing where to start.

The table fell silent, even the children. They were all staring at her—she could feel their eyes. Ginger sampled what she believed to be a chicken dish, though what kind she had no idea. She slid the fork into her mouth and the flavors seduced her instantly. “Mmm,” she said, letting her eyes close briefly.

Everyone immediately began talking again, laughing, gossiping, lecturing. She looked at Matt in confusion, her brow furrowed.

He laughed and whispered, “Everyone wants to know if you like our stuff. Our Basque stuff. She overfilled your plate, don’t hurt yourself. Be glad she’s not spooning it into your mouth.”

“Is this like an initiation?”

“Yeah, something like that. Don’t worry now. You gave the approved response.”

She wanted to ask if Natalie almost fainted from the beauty of the food, but of course she couldn’t. Maybe during one of those late-night phone chats she’d brave it. Mick would have loved it; he’d have written a song about it because everything was all about him. He would have played his guitar and sung for them.

She ate a respectable amount, joined the conversation to talk about the flower shop and Grace, spoke admiringly of the new chicks and lambs, even commented on the amazing June weather. She poked at a rich desert, feeling stuffed. When dinner was done she insisted on helping in the kitchen where there was no dishwasher and many difficult roasters and pots to scrape. They shooed her away but she wouldn’t go. First of all, she liked them and second, it was bad manners to ignore the cleanup.

Eventually, before the meat and sauces were blasted out of the huge pans, Matt rescued her. He held her denim jacket and said, “Come on, everyone, Ginger has a long drive ahead and needs to be on the road.”