Space by Emily Sue Harvey Read Free Book Online

“Discount, y’know? Their food fares fool everybody.” Then she whispered in my ear. “Promise not to tell?”
    I laughed, delighted at her candor, and whispered. “Promise.”
    I added my own food contributions to the turkey and trimmings, my own special recipe of dressing and gravy, homemade cranberry sauce and chicken bog, a scrumptious rice, chicken, smoked sausage, onion dish that had become a tradition in our family. Last, I lifted the dome on my pedestaled three-layer Italian cream cheese cake.
    Priss arrived bearing ham, pasta salad, yams, veggies, assorted pies and her lip-smacking orange slice cake. She looked festive in Santa hat and red sweatshirt emblazoned with sequined “Santa’s Helper.” Jeans, sneakers and red socks completed her comfy attire. Her two girls, Ginger and Betty, college gals, wore green elves hats and matching “Helpers” sweats. They contributed an array of goodies, from walnut fudge to peanut butter balls to sandy fingers. All spawned from Priss were excellent cooks.
    Our men all adjourned to the den to watch any sports event available, each wearing Christmas-y sweaters over turtlenecks.
    â€œMom,” we told our aging mother, “don’t you dare cook anything but your macaroni and cheese pie.” Under threat of serious disapproval, she complied. Jensen went to pick her up because we wouldn’t let her drive after dark. She was resplendent in Mrs. Santa Claus garb, complete with frilly apron and cap. In years past, she’d always done the lion’s share of food preparation, deliriously happy to do so.
    â€œNow, it’s our turn,” we corporately insisted at each approaching yuletide season.
    Dad had, those last holidays of his life, gone against the tide to insist, “I’m doing my coconut-egg custard pies. It’s no trouble a’tall.” We did not resist because his custards – that would rival Paula Deen’s – were ones we’d eaten at every holiday during childhood days.
    A tradition.
    Oh, how we missed them now that he was gone.
    Family, to us, was everything. Its solidarity was something neither of us siblings took for granted. Neither did our precious mom and dad.

    So, with the Faith-Chloe rumblings, I went into high gear protecting it.
    After dinner, we voted for the most imaginative holiday attire. Mom moderated, calling each family member forward and asking for applause.
    Tonight, Chloe won hands down when she did a dainty spin around the room in her days gone by ballet costume from the Nutcracker. Thin as gossamer, she was remarkably engaging with her flushed cheeks and sparkling, victorious dark eyes. The prize was a beautiful ceramic American eagle, wings spread for flight, compliments of Nonie Eagle.
    A chorus of “Woo hoos” and applause deepened Chloe’s blush of pleasure.
    The gifts were dispersed and Jensen took Faith out for a drive in his first car, a used, but well maintained, silver 280Z.
    Chloe immediately appeared, fiercely offended. Her colorful Sugar Plum Fairy role would have been extraordinarily charming had she stayed in character.
    â€œThey didn’t even ask me to go.” She plopped into a vacant easy chair and crossed her arms, finely tuned features ablaze with umbrage.
    â€œIt only has two seats,” Lexie reminded her in a tone of voice that matched my own hackles-risen response.
    Chloe crossed her matchstick thin legs and swung one defiantly back and forth, insuring that all gazes would be tethered to her. “Faith has my new tennis bracelet on. I haven’t even worn it yet.”
    My heart lurched. Why, why, why? Faith knew better. She knew Chloe’s proclivity for scenes. I dialed Faith’s cell phone number.
    â€œGet back here,” I ordered quietly.

    â€œWhy?” she shrieked. “We’ve just left.”
    â€œYou have on Chloe’s bracelet.”
    I heard her muttering.
    â€œDo not use that