kissing her lightly on the cheek too. “Happy Thanksgiving. We’ve been so eager to meet you.”
The rest of Libby’s family followed suit with varying degrees of tepid warmth until only the matriarch was left.
“Reagan,” she said as she rose like a gathering storm.
“Lovely to see you again, dear. Thank you so much for
looking after Elisabeth in my stead.”
Reagan smiled despite the tightening discomfort in her stomach. “My pleasure,” she replied, leaning forward, barely touching her as they kissed in greeting.
“What do you have there?” Mrs. Cassanova asked when they parted, and Reagan kept the wrapped box tucked under her arm.
Reaching for Libby’s gift and putting it on top of hers, Reagan shook her head. “Nothing. Just something for the hostess, but we can put it away somewhere until you have a chance to open it.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Cassanova countered with a flourish of her hand. “You were so thoughtful in bringing something, I wouldn’t dare insult your kindness.”
“Really,” Reagan gripped the boxes so tight her fingertips turned white. “It’s really nothing.” With all the fine pieces in her home, Reagan was sure the woman would be o ended at having to pretend to like something she made. It didn’t fit with any of her décor, and she kicked herself for being so naive.
“Sit while Mima opens it,” Libby’s brother said as he stood and straightened his sharp blue suit. “I’ll go get you guys something to drink. Um, I mean girls.” He blushed hard. “Women.” He continued frantically until his dad jumped up and put an end to his spiral by o ering to give him a hand with some drinks for everyone.
“Yes, yes. How rude of me. Here, darling, sit next to me,”
Mrs. Cassanova said as she looked Reagan in the eye and patted the empty seat to her right. It was obvious she’d saved the two spots closest to her for them.
Without further protestation, Reagan took the seat between Libby and her grandmother. When she dared to glance to the side, she noticed all the color had drained from her face. Reagan’s knotted up stomach clenched. Libby had
been right. She’d never had such a nerve-wracking experience meeting anyone’s family and nothing had even happened yet. The tension in the air was just so extreme.
“Now let’s see what we have here,” Mrs. Cassanova said as she unwrapped the brown paper covering Libby’s gift. The rest of the family watched as if waiting for a bomb to be defused. When she opened the box, she nodded with approval. “Lovely, my dear, thank you,” she said as she pulled out the same olive oil and soap Libby had given her mother. “Marta will love cooking with this, I’m sure.”
Libby’s response was a tight smile. Ba ing considering what a unique present it was, and according to her quick internet search, expensive as hell too.
When Mrs. Cassanova reached for Reagan’s gift, part of her wanted to excuse herself and bolt, but she took deep breaths and calmed herself instead. She would either like it or she wouldn’t. Either way she was sure she’d get the same gracious response before her present was tossed into the garbage as it didn’t even have the benefit of being regift-able.
Yearning to reach under the table and hold Libby’s hand as she waited for embarrassment to finally wash over her in earnest, Reagan dug her short nails into her own palm instead.
As Mrs. Cassanova peered into the gift box, Reagan stopped breathing. The elegant woman stared at it endlessly as if unable identify what it was.
Next time just bring some freaking wine.
“What is it?” Libby’s dad asked as if it might be a severed head while he set wine glasses in front of them.
Mrs. Cassanova didn’t respond. She just stared into the box, forcing Reagan’s heart to race at an unsustainable level.
Was it really that bad? So bad she couldn’t just say thanks, fake a smile, and move on?
By the time Mrs. Cassanova reached into the box and pulled out the miniature version of a tinajón, a wide-rimmed earthenware pot used to store all kinds of things but most traditionally rainwater, Reagan was on the edge of a stroke.
No wonder Libby was so tightly wound after a lifetime of walking on porcelain eggshells.
“It’s our family crest,” she said, finally responding to her son’s question. Pulling the big-bellied pot from the nest made of shredded paper, Mrs. Cassanova turned it over in her hand. With her fingertips, she traced the hand painted name above the blue and yellow crest Reagan contacted a genealogist to find. “You made this?”
Reagan nodded.
Mrs. Cassanova ran her finger around the lip before turning it over to see her maker’s mark. A rooster’s foot along with her initials. “It’s exquisite,” she said before clearing her throat. “Beautifully crafted.”
After exhaling for the first time in what felt like an hour, Reagan smiled. “Thank you. I’m so glad you like it.”