Story A Day May #10

Day 10! Woo and Hoo. I feel pretty good about sticking with this for ten days, even though I feel less than stellar today, I knew I had to knock something out on the ol’ keyboard. We can all thank the husband for the opening line of this story, and for the third word of my trio of word prompts, even after I protested that I wouldn’t work that one in. (He still insists that I’m the one in charge of the story) Enjoy, and see everyone tomorrow!

May 10, 2015

Word prompts: banana pudding, dinner, nazi

The Dinner

             “Man, these vanilla wafers are good. You know what I kinda want now?”

“Banana pudding?”

“Naner puddin’. Mmhhm mm.”

Scott handed her two more before scrunching the bag down in the yellow box and replacing it in the cabinet. He looked at his girlfriend, Denise. “Ready?”

“I guess. Do we really have to?”

“I s’pose we could play hooky.”

She grinned. “That sounds like a great plan. Oh, here, sweetie, you got wafer crumbs on your tie.” She walked over and wiped the teeny, betraying sugary-bits off his maroon silk tie. “Let’s get this over with.”

“After you, sweet cheeks.” For added effect, he swatted her dress-clad butt as she passed him. He chuckled at her ‘Don’t get me excited’ look.

The engagement dinner had been his mother’s idea. While Scott didn’t mind having dinner with his parents, or his future in-laws, he really didn’t expect to be having one involving all parties so soon after actually getting engaged. He’d only asked Denise two weeks ago. He loved his parents, but they could be a bit overbearing. It was one of the many reasons he adored Denise’s family. From the first time he met her parents and two brothers, he felt like part of their family. Her mom made lasagna, and her dad made a salad from all the veggies grown in his garden. Denise’s parents liked living a little farther out from the city, liked getting their hands down in the dirt. Scott doubted his mother or father had ever cooked a day in their life.

Denise stood at the front door, gawking. “Your mother sent a limo. A limo, Scott.”

He let out a long sigh. “She told me the other day about it. I insisted that we could drive ourselves to the restaurant, to which she replied, ‘What about cocktails? You’ll have cocktails and you’ll need transportation.’”

He and Denise said the last part in unison. She giggled, and he leaned down to kiss her. After a few seconds they parted. Her eyes went wide, and she slapped his arm in an excited remembrance. “Oh, this is why my mom said earlier that the car was there. I had no idea what she was talking about. Holy moly, your parents sent a limo to get mine. Aww, that’s sweet.”

“Cynthia has her moments.” He held open the front door.

“Stop calling your mom by her first name. It’s weird.”

The limo driver held open the door for Denise and Scott, told them that any beverages or snacks were complimentary. They joked about making out during the ride, but decided against it since appearing at a four-star restaurant for dinner with their parents in rumpled clothing probably wouldn’t go over too well.

When they arrived at Calamari, Scott had to keep Denise from getting out of the limo.

“I don’t need that poor man to walk all the way back here just to open the door,” she said, refusing to let go of the handle.

“It is his job. Like, literally, his job. He gets paid to drive and open doors,” said Scott.

“I can’t make his job easier? What if he ends up driving around a bunch of bratty teenagers later? They definitely won’t open the door for themselves.”

Right then, the door opened. Denise hastily took her hand away from the inside handle. Scott snickered, but she got out of the vehicle, thanking the man. He did the same.

Scott held out his arm for his fiancée. She took it, wrapping her arm around his, fingers resting against his forearm. He felt the tiny flutters, the tingling sensation in his stomach, almost a nervous feeling, at the love of that small, intimate contact. He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, and they walked into the restaurant.

The maitre d’ showed them to a reserved room at the back of the establishment. He opened the double doors for the couple. Scott and Denise stopped dead at the sight. The suit clad maitre d’ extended a hand. “Mr. Walsh?”

Denise took a baby step, modest heels clicking on the stone tile floor. He resisted and felt her tugging on his arm.

A waiter came around the pair to pull out the two middle chairs at the elegantly set banquet table. Deep purple and lavender tulip flower arrangements sat near either end. The middle held a large crystal vase with all white tulips. Denise’s favorite.

“How could your mother possibly know my favorite flower? In my favorite colors?” asked Denise in a hushed voice. “She’s a witch, isn’t she? Tell me now before I wake up married to a warlock.”

“Ha ha. She called your mother, I’d bet money. Did your mom tell you that your brothers were coming? Not that I mind because, honestly, they make life worth living.”

“No. Who is that redheaded lady? The one with the redhead teenage clone.”

“Natalie and Rachel.”

“Your stepmother and stepsister are here? What the f—”

“Scott, darling!” Cynthia Walsh spotted them and rushed over, arms raised. She gave him a hug and kissed his cheek. “And Denise. You are the picture of loveliness.” She embraced her future daughter-in-law before taking her hand. “I hope you like the arrangements.”

“They’re gorgeous,” said Denise. “Thank you so much.”

“Well, it’s not every day that your son decides to marry such an elegant young lady. You deserve it.”

His mother left them to speak to the maitre d’ about something concerning the appetizers. Scott and Denise went to her parents. “Hi mom. Hi dad,” she said, getting tangled in a hug from both at once. “You guys look great!”

“We clean up nicely,” said Carla Fern. “Of course, we had to buy this one a new suit.

“The old one was deemed, what was the word?” said Daniel Fern.

“Dated, dad. Several decades too old,” piped up Will, Denise’s youngest brother.

“Wide lapels are not a thing anymore,” said Charlie, the eldest of the twenty-two year old twins. Charlie slapped Scott on the back. “Good to see you.”

“You, too, man,” said Scott. He gave Carla a hug, and shook Daniel’s hand, and the three of them started talking about his job until he heard the deep, authoritative voice of his father, and the severe tone of his paternal grandmother. Scott whipped around.

“Nana is here,” he said. He grabbed Denise’s hand and pulled her in front of him as a defense mechanism. “Protect me.”

“You are insane. She can’t be that bad.”

“She can and is. Wait. You’ll get a lecture about the war in less than fifteen minutes.” He held up his wrist. “It’s 7:47. I’ll time it.”

“Oh, let go of me.” Denise wriggled free of his grip and went to greet his father and grandmother.

Everyone began sitting. Two waiters circled the table. One filled goblets with ice water while the other took drink orders. Denise was still looking at the four page booklet when it came to her and Scott.

“I’ll take the IPA,” he said.

“I think … uh … gosh. Okay. I’ll take the frozen sangria and peach bellini swirl.”

“A house specialty,” said the waiter.

Cynthia ordered appetizers for the table. She sat next to Carla, and Scott stared at the two women who couldn’t be more different having what seemed to be a perfectly pleasant conversation. Beside him, Denise spoke to his father, Karl, answering his intense questions about her upcoming internship at a prestigious architecture firm. Scott could tell that his father’s queries were unexpected, but she never sounded more polite. Things appeared to be going better than he dreamed.

The pair of waiters returned with drinks. When one of them handed the frozen bellini to Denise, she exclaimed, “Yahtzee!”


Everyone looked at his grandmother. She wore an expression of extreme dislike. “Did she say Nazi?”

“No, Nana, she said Yahtzee,” said Scott.


“It’s an expression, Nan,” said his stepsister. “Like the game?”

“Communism is not a game, young lady,” reprimanded the elderly woman.

“Oh, no, Mrs. Walsh, I didn’t say what you think I did,” started Denise, only to be interrupted by Karl.

“Mother, do please stop talking about the war for five minutes. This is your grandson’s engagement dinner, not a lecture hall.”

Denise glanced to her right at Scott’s subtle throat clearing. He held up his wrist, tapping his watch with his index finger.

“Thirteen minutes,” he mouthed.


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