Thanksgiving, and all the holiday craziness that followed it, were upon us. Originally we were supposed to drive to my grandparents’ condo in Massachusetts, but my mother insisted on hosting it, calling it the first holiday in her new home.
My Uncle Ron came, too, driving all the way up from New York City the night before and picking up my grandparents on the way. My uncle stayed overnight in James’s room and James slept on the floor in my bedroom. My grandparents took over my mom’s room and my mother slept in the family room on a pullout couch. I offered to sleep on it, but she insisted she wanted to. She was going to get up early anyway to stick the turkey in the oven and didn’t want to wake any of us.
Even though we were all cramped, the meal was delicious as we gathered around the small kitchen table. My mother laid out a festive gold and green tablecloth and decorated the top with honey-colored gourds and a miniature bouquet of burgundy mums.
Beyond the kitchen doorway, a fire blazed in the family room. Between that and the heat from the stove, we were all toasty and warm on the cold and snowy day.
“Glad to see you using the fireplace,” my uncle said. “Make sure you hire someone to clean out the chimney and flue at the end of each year.”
“I will, Ron,” my mother promised as she stood and carved some more of the turkey.
“I just installed an expensive, gas-burning fireplace in my penthouse. It looks so amazing. I even placed fake logs to the side to give it more of an authentic feel.”
My uncle was a wealthy restaurateur and made his money as the owner of some of New York’s finest and trendiest restaurants. He had even offered to bring the Thanksgiving dinner along with him.
“I could have had my sous-chef, Luis, make the turkey and all the sides, Laura,” he said as he sliced into a juicy brown turkey leg. “His homemade cranberry sauce is to die for and you wouldn’t have had to go to all this trouble.”
My mother smiled, proud as a peacock, as she spooned steaming peas and carrots onto James’s plate. James plugged his nose and looked at me. I giggled. My mom noticed.
“James! Stop it! And you, too, Willow.”
She turned her smile back to my uncle.
“It’s no trouble at all, Ron. I’ve always enjoyed cooking a turkey and love how it makes the whole house smell.”
My mother gave me veggies, too.
“Plus, I could never repay you for letting us move in and live here rent free.”
My mother put her hand to her chest and got choked up. “I really don’t know what I would have done without you, brother.”
My uncle patted the top of her hand. “Don’t worry, Laura. I did it because I can.”
Uncle Ron got all excited and animated. “Plus, for some time now, I’ve had my eye on a bigger house here on the island, over on Peck Road. I always wanted an excuse to buy it, and now I have one!”
My mom smiled lovingly at her only sibling.
Uncle Ron spoke softly. “Consider this place all yours, sis.”
My mother was so moved by his gesture. She tried to hold back her tears, but could not.
My grandfather, who seemed to be getting more and more senile lately, yelled, “What’s all the blubbering about, Laura? Is it because the food tastes so horrible?”
My grandmother rolled her eyes and gently elbowed him in the side. “Quiet, Shamus! The food is delightful.”
My mother looked at each one of us as we feasted on her hard work. She frowned. “Is it that bad?”
“Not at all,” James answered as he plopped another heap of mashed potatoes onto his plate.
“It’s delicious, Mom,” I swore and even took another bite of my stuffing.
“I’ve got some bad news for you, sister,” my Uncle Ron said in his most serious tone. “If you cook like this all the time, I’m gonna have to steal you from Willow and James so you can run one of my kitchens in New York.”
As my mom smiled with appreciation and dried her eyes, the doorbell rang. We all turned toward the family room. My mother, who was already standing, put down the carving knife and fork. “I’ll get it,” she said and left the room.
My grandfather continued ranting about how salty the food was and my grandmother kept trying to quiet him, while James, my uncle and I ate as though it was our last meal.
My mother came back into the kitchen and cleared her throat. We all looked at her. She addressed me.
“Willow, you have a visitor.”
“I do?”
She nodded.
“Who is it?”
She gestured toward the family room. “Go and see.”
The others stared at me. I shrugged, got up from the table and threw my napkin onto my chair. “Be right back.”
Who the heck would stop by and visit today, of all days, I wondered as I stepped into the family room? I stood and looked around. No one was in there. I saw a blurred movement coming from beyond the icy, frosted panes of the front door. Cautiously, I walked toward it.
Slowly I turned the cold, metal doorknob, faced the unexpected visitor and gasped.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” Michael beamed.
• • •
Never in my life had I seen anyone shiver as much as Michael. I pulled him into the family room and led him toward the hot, crackling fire. I was filled with questions, but wanted him to defrost first.
Michael looked terrible. He was paler than ever and his lips were a light shade of blue. His eyes were red as if he’d been crying.
“What are you doing here and how did you find my house?” I whispered, thankful that none of my family members came to investigate, especially my nosy brother.
Michael rubbed his hands together and blew on them. “I grew up on the island. I knew exactly where this place was when we first talked.”
“But why did you come … and on Thanksgiving?”
Michael looked down as he answered. “I just needed to get away from home for a while.”
He looked at me and forced a grin. “You know how annoying families can get, especially around the holidays.”
I was flabbergasted. “But it’s snowing and freezing out there,” I said as I pointed toward the front window. “How did you even get here?”
“I took a cab from my house to the Portland pier and walked to your house when I got to the island.”
“Do your parents know where you are?”
Again he looked down. “No. And I really don’t care.”
I grabbed his frozen hand and spoke sternly. “Michael, you need to call them.”
“No. I don’t.” He yanked his hand away and glared at me. “I knew coming here was a mistake.”
I was speechless, at first, and then became angry. “A mistake? What am I supposed to think? You show up unexpectedly on my doorstep during a storm, frozen to the bone in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner?”
Michael turned away from me, toward the fire, but I wasn’t done.
“And you promised you’d be in school last week and, not only did you not show up, you didn’t even have the courtesy to tell me.”
Michael still wouldn’t look at me. I continued anyway and tried to keep my voice down.
“What is going on with you? Sometimes you’re around; sometimes you’re not. I think you’re really sick with something, but you won’t talk about it.”
Exasperated, I threw my hands up. “What do you want from me, Michael?”
Michael glowered at me and pierced me with his dark, brooding eyes. He spoke through clenched teeth and his voice was deeper than ever. “Absolutely nothing.”
Without another word, he turned and marched toward the front door.
“Michael!” I called after him. “Wait! Come back!”
Michael stormed out and slammed the door shut, but somehow, it blew back open, as a gust of frigid wind entered the room, found me, clung to me and wouldn’t let me go.
CHAPTER
NINE
In the Middle of Nowhere (Willow's Journey #1) Page 8