“The Croaker,” Amy murmured in my ear.
I suppressed a snort. “Because one old lady criticizing your hair and life choices is never enough.”
“Puppy!” Daisy cried, toddling forward.
Polly promptly squatted and peed on the rug.
“She’s not used to children,” Aunt Phee announced.
Meg grabbed Daisy protectively.
“I’ll get some paper towels,” Beth said, escaping to the kitchen.
Smart move.
“Why are you standing around half-naked?” Aunt Phee asked Amy. “Go put on a sweater before you catch your death.”
“This is a sweater, Aunt Phee,” Amy said.
“Half a sweater, maybe. I’m getting cold just looking at you.” She turned her attention to me. “Don’t stand there like a beanpole, girl. Give me some sugar.”
Obediently, I stooped to kiss her moisturized cheek.
“Well?” she demanded. “Did you bring your boyfriend home to meet me?”
My eyeball twitched. “I don’t have a boyfriend, Aunt Phee.”
She sniffed. “What’s the matter with those men in New York City? You’re not bad-looking. Or you wouldn’t be, if you fixed your hair.”
I had my father’s hair, thick and curly. Momma cut it once when I was eight or nine, creating a giant brush, an uncontrollable explosion of hair. Ever since middle school, I’d worn it long, bundled out of the way.
“I heard the men in New York are all gay,” Miss Wanda said.
“The men are fine.” Jeez. “New York is fine. I’m just not looking for a relationship right now.”
Beth kneeled out of the line of fire, blotting the rug.
“By the time your mother was your age, she had the three of you and another one on the way,” Phee said.
“If you mean Amy,” I said, “I’m pretty sure she was a mistake.”
Aunt Phee’s mouth quirked before she pressed her lips into a thin coral line.
Amy narrowed her eyes at me, silently promising retribution. I grinned.
Meg, flushed and pretty with Daisy in her arms, came between us. “Hello, Aunt Phee.”
Aunt Phee presented her other cheek for my sister’s kiss. “Don’t think you’re off the hook, either, missy. This one needs a little sister to play with.”
“She has a brother,” Meg said.
“Go, Meg,” I said. “No gender typing here.”
“Meg and John have plenty of time to think about expanding their family,” Mom said. “DJ is still in diapers.”
Daisy wriggled down to toddle after the cat.
“How old is he now, three?” Miss Wanda said.
“Two and a half,” Meg said.
“Old enough to be toilet trained,” Aunt Phee said.
I rolled my eyes. John turned up the volume on the television. The front door opened, admitting a blast of cold air and our tall, lean, aristocratic-looking father. Finally.
“Girls. Abby,” he greeted us. He stooped to kiss my mother. “I brought some guests home from the center. You remember Captain David Lewis.”
Who?
“Of course. I’m so glad you could join us for dinner, Captain,” Mom said, sounding like an officer’s wife.
“Dave, ma’am. Appreciate you having us.”
They started coming through the door behind him, four men I’d never seen before, young ones with beards, old ones with service caps, all of them wearing some kind of camo. Vets? Homeless? Homeless vets?
Polly yapped. I scooped her up before someone stepped on her, and she sank her little needle teeth into my wrist.
“Ouch. Your dog bit me,” I said, handing her to Aunt Phee.
“She’s not used to so many people,” Aunt Phee said.
“Neither is Jo,” Amy said. “But you don’t see her biting anybody.”
“Give me time,” I said.
“Welcome,” Mom said. “You’re all very welcome.”
The thanks and introductions went on. The house filled. Cars and trucks littered the driveway. Aunt Phee retreated to a corner with Wanda Crocker, feeding her dog from the platter of shrimp. Daisy had pinned Weasley in a corner and was sticking her chubby fingers into the cat’s ears.
“Gentle,” Meg warned. To which of them, I wasn’t sure.
“John, please bring some more chairs from upstairs,” Mom said, raising her voice over the noise of the football game. “Meg, there are extra cups in the pantry. Can you make sure our guests all have something to drink?”
Forget drinks, I thought, counting heads. What were they all going to eat?
“Do we have enough food?” Meg whispered to me.
Seven, eight, nine . . . There was a sixteen-pound bird in the oven. Enough for guests and leftovers, I’d thought. Figure fifteen adults at a pound and a bit per person . . .
“I’ll go check,” I whispered back, and escaped into the kitchen to take inventory.
In the back of my head, I heard Chef’s voice: “We feed them, yes. So simple. We take care of them, yeah? So basic. Service. Everything is for the guest.”
So, okay. Counting the soufflé, we had plenty of sides. If I added more noodles to the mac and cheese . . .
I filled a pot in the sink.
“They’re here!” Beth’s voice sang out.
More guests.
I glanced out the kitchen window. Sure enough, there was old Mr. Laurence’s long black Lincoln turning into my parents’ driveway. And there . . . Yep. That was Trey at the wheel, bringing them both to Thanksgiving dinner.
Setting the pot on the stove to boil, I resecured my hair and crowded into the hallway with the rest of the family to greet them.
* * *
Trey had brought flowers and beer, and Mr. Laurence, wine. Our parents were not big drinkers, but John took a beer and passed the rest around. Captain Lewis opened the wine, pouring pinot noir into red plastic cups. At least all the activity covered the awkwardness of seeing Trey again.
Mom and Meg both exclaimed over the big bouquet of sunflowers and roses.
“I’ll just get these in water,” Meg said as Trey enveloped me in a hug.
Well, everybody was hugging everybody.
I turned my head, aware we had an audience. Amy looked away as his kiss landed somewhere above my ear. He smelled the same, like bergamot and starch, the only twentysomething guy I knew who sent his shirts to the dry cleaner’s. Or could afford to.
“Hey, Trey,” I mumbled against his shoulder.
“Jo.” He backed to arm’s length, still holding both my hands. “You look amazing.”
He did, too. His hair had grown, dark curls tumbling around his face. Very Lord Byron. “Bedhead,” I used to tease, back in the days before we’d been to bed together.
Now I said nothing.
He ran his finger along the strap of my borrowed apron. “This is a new look for you.”
I jerked back a step. “I’m giving Mom a hand in the kitchen.”
“Jo made almost the entire dinner this year,” Momma said. “She’s a chef now.”
Trey gave me a speculative look. “Really.”
“Prep cook,” I said.
I’d been let go from the paper less than a month after our last fight.
“I don’t need this,” I remembered yelling at him.
He’d glared at me, sulky and gorgeous. “You mean, you don’t need me.”
I didn’t want to need him. I could not be his instant family, his next step to achieving manhood.
So I’d turned him down, turned him away. Again.
I tightened my ponytail. “Speaking of cooking, I left a pot of water on the stove.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Mom said.
My parents had always welcomed strays, on the farm and around the table.
I admired their easy hospitality, my father’s determination that no soldier should go hungry on our national holiday of Thanksgiving.
But honestly, what was he thinking, springing guests on her an hour before dinner? Not that I would have noticed a year ago.
“I got it, Mom,” I said.
Daisy wriggled down from the stranger’s lap. “I help, Auntie Jo,” she announced.
DJ lurched for me, holding out his little arms.
“Oh, I don’t think . . .” Meg began.
“Absolutely.” I hefted my nephew onto my hip. Smiled at my niece. “You can . . .” What? Toddlers had terrible knife skills. “Put out some more napkins and forks, okay?”
While Daisy and DJ trotted importantly back and forth from the dining room, I grabbed butter and cheese to make a roux.
“There’s no more room at the table,” Meg said, bustling in. “I told John to set up TV trays.”
Beth slipped in from the dining room. “I can eat in the kitchen.”
“Ha.” Amy came in for another bottle of wine. “You just don’t want to sit next to Aunt Phee.”
Beth half smiled. I wondered how my shy, performance-averse sister would manage if she ever actually got a singing part in a show. But she didn’t have a bad idea. No making conversation with bearded strangers, no Great-Aunt Josephine, no Trey . . .
“Why don’t the four of us eat in here?” I suggested. “It would be like old times.”
“We’re a little old to sit at the kiddie table,” Meg pointed out.
“Although it does sound nice,” Beth said.
“As long as we have alcohol.” Amy carried the open bottle out to the living room.
I opened the pantry.
“What can I do?” Beth asked.
“I’m fine,” I said.
Meg returned carrying a stack of dirty cups. “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to ask for help every once in a while.”
I snorted. “Look who’s talking.”
“She’s right,” Beth said.
“Fine. Grate me some cheese.”
“Aunt Phee wants to know what time we’re eating,” Meg said.
I threw a look at the kitchen timer. “Ten minutes?”
“Great.” Meg stooped to retrieve DJ from under the kitchen table. “And we need more chips.”
“I’ll get them,” Beth said.
She collided with Trey in the doorway. He steadied her, rescuing the chips from spilling. Beth blushed and thanked him, ducking under his arm to carry the bowl to the living room. It struck me—not for the first time—how good he was with her.
And then—definitely for the first time—how good she would be for him. How good they could be for each other. He would take care of her. She would admire him.
Maybe Trey had fallen for the wrong sister.
Huh.
“Get out,” I said. “I have work to do.”
He held up his hands in an I-come-in-peace gesture. “Come on, Jo, don’t be like that.” He flashed his boyish, ingratiating smile. “I’ve missed you.”
The words, the familiar smile, went straight to my heart. I grabbed the pasta off the stove and drained it in the sink, raising a cloud of steam. My cheeks flushed from the heat. Or maybe that was annoyance.
“I missed you, too,” I admitted.
He propped his lean hips against the counter, hanging around the way he always did. Teasing. Distracting. In my way.
I hefted the pot. “Move your ass, Laurence.”
He shifted a few inches to avoid getting burned. “So you’re a cook now.”
“Among other things.” I banged the pot onto an empty burner. Adjusted the heat under the roux. “I write a food blog.”
He nodded. “Hungry.”
I was pleased. Surprised. Hungry: Taking a Bite Out of the Big Apple was the name of my blog. “You read it?”
“Your sister said something about it.” He plucked a shred of cheese from the bowl. “Mm. Good. What happened to the newspaper gig?”
I slapped his hand away. “The paper downsized. I was let go.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
I shrugged. “You were ignoring my texts. Anyway, I figured it was better if you didn’t know.”
“Better for what? Your pride?”
He had never understood my determination to stand on my own two feet. Never accepted my decision to move to New York in the first place.
I looked up from the cheese sauce to meet his gaze. “Our friendship.”
Our eyes locked. He smiled a little crookedly. “Fair enough.”
I took a quick survey of the kitchen: turkey resting, green beans and gravy keeping warm, butter melting on mashed potatoes. Glanced again at the clock. “Tell me about you,” I said. “How was Italy?”
“It was all right.”
“That doesn’t sound very enthusiastic. I thought you were looking forward to seeing Europe.”
“I was looking forward to seeing Europe with you.”
I sighed. “Trey, we’ve been through all this. I have to work. I have a job.”
“Not anymore. Not a real job.”
Ouch. My teeth gritted. “Thanks, pal. I appreciate your support.”
He pushed away from the counter, catching my hands again. His were warm and firm. “Come on, Jo, I didn’t mean it that way. I want to support you, I swear I do. Let me prove it. Let’s do it. It’s not too late. Let’s take that trip we always talked about in college.”
I tugged on my hands and snatched up a set of pot holders. “Trey, I can’t do this now.”
“Then after the holidays,” he said, following me. “Think about it. You’ve always wanted to visit Paris. Rome. Barcelona. We can go anywhere you want. Dine our way through Europe, eat at every Michelin-starred restaurant, any weird hole-in-the-wall you say. You could write about them for your blog. I can give you that. Let me give you the break you deserve.”
“I mean, I’m busy.”
I had a sudden image of Chef expediting dishes at the pass, legs planted like tree trunks as the storm of dinner service swirled around him, sending everything out to the table at just the right moment. How did he do it?
That soufflé had to come out of the oven. Now. I grabbed the green bean casserole and shoved it, pot holders and all, into Trey’s hands. “Take this out to the table. Dinner’s ready.”
Without waiting for his reply, I whirled to the stove. Eased open the oven door. The soufflé was puffed and golden. I released a breath of relief. Whipping out my phone, I snapped some quick pictures for the blog before I slid the soufflé from the rack. Holding the dish chest high like a trophy, I turned. And . . .
The top crust listed. Steam escaped before the whole creation collapsed gently on itself.
Crap.
* * *
Squaring my shoulders, I marched into the dining room, carrying the deflated soufflé.
“What’s that? Where’s the turkey?” Aunt Phee demanded.
“In the kitchen.” Meg stood hastily. “I’ll get it.”
When she returned with the turkey platter, Daddy led us in grace, holding hands around the table, two TV trays placed awkwardly at one end to accommodate our last-minute guests. I watched as my father’s lean, elegant fingers enclosed my mother’s smaller, callused ones. They were high school sweethearts, a small-town love story, the boy from the big white house on the hill and the farmers’ daughter. No wonder everybody in Bunyan thought I’d end up with Trey. History repeating itself.
But my parents truly loved each other. My mother always said how much she admired my father, his sense of purpose, his rigorous intellect, his deep devotion to God and country. And he loved her because she was devoted to . . . him, I guess.
I flushed. That wasn’t fair to either of them.
Bowing my head, I let
the familiar words wash over me. “Bless, O Lord, this food to our use and us to thy service . . .”
Aunt Phee poked her soufflé with a fork. “I don’t see any marshmallows.”
Daisy bounced in her high chair. “Marthmellowth!”
“No marshmallows. Sorry, Daisy.” I smiled at my niece. “Sorry, Aunt.”
I’d wanted to bring something of myself to the table. To show my family what I’d learned. How I’d grown. Big mistake.
“Have some cranberry sauce,” Meg said, passing the cut glass bowl.
Aunt Phee peered at it suspiciously. “What’s this?”
“Real cranberries, Aunt. Try it. You’ll like it.”
“Real cranberry sauce has ridges,” Miss Wanda said.
Right. From the can.
“I love the soufflé,” Amy said unexpectedly.
I looked at her in surprised gratitude. “Thanks, Ames.”
At least my father’s guests weren’t picky. They loaded their plates as if this were their first decent meal in days, or their last. For some of them, maybe it was. Our mother, on the other hand, struggled to eat anything at all. I wondered if pain or the pills she was taking had killed her appetite. More likely, she was trying to save some turkey for her guests.
Dad was quietly talking with Captain Lewis—Dave—about an upcoming workshop.
“. . . critical to keep the focus on our veterans who have experienced actual trauma,” my father was saying.
“I agree. But we can’t ignore that listening to stories of the same events, horrible stories, day after day, makes caregivers vulnerable to the same symptoms,” the captain said.
My father’s face folded into hard, cool lines like a marble statue in St. Patrick’s Cathedral. “You’re talking about secondary traumatic stress.”
The captain shrugged. “Or compassion fatigue, if you feel that term is less stigmatizing.”
“My feelings are not under discussion,” my father said.
“But that’s the point, isn’t it? Military culture, medical culture, ministers—we’re all trained to tough it out so we can take care of others. We cope by ignoring our own emotions. But eventually, those feelings can’t be ignored. And that creates a problem.”
Meg and Jo Page 9