The Bff Bride. Allison LeighЧитать онлайн книгу.
her eyes and shoved his shoulder hard enough to tip him over in the sand.
He laughed, squinting up at her in the sunlight as he stuck out his suntanned hand. “Help me up.”
Sighing mightily, she grabbed his hand and yanked.
He sprang easily to his own bare feet and pecked his thin lips against hers before she had a chance to evade him.
Then he danced around her, cackling like a madman, waving his arms over his head in victory. “Told you!”
She made a face. “You are disgusting.”
He laughed even harder. “You’re just mad ’cause I got my way.”
“And it was disgusting, too. Still don’t know why you gotta keep up with your big brother. I don’t gotta keep up with mine.”
His smile didn’t die, but he stopped his victory dance and dropped his arm over her shoulders, like the best buddies they were. “Come on.” He started walking away from the swings. “Let’s find Caleb and go out to the swimming hole to catch some toads.”
She shrugged. Because she did want to go swimming. “Sure. But first—” She hesitated when they left the sand for the closely shorn green grass covering the rest of the playground.
He hesitated, too, his eyebrows lifting again over his weird bluish-purple eyes. “What?”
She smiled.
Balled her fist.
And punched him in the nose.
“Hey there, Tabby! Happy Thanksgiving.” Hope Clay reached for the covered dish in Tabby’s gloved hands. “Every year we keep telling you all you need to bring is yourself,” she chided with a smile.
“And every year, you know I’m going to bring something to share,” Tabby countered easily as she followed the older woman out of the cold November air into the warm, soaring foyer. This year, the rotating Thanksgiving feast was being held at Hope and Tristan Clay’s home. The smells of Thanksgiving dinner filled the air, along with the sounds of music and laughter as Tabby pushed the heavy wooden door closed behind her. “I can’t take credit for the casserole, though. That’s Bubba’s doing.” Robert “Bubba” Bumble was the cook down at Ruby’s Café, which Tabby managed for Hope’s two sons, who owned the place.
“How is Bubba?” Hope asked over her shoulder as she turned left and sailed into the dining room, where an enormous table was set with white china and sparkling glasses. Next to it—jutting out into the wide hallway—was a slightly smaller portable table set with disposable plates and cups.
The kids’ table, Tabby knew, though the kids generally ranged from her generation down to any child old enough to hold her own spoon. “Bubba’s fine,” she said wryly. “He’s been cooking once a week for Vivian Templeton when her usual chef has the day off.”
Hope glanced toward the great room across the wide hallway, as if she were afraid Tabby’s words might be overheard. She even put a finger in front of her lips in a silent shush, and her “that’s nice” was barely audible.
Tabby had spent as much of her childhood roaming around Hope and Tristan Clay’s home as she had around her own. She raised her eyebrows pointedly but lowered her own voice to a whisper while she pulled off her gloves and her coat. “What’d I say?”
“That subject is still a little...sore...with some,” Hope replied.
Tabby started to glance toward the great room but managed to stop herself. She’d have to encounter Justin sooner or later. And later was better. “Squire?” she mouthed, more to keep her mind off Hope’s youngest son than anything.
Hope nodded, adjusting a few dishes in the middle of the table to make room for Tabby’s casserole dish. She looked over her shoulder toward the sound of the crowd in the other room getting all riled up again. “Ever since I married Tristan,” she said in a more normal tone, “he’s told me how stubborn his father could be. But I’ve never seen Squire be truly cantankerous until Vivian moved to Weaver. He’s downright ornery when it comes to the subject of her.” She straightened, her violet eyes studying the table through her stylish glasses.
Tabby knew there was bad blood between Justin’s grandfather and Vivian Templeton dating from way back, though. The elderly woman had only arrived in town a little more than a year ago.
“Guess it’s good that she’s not going to be here for Thanksgiving dinner, then,” she said drily. “And I assume there aren’t going to be any other Templetons at the table today?”
Hope shook her head, making a face. “That would have been nice, but everyone is still feeling their way after learning they’re all related through Tristan’s mama.”
“Understandable.” Tabby’s hearing was acutely attuned to the voices coming from the great room, but she kept her gaze strictly on the table. She didn’t need to listen too closely to be able to pick Justin’s voice out from the others.
He never missed spending Thanksgiving with his parents. He’d never once failed to come home from Boston for the holiday, even if it meant flying in one day and right back out the next—which was what he’d done for the past four years.
“Anything I can do to help get the meal on?” she asked, trying to drown out her memories.
“Bless your heart, honey. You’re not on the job here. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t grateful for your help.”
Tabby grinned. “You know me. Always happier being useful and busy than sitting around on my thumbs.” And it kept her from having to go into the great room just yet.
She couldn’t imagine spending Thanksgiving anywhere else—particularly when her own parents were away—but being with the Clays on the holiday came with a price.
Thankfully, her hostess was unaware of Tabby’s thoughts. “You’re just like your mama.” She tossed Tabby’s coat onto the pile in the study, then drew her into the kitchen, where nearly every inch of counter space was covered with one dish or another. “Even though she and your dad are off visiting your grandma this year, I’m pleased you still came.”
Hope and Jolie Taggart had been best friends for Tabby’s entire life. “You’re my second family. Where else would I be? So put me to work.”
Hope gestured at an enormous pot steaming on top of the stove. “I just need to get the potatoes finished. Selfishly, I was hoping you’d get here in time to do the honors. Nobody makes mashed potatoes like you do.”
Tabby immediately rolled up the sleeves of her white blouse and plucked a clean white flour-sack towel out of a cupboard. “Flattery’ll get you everywhere.”
Hope laughed. “I’d hoped. I should have everything you need all set, but if I don’t, you know where everything is, anyway.”
Smiling, Tabby tied the towel around her waist like an apron before turning off the flame under the potatoes and hefting the pot over to the sink to drain it. From the great room came a loud burst of laughter and hooting catcalls. “Football game must be a close one.” She was recording it at home to watch later.
“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