Jake made sure the turkey was positioned just so and far enough away from the smoldering briquettes. He then closed the lid on the barbeque and watched until the temperature gauge settled. It was at 330 degrees. That would be almost perfect. He threw a few handfuls of applewood chips soaked in water onto the coals to generate aromatic smoke. When it was puffing out of the vents at a rate he thought appropriate, he went back inside the house. He would need to come back out every half an hour or so to put more chips on the coals and to monitor the temperature, but for now, he could open that first bottle of wine of the day and relax a little.
Mary Kingsley and Cynthia Archer were both in the kitchen. Mary had just put a second turkey of similar size into the oven. Since Jake had never barbequed a turkey before, her tried and true oven-cooked bird would be both the backup and the supplement, as fifteen pounds was a bit on the small side for a gathering of this many people. Cindy was making some of her homemade stuffing out of sourdough bread, onions, and a few other ingredients. She also had a large plate of yams in the process of being candied.
“It smells great in here, Moms,” Jake told them as he went to the sink to wash his hands. “It reminds me of Thanksgiving back in the old days.”
“I only wish I’d had a kitchen like this in the old days,” Mary said. “No wonder Elsa moved here with you.”
“I told her to design her dream kitchen when I was putting this house together,” Jake said. “She totally embraced the project.”
“It really is a beautiful house, Jake,” Cindy told him. “I’m afraid to know how much it cost you, but you did good. The location, the floor plan, everything.”
“This is my dream house,” Jake said. “I mean, the one in New Zealand is nice too—you guys have to come out and see it sometime—but this has the location. I love going to sleep hearing the sound of the ocean out my window. I love not having any neighbors. And it’s just a short hop back to LA when I need to work.”
“You’ve done very well for yourself, honey,” Mary told him, giving him a brief hug of affection. “I used to worry about you endlessly, you know. Wondering whether you’d be able to make it in life when all you wanted to do was play your guitar and sing.”
“Yeah,” Jake said with a grin. “You used to tell me I would never be able to support myself that way, remember?”
She looked a little guilty, and perhaps a bit peeved, but she owned up. “I was wrong about that, Jake,” she told him. “I guess you had a little more talent than I was giving you credit for.”
“Thanks, Mom,” he told her. “But there was a fair amount of luck involved as well.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Jake,” Cindy told him. “You and William make a good musical team. I learned that when we were performing with you. You take your music very seriously.”
“Yes, we do,” Jake agreed. “Now, who’s up for a little wine?”
“At eleven o’clock in the morning?” Mary asked.
“It’s Thanksgiving,” Jake said. “I seem to remember the two of you swilling down the chardonnay all day long back in the day when the families got together for Thanksgiving.”
“Well ... since you put it that way...” Mary said with a smile.
“I’ll be right back,” Jake told the mothers. “I’ve got some New Zealand stuff I’ve been saving for just such an occasion. Let me go pour and get this party started.”
“It would be rude to say no,” Cindy said with a smile of her own.
He left the kitchen and went into the entertainment room. Tom, Obie and Stan were sitting on the couch watching the Vikings play the Lions on the large screen television. None of them seemed particularly captivated with the contest. Pauline was on the floor, playing with Tabby and Kelvin and a bunch of toy cars. She seemed to be having more fun. Bill and Sharon were sitting at Jake’s computer, playing a game called Myst that Laura had bought for Jake a few months ago but that he had never even loaded onto the device. They seemed quite enthralled with what they were doing. They did not even look up when he entered the room. Celia and Greg were playing on Jake’s pinball machine, Celia currently behind the flippers. And Laura was sitting on one of the other couches with Eric Pale, the new violinist Celia had hired for the tour.
Eric was a slight young man, painfully thin, almost anorexic looking. Though he was twenty-three years of age and working on his master’s degree in music composition at USC, he looked no older than sixteen and would probably be routinely carded when he bought alcohol into his forties. He had long, stringy hair that was dyed black and he favored black clothing. He was painfully shy, rarely speaking unless spoken to, and never meeting anyone’s eyes when he did speak with them. Laura and Celia had invited him to the celebration because he had nowhere else to go, no one to spend the holiday with. His parents had disowned him when he came out to them as gay during his freshman year of college and he was not the type of person who made friends easily. Jake actually thought he was a little creepy (though the kid could play the fiddle with the best of them), but Laura had bonded with him on a certain level, probably because of their similar parental backgrounds. The two of them were flipping through some of the sheet music for the upcoming tour, this despite both Celia and Jake proclaiming a moratorium on any music-related work during the holiday.
“All right!” Jake announced. “I’m breaking out the wine. Who’s up for some?”
“Me!” said Laura enthusiastically.
“I’d rather have an appletini,” said Nerdly.
“Wine is for pussies,” said Obie. “I’ll take a bourbon, neat.”
“I’m pouring wine,” Jake said. “If anyone wants something else, the bar is right here. You’re on your own.”
“Some host you are,” Obie grunted.
Jake opened three bottles of Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc he had been chilling in the bar refrigerator for just this occasion. Considered New Zealand’s finest wine from its finest grape growing region, Jake had shipped back several cases of it when he and Laura had been there for their honeymoon. He poured glasses for himself, the mothers, Greg and Celia, Laura, Sharon, Pauline, and the fathers. Nerdly went without a beverage, not wanting to leave Myst for the amount of time it would take to build an appletini. Obie took Jake’s advice and helped himself to a double shot of Jim Beam Black label, neat. Eric declined the offer of any beverage.
“Not a drinker, boy?” Obie asked him. They had met for the first time today.
“Only once in a while,” Eric said, his voice meek, his eyes looking down at the carpet. “I’m not supposed to drink with my medication.”
“Medication?” Obie asked. “At your age? What the hell do you need to take medication for?”
“Obie,” Laura admonished. “That’s kind of a personal question, don’t you think?”
“It’s okay,” Eric said, still looking at the floor. “I have social anxiety disorder.”
“What the fuck is that?” Obie asked.
“Obie!” admonished Pauline. “There are children present, one of them yours!”
“Oh ... yeah ... sorry,” he said. “What the hell is that, then?”
“It means he has a phobia about being in large groups of people,” Laura explained. “It’s a legitimate medical condition.”
“I take Paxil for long-term control of the disorder,” Eric said softly. “And I take Xanax when I have a breakthrough case of panic or if I’m entering a situation, such as this social gathering, where I know a breakthrough case is likely.”
“Xanax?” Jake asked. “Isn’t that like Valium?”
“It’s the same class of drug,” Eric said. “A benzodiazepine. They help a lot in situations such as this, although, once I take a Xanax, I can’t drink alcohol.”