Falling into Forever. Phyllis Bourne

At this point, her best course of action was to get rid of them.

       Now.

      “Well, I know you two were eager to be going,” she said, mentally shoving them toward her front door. “I’ll take care of the dress alterations.”

      Her parents didn’t budge. They were apparently still too overwhelmed by Ivy’s cooking to take the hint.

      “She doesn’t even bother with recipes. Just uses a pinch of this and a little of that,” Nancy said.

      “That girl’s amazing,” Stuart exclaimed. “The Kings definitely don’t have to be concerned about their holiday dinner, because their daughter can do it all.”

      Sandra’s fingers dug into the garment bag still in her arms. She kept her lips pressed together in a firm line as her father smacked his lips loudly.

      “Just thinking about what Ivy could do with a turkey, stuffing and all the trimmings sets my mouth to watering,” he said.

      “Actually, she mentioned jerk turkey was on the menu for Thanksgiving,” Nancy added.

      Sandra stifled a grunt, along with an overwhelming wave of jealously, which was ridiculous. So what if the Kings’ daughter was a great cook, and Sandra wasn’t?

      It had nothing to do with her. She had nothing to prove.

      Then why did she feel that it had everything to do with her, and she had everything to prove?

      Stuart raised a questioning brow at his wife. “I could try to wrangle us an invitation to the Kings’ Thanksgiving table. It would be terribly pushy, but worth it.”

      Nancy shook her head. “We can’t do that. What about the rest of our family? I’ll get to work ordering our holiday dinner as soon as I get home. It won’t be Ivy’s jerk turkey, but...”

      Just when Sandra thought the sensible adult in her had reined in her jealousy, the green-eyed monster inside her broke rank.

      “I’ll cook,” she blurted out.

      “What did you say, sweetheart?” her mother asked.

      The words continued to bubble out of her mouth of their own accord. “We can have Thanksgiving at my house this year,” she said. “I’ll do the cooking.”

      Two pairs of surprised eyes swung toward her. Sandra was sure her own eyes reflected surprise, as well.

      “You’re kidding, right?” Her father howled with laughter.

      When the laughing subsided, he brushed at the tear rolling down his cheek and rested his arm on her shoulder. “Thanks, anyway, but none of us wants to spend the holiday doubled over in the bathroom, or even worse, getting a visit from the fire department.”

      He burst into another laughing fit, while a giggle her mother had apparently been holding back escaped.

      Sandra tried not to feel insulted. Admittedly, she did have a track record in the kitchen that indeed made her offer laughable.

      If she was completely honest with herself, she wasn’t a cook. She didn’t even own a pot or pan. Breakfast was usually coffee and a granola bar. Lunch consisted of a gourmet cupcake from the bakery and dinner was either a hastily eaten deli sandwich or salad in her boutique’s studio.

      “Don’t pay us any mind,” her mother said, with a wave of her hand. “It’s just, you and the kitchen...”

      “Are a match made in hell,” her father finished.

      Sandra looked on as her parents collapsed into yet another bout of laughter. Increasingly irksome laughter that would have made a less tolerant daughter boot them the heck out of her house.

      Instead, Sandra cleared her throat. She’d show her father she was no joke and that there was a lot in her for him to take pride in—starting with Thanksgiving dinner.

      “I’ve got our holiday meal covered,” she said firmly, “including a delicious jerking turkey.”

      “That’s jerk turkey,” her mother corrected.

      “Regardless, I’ll expect you two, along with our entire family, here on Thanksgiving Day, ready to eat.”

      Then she made a mental note to figure out what exactly she had to do to make a turkey jerk.

Chapter 2

      “I know, Dad,” Isaiah Jacobs answered for the umpteenth time.

      His old man was spoiling for a fight, but he wouldn’t get it. Not today. No matter how hard he tried. Not with the news Isaiah had been blindsided by just two days ago still sinking in.

      Isaiah tightened his grip on the old Ford pickup’s steering wheel and navigated the winding state road leading back to Wintersage. He was barely a week into civilian life, but tension stiffened his posture as if he was awaiting a fleet admiral’s inspection.

      “I don’t need you hauling me around like a soccer mom, either,” Ben Jacobs groused. “I drove myself back and forth for six weeks of treatments. I can certainly do it this last week.”

      “I know, but I’m here now, and I want to drive you.” Isaiah’s conciliatory tone belied the fact that he hadn’t given his father a choice in the matter. He’d parked the old pickup, which he’d driven back in high school, crossways, blocking the door to his parents’ four-car garage.

      “It’s bad enough your mother’s got me on this god-awful macrobiotic diet. She also banned me from my own office. Threw the fact it’s technically her family’s business in my face and dismissed me like some grunt. After all these years.”

      Isaiah glanced at the passenger’s seat. His father’s arms were crossed over his chest and weight loss had made the mulish set to his jaw more pronounced.

      “Mom’s trying to look out for you,” Isaiah said. “And as far as work goes she just insisted you take sick leave. Like she would have done with any Martine’s employee in your situation.”

      “I’m not any employee.” The elder Jacobs’s thunderous baritone rattled the windows of Isaiah’s old truck. “I’m president of that damn company.”

      A president who had been outranked by Martine’s Fine Furnishings’ worried chairwoman, Cecily Martine Jacobs, who’d resorted to a power play to force her husband to make his health a number-one priority.

      “Mom’s doing what she thinks is best to—” Isaiah began.

      “Don’t need mothering or smothering,” his father interrupted. “I’m not some kid. I’m a grown man.”

      So am I. The words sat unspoken on the tip of Isaiah’s tongue.

      The logical part of him understood his folks’ reasoning for not revealing his father’s status as soon as they’d found out, camouflaging it in every email, phone call and Skype chat. They hadn’t wanted to worry him.

      However, the son in him wished he’d been told immediately that his father had been diagnosed with prostate cancer two months ago. Instead of being blindsided by the news his first day home in three years.

      “Don’t need you patronizing me, either,” Ben groused. “We may have the same military rank, Lieutenant, but I’m still the parent here.”

      Keeping his eyes on the road, Isaiah stuck with the same noncombatant phrase he’d repeated all afternoon.

      “I know, Dad.”

      His mother had warned him that while the course of radiation therapy wasn’t painful, it had left his father fatigued and ornery.

      “And we should have taken my Benz instead of your old truck,” his father added. “When was the last time this beater was taken through a car