“Three is two more than I got to cook for last year. A person spends her entire life learning how to make a proper turkey dinner; then suddenly, when her skills are at their peak, they’re not needed anymore. I’m cooking,” Beth had insisted. “We can use the extra rolls to make turkey sandwiches later. With the other leftovers, we won’t have to touch the stove for a week.”
“More like a month,” Lexa said, right before adding a chocolate cream pie to the menu. If her diet was taking a week off, she might as well make the most of it. Sighing now, she closed the laptop on her unfinished essay. There was no way she’d be able to concentrate on history with chocolate tipping the scale. Ditching her pajamas, she put on jeans and a sweatshirt and headed down to the kitchen.
Beth was peeling potatoes, an apron on over her bathrobe. “There you are, kitten!” she said with relief. “I could really use some help here.”
“Okay, but don’t start getting panicked. We’ve still got three hours before he even shows up.”
“Three hours is barely enough. We need to get our pies in now, to give them time to cool. Thank heaven I baked the rolls last night! That’s one thing out of the way.”
“And the turkey’s already cooking. Is it stuffed?”
“Of course.”
“That’s two more, then. Stop stressing—we’ve got this.”
Beth smiled gratefully. “Would you mind taking over here while I run and get dressed?”
Lexa had finished the potatoes and was starting on the yams when her grandmother reappeared wearing a fuchsia velour track suit and a head full of hot rollers.
“Bold fashion choice,” Lexa teased. “Put that apron back in the mix and you’ll have the full ensemble.”
“Very funny. This is just my cooking outfit. I’ll shower and change before Weston gets here.”
And the rollers? Lexa wanted to ask. Her grandmother’s usual hairstyle was as tailored as her clothes. Lexa was afraid to see the bouffant resulting from that sort of wattage. More holiday insanity, she decided, letting the rollers pass without comment. They’d made up their fight about Blake’s card, but they’d probably both be off kilter until after Christmas.
Beth put the potatoes on to boil. “We’ll mash them now and reheat them later. Where are we with those yams?”
“I’ve got them peeled. I don’t know how to make the candied part, though.”
“Zest an orange for me, would you? I’ll put the rest of that together.” Soon the yams were in a covered casserole awaiting their turn in the oven.
“Pies!” Beth exclaimed. “Those have to be next.”
The two of them worked side by side, blind baking the shell for the chocolate cream and mixing pumpkin custard. The kitchen gradually filled with so many good smells that Lexa could hardly keep track: rosemary, sage, garlic, orange, cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, and—her special favorite—the dark rich scent of cloves.
“I love this stuff,” she said, inhaling over the bottle.
Beth smiled nostalgically and handed her a measuring spoon. “You always have, ever since you were itty bitty. You and Kaitlin both.”
“Blake likes it too.”
Beth’s smile turned brittle. “Perhaps it reminds him of better times. If so, he knows who to blame. Let’s not think about Blake today. I want us to have fun.”
Lexa had been having fun. Now those warm feelings evaporated like the steam off the potatoes. What was he doing for Thanksgiving? she wondered. Eating at someone else’s house or nuking a turkey pot pie by himself?
You already know the answer, she thought guiltily. Blake received dinner invitations from single moms at the rink every year and never accepted any of them. This year, with everyone aware she was gone, he’d probably received twice as many.
And still not taken any.
“Thanksgiving’s not about food,” he always said. “It’s about family being together.”
Which was why Lexa usually ate early turkey with Beth and late Chinese take-out with Blake. The year before had been different, though. She’d stayed home and tried to cook him a turkey herself. Nothing had turned out the way she’d planned: Beth’s feelings had been hurt and the bird had come out dry. Blake had seemed to like it, though, toting desiccated turkey sandwiches to the rink for days.
I hope he’s still ordering Chinese, she thought, filled with remorse by the realization that she might have made another day sad for him. She remembered the photos he’d mailed her the week before as she stirred chocolate pudding on a low flame. Whether he’d intended the message Beth had read from them Lexa couldn’t guess. Maybe every photo was a Rorschach test, revealing nothing so much as the contents of the viewer’s own mind. If so, those pictures said more about Beth than Blake.
And what do they say about me? she wondered. Because from the instant she’d seen them, she’d been obsessed with thoughts of returning home, moving back in with Blake and skating at Ashtabula Ice surrounded by friends again. She was even starting to worry she was missing out on something by not being at Erie Shores High.
“That pudding is thick enough!” Beth said, yanking the pan off the heat. “Check the bottom. Did it scorch?”
Lexa scraped the pan. “It feels fine to me.”
“Better taste it,” Beth said, smiling as she handed Lexa a dessert spoon. “We wouldn’t want to poison anyone.”
The flavor of deeply chocolate pudding exploded in Lexa’s mouth, but her craving for chocolate had passed. “Grandmom, do you think—” She cut herself off abruptly, horrified by what she’d been about to say.
“Do I think what, kitten?”
“Um, do you think we really need to make whipped cream from scratch?” she asked instead. “The canned kind tastes so good that nobody can tell.”
“I can tell. Don’t worry,” Beth added with a smile. “I’ll whip up that cream while you and Weston are still trying to digest enough dinner to make room for pie.”
Beth began the savory corn pudding, leaving Lexa shaken. She had almost just asked if it would be a big deal if she moved back in with Blake.
Would that be a big deal? Going back to Blake would also mean going back to singles, a double betrayal of everything they’d worked so hard for. Lexa could practically hear her grandmother’s reply: the magnitude of the mistake she’d be making, the list of people she’d be letting down. The worst part is, she’d be right. How could I disappoint them all now, after everything they’ve done for me?
Beth had devoted countless hours and dollars to making Lexa’s pairs dreams come true. Weston, a coach most skaters would give a kidney to train with, had come out of retirement for her. And Eric . . .
How could I abandon Eric? The mere thought raised a lump in her throat. Eric was everything she could ask for in a partner, everything and more. And yet . . .
Something’s still missing between us.
Did she have the courage to say so? Or was courage even the word for what was holding her tongue? Maybe what she wanted to call courage was just more selfishness.
“Oh, dear lord! Is that the time? We need to kick this into warp speed.” Beth ticked off the remaining dishes on her fingers. “Cranberries, Waldorf salad, green beans, and gravy. Would you mind rounding up these dirty pans while I get the relish simmering? I’ll do the other sides right before we eat.”
Lexa filled the dishwasher to capacity before resorting to washing by hand. She and Beth finished at the same time.
“Perfect!” Beth exclaimed. “I’m just going to set the table and get cleaned up before Weston arrives.” She gave Lexa’s outfit a once-over. “You might want to change too.”
“He’s seen me dripping sweat in ripped tights,” Lexa objected. “Jeans will be a big improvement.”
“It’s a holiday,” Beth said, closing the matter.
Upstairs, Lexa went back to her history essay, aimlessly moving commas around before shutting the laptop again. The sun had broken through the clouds, making the snow sparkle. There would be hours of daylight left af
ter turkey. She could still show up at Blake’s. . . .
Sighing, she left the window and took a shower, then dressed in her nicest pants and a lace-trimmed top. She was brushing out her hair when the doorbell rang.
“Weston’s here!” Beth trilled.
Down in the entryway, Beth was hanging Weston’s overcoat while he stood to one side holding a bottle of champagne. He looked desperately out of his element in a corduroy blazer over a black turtleneck and corduroy slacks—basically, a whole lot of corduroy.
“Lexa!” he exclaimed, lighting up as she came down the stairs. “Happy Turkey Day!”
“Not if you’re our turkey,” she returned, grinning.
Handing the champagne to Beth, Weston fished in his jacket pocket. “I brought you something,” he said, pressing a small box into Lexa’s hands.
She accepted his offering with surprise. “A present? For Thanksgiving?”
“More just because I like you. Go ahead. Open it.”
Inside the box on a bed of white cotton lay a gleaming silver star. An inch across, its faceted surface caught the light and reflected it back like a field of diamonds.
“It’s a pin. Or you can wear it on a chain. But since you still wear your mom’s necklace, I thought you might prefer a pin. For now.”
Lexa’s hand went to the gold cross and skate around her neck, then gently touched the star. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.”
“It’ll look good under the lights,” he said with a wink. “Sparkle just like you do.”
“Are you saying I’m a star?”
“Better. You’re my star. I have big plans for you, girl. This is only the beginning.”
Lexa had been joking, but he was clearly sincere. The room blurred through sudden tears that rushed into her eyes.
“Whoa!” he said, rubbing her shoulder. “Are you crying? You know I think the world of you. You, me, Eric, your grandmom . . . the four of us are going to go far.”
“Here, here!” Beth agreed happily. “It’s sweet that you’re touched, though, kitten.”
Lexa nodded and sniffed back her tears. She was touched, but that wasn’t what had made her cry.
She was finally someone’s star. The words she had waited her whole life to hear had just snapped shut on her like a trap.
—57—
“Hey,” Ian said. “Can you pick me up?”
“In my car?” Lexa asked. “Now?” He’d barely texted since Halloween, which had made her even more confused about the nature of their relationship. Calling at first light on her only day off training and asking for a ride was definitely not romantic, though. “Did your Jeep break down or something?”
“Something. I’m in the Debbie’s Donuts on Blackthorn. Do you know where that is?” He gave her directions to a place way outside of town.
“I can’t come out there now. I’m behind on my assignments and my tutor will be here this afternoon. Can’t someone else pick you up?”
“I want to show you something. Just come, okay?”
Lexa was still irritated as she drove through Maplehurst’s gates, but excitement was starting to win out. There was no denying that a mystery outing with Ian beat chemistry for Clara at least five different ways. She hummed along to the radio while a light snow dusted her windshield, each flake visible as it rushed toward slushy doom on the glass.
“Can you believe it’s the first of December?” the DJ asked. “I’m still eating leftover turkey and it’s time to start decking the halls. Well, you know what they say: If you can’t beat them. . . .”
“It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” began playing through the speakers. Lexa changed stations. She already had enough chaos in her life without thinking about Christmas. She drove through Ashtabula and into the outskirts on its other side, becoming increasingly anxious about how much time the trip was taking. She finally found Debbie’s Donuts, just off the highway alongside a stop sign, a gas station, and nothing else.
Pulling into the pot-holed parking lot, she spotted Ian at a table just inside the window. He jumped up at the same moment, hurrying out with two to-go cups and a paper bag. His breath formed clouds in the freezing air as he crossed to her Explorer.
“You made it! Here, hot chocolate.” Pushing one cup at her, he sank into the passenger seat and rattled his bag like a maraca. “Doughnut holes too. Let’s go.”
“Go where, exactly?” she asked, trying to sound more annoyed than she actually felt.
“Turn right on Blackthorn,” he said, pointing.
“That’s not my idea of exactly.” She turned the car around and pulled back onto the road anyway.
Blackthorn was a densely wooded lane aimed into the heart of nowhere. The pavement had been plowed within the past twenty-four hours, but the inch of snow that had fallen since made it hard to see. “Are we going to your car?” Lexa asked. “I don’t want to get stuck out here.”
“We are, and you won’t. I walked this road to get to Debbie’s. Here, have a doughnut hole.” He offered the open bag.
She hesitated, then plunged in her hand, unable to resist the dual temptations of grease and sugar. She was still chewing when Ian pointed to a barely noticeable gap between trees. “Turn there.”
The snow was deeper in that direction and the Explorer didn’t have four-wheel drive. She was about to object when her eyes caught a flash of red fifty feet in—Ian’s Jeep. Steering carefully along his packed tire tracks, she drove up behind him and prepared to cut her engine.
“No, park beside me,” he directed.
“I’d rather stop where I know I won’t get stuck.”
“It’s not deep. I checked.”
She could see that he had. Dense fir branches had collected more snow than they’d allowed to sift to the ground, and Ian’s boots had punched holes all through that thin layer. Sighing, she rolled her car up next to his. “If we’re jumping your battery, you’d better have cables and know how to use them. Those things scare me to death.”
He smiled and held out his bag. “Doughnut hole?”
She glared, then took a handful. Ian flipped the hood of his parka up over his red knit cap. “We’ll walk in from here,” he said. “I don’t want him to see us.”
“Don’t want who to see us?”
“Leave that hot chocolate in the car. You’ll probably want it when you get back.”
Lexa did as instructed, no longer needing to fake her irritation. She stomped down a narrow path behind him, the only thing marking their route a set of pre-existing footprints. Wherever they were was deserted. All she could hear was crunching snow and the sharp intake of her own breath.
Up ahead, the trees ended abruptly. She could see beyond them to the frozen surface of Lake Erie. A few more steps and Blake’s black pickup came into view, parked way down the shore to her right. “What the—” she began.
Shushing her with a gloved finger, Ian directed her gaze out onto the lake. A lone figure was skating on a patch of clear ice, a bundled silhouette against a field of white. Lexa gasped.
“He’s ba-ack,” Ian said. “Blades Walker rides again.”
His words barely registered—her entire attention was focused on Blake. He was wearing ear buds beneath his cap, his eyes half closed as he skated to music only he could hear. His trademark deep edges flowed without the boards of a rink to confine them, cutting a serpentine swath down the lake. Lexa drew back into the trees enough to make sure he couldn’t see her. “Why here? Why not at his own rink?”
“I’m guessing this is a huge secret. It was a fluke that I found out, and he doesn’t know I’m onto him. I’ve been debating for a couple of weeks whether or not to tell—”
She waved a hand to end his explanation. Blake was building speed into a jumping pass.
Mohawk, rocker, Choctaw . . . there was no empty gliding in Blake’s approaches. Every beat was filled, every motion precise. As he rose up into a double lutz, Lexa caught her breath. She had seen this exact pass before, hundreds of times.
Her father was skating one of his old programs with Kaitlin.
Her knees buckled, dropping her onto a snowy log as Blake turned slow rotations where the star lift should have been, his empty hands clenched at his sides. Lexa’s hands clenched as well, as if together they could somehow squeeze Kaitlin back into being. It was thrilling to see her father on skates for the first time . . . and heartbreaking to imagine what must be going on in his head.
“I’m gonna go,” Ian said softly. “You can find your way back to your car?”
Lexa nodded as Blake pushed into an off-balance spin that should have been half of a pairs camel. She was alone in the trees before he made his last rotation. She hated herself for spying, but she couldn’t look away. The story of their lives was being laid out on that lonely ice, all of the things Blake refused to say expressed in his every move. His pain was obvious, but instead of letting it paralyze him the way it had for nearly sixteen years, he was moving through it, every stroke, every turn a visible act of will. He wasn’t the skater he had been—not after so little practice and probably never again—but he was trying to be something again, something more than the wreck of an ex-champion who’d traded in his blades for broken-down Sorels.
Lexa leaned into his turns and drew herself up with his jumps, skating every move with him. There were flashes of Blake’s former brilliance. Then, just as quickly, the fire fled, leaving him stumbling through a simple three-turn. He was tiring. She read his exhaustion in the tightness of his shoulders and the wobble of his knees, but somehow he found the breath to carry on, fighting for the end of the program.
This is why he quit smoking, she realized as he turned a slow sit spin where Walker and Walker’s death spiral had been. Even with the substitutions and missing lifts, simply making it to the end of that program was a major accomplishment. To spin so low on a screaming thigh was practically heroic.
Tears filled Lexa’s eyes as Blake battled back up to standing and took his closing position. Suddenly, he looked lost out there, as if with the end of the music he’d awoken in a strange room. He pivoted slowly, blinking in apparent confusion. Then he hung his head and she finally understood that he was crying too.
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