Moments We Forget

by Beth K. Vogt

  Payton’s hand slipped as she placed a glass on the table. “Um, he couldn’t make it.”

  “Couldn’t make it? Is he visiting family or something?”

  “No.”

  I paused in my task. “You invited him, right?”

  “We talked about Thanksgiving earlier this month, yes . . .” Payton never looked away from the table. “And he decided not to come.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Zach at all.”

  “Well, it is Zach, okay? He’s not coming.”

  The way Payton was acting made it sound like she and Zach had broken up, but they’d never been a couple. Had they?

  Payton blinked back tears. Something was wrong, but she’d talk about it when she was ready.

  Mom appeared in the door between the kitchen and the dining room, carrying a pitcher of water. “Is the table set?”

  “Yes.” Our voices blended together in one response.

  “Good. Because, believe it or not, we’ve managed to coordinate all the food to be ready at the same time.”

  An hour and a half later, all of us sat around the table, some finishing their second helpings of Thanksgiving dinner. Meal preparation always took so long, with Mom ordering a fresh-not-frozen turkey weeks ahead. Making homemade rolls. Finding several new dishes to supplement our traditional ones when Payton decided to go vegan. And then we muted whatever football game was playing on TV and gathered around the table, Dad pulling out Mom’s chair and placing a kiss on her cheek. Then he carved the turkey with a little bit of flourish, asking, “Who wants the leg?” which he promptly claimed. We started passing dishes of stuffing, mashed potatoes, rolls, butternut squash, shaved brussels sprout salad . . .

  And then the feasting was over.

  Some of us would go back to football. Dad would doze off—probably with Winston in his lap. Some would opt to take a walk later if it wasn’t too cold outside.

  “How is everyone?” I lobbed the question into the air, wondering if it sounded odd to anyone else. But then, we hadn’t really talked that much beyond “This is delicious” and “Please pass me the rolls again” and “How’s work?” while we were eating.

  Beckett groaned. “I, for one, am glad to be off work today. The food was fantastic.”

  “My fantasy football team is winning, so I’m happy.”

  “Don!” Mom’s reprimand was softened with a smile.

  “The food was wonderful, Heather. It always is.”

  “Thank you.” She reached for his hand. “And now you men do the cleanup and I can sit and hold Winston.”

  “What?” Beckett almost choked on a final bite of turkey.

  Geoff laughed. “You didn’t know, man? Welcome to the Thatcher family Thanksgiving tradition the women like best.”

  “I must have never made it here for Thanksgiving before now.”

  Johanna patted Beckett on the shoulder. “Dad is so happy to have you and Geoff here. He did this by himself for years.”

  “Where’s Zach? We’re down a guy.”

  Payton moved her food around her plate, the fork against china creating a sharp squeal. “He couldn’t make it.”

  “Well, boys, I guess we’re cleaning up before we watch any more football.” Dad reached for Mom’s plate, scraping the remnants of food onto his.

  Thanksgiving—the national leftover holiday. Wasn’t there some way to make it more?

  I settled my fork and knife onto my plate with a soft clink. “Before the men start cleaning up, I wanted to try something new.”

  “Something new? What?” Johanna answered as if I were addressing her, the guardian of our family traditions.

  “I thought we could go around the table and say what we’re thankful for this year . . . you know, just one thing we’re thankful for?”

  “I’ve heard of families doing that.” Mom took Dad’s hand. “Why don’t you start, Jill?”

  I couldn’t argue with that. I’d suggested this little gratitude game. And with Mom’s approval, no one else was putting up a fuss.

  “I’m thankful for where I’ve come in a year—especially when I think about where I was twelve months ago. I’m thankful I’m done with my treatment.” I fingered my hair. “And I’m enjoying this new short hairstyle. Who knew, right?”

  That got a laugh from everyone, lightening the mood a bit.

  “I’ll go next.” Mom sat up straighter. “I’m thankful we’re all here together . . . well, not all of us. But you know what I mean.”

  “I second that.” Dad squeezed Mom’s hand, leaning over to kiss her cheek.

  “Dad, that’s not how it works.”

  “What? Jilly, are you telling me I can’t be thankful for the same thing as your mother? I am.”

  I probably shouldn’t critique people’s responses, not if I wanted this to succeed. “No. No, you’re right.”

  “My turn.” Johanna spoke up. “I’m thankful for my job.”

  Beckett cleared his throat.

  “And for Beckett being here, of course.”

  “Thank you.” Beckett smiled. “I’m thankful to be living here in the Springs this year—and looking forward to planning a wedding soon.”

  Johanna waved away Mom’s unspoken question of “When?” “Payton, what are you thankful for?”

  “I’m thankful for a lot of things . . . but I’ll just say I’m thankful Jill is doing so well.”

  “Wow.” I reached across the table for my sister’s hand, our fingers not quite touching. “You picked me over volleyball.”

  Another round of laughter made its way around the table.

  Geoff cleared his throat. “I’ll be thankful when this kitchen reno is done. I never knew how much I’d appreciate things I can’t see, like good pipes and up-to-date wiring.”

  My experiment ended with laughter, no surprise with Geoff going last. But now I realized how his humor deflected people’s attention from what he didn’t say . . . from realizing he’d stayed surface, being thankful for things, not a person.

  Not me. Not even us.

  Everyone stood and began clearing away the remains of the day, Beckett already talking about making a turkey sandwich.

  My attempt to make something more of Thanksgiving wasn’t a complete failure, but I doubted it would become a new Thatcher family tradition. Maybe if Johanna had suggested it . . .

  Or maybe we weren’t that family—the kind who wove a deeper significance into Thanksgiving Day.

  Then again, maybe being thankful only worked if you were saying thank you to someone. A family member or friend who had helped you in some way. Encouraged you. Offered you something without being asked.

  Or maybe Thanksgiving Day was about thanking God . . . if you believed in that sort of thing. Maybe thanking some invisible creator for blessing you with protection and care and family and friends would replace some of the emptiness I carried with me today.

  Geoff slipped behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. “I was thinking . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “We should take Winston for a walk.”

  I twisted to face him, giving him a quick kiss. “And you, Geoff Hennessey, are trying to get out of kitchen duty.”

  “What?” His eyes widened in feigned innocence.

  “You can’t fool me.” I pushed him toward the kitchen. “We’ll walk Winston after you do the dishes.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.” I hesitated for a moment. “Geoff?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m very thankful for you—you know that, right? I wouldn’t have made it through . . . everything . . . without you.”

  “Thanks, Jilly.” He took a step toward me.

  Hollers for “Hey, Hennessey, get in here!” and “Come on, you slacker!” interrupted the moment.

  “Duty calls.” He motioned toward the kitchen.

  “Yeah.”

  “Keep me posted on the football game?”

  “Sure. I’ll be looking forward to our walk.”


  “Me, too.”

  How many chapters of this book did Axton Miller expect her to read? Two? Three?

  She’d read only one chapter, one laborious page at a time, underlining a few sentences for good measure. But with every turn of the page she heard Dr. Miller’s request. “Why don’t you come up with some ideas to encourage unity among our pharmacy team?”

  Her new boss was wrecking her attention span.

  It didn’t help that Beckett sat beside her on the couch, channel surfing his way through sports, infomercials, classic sitcoms, movies, and back through the cycle again.

  He tossed aside the remote. “Come on, let’s do something.”

  “I am doing something. I’m reading.”

  “I’ve been working nonstop since I got to Colorado. I finally have a day off. Let’s go for a hike.”

  “A hike?” Johanna glanced around her living room. “Who are you talking to? The closest thing I have to hiking boots are brown leather and have two-inch heels.”

  “All right then, let’s go to the Broadmoor. We can have lunch at the Golden Bee. Walk around the lake . . .”

  Johanna held up the book. “Book. New boss. Meeting on Monday. Remember?”

  “I’m bored.” He sounded like a whiny five-year-old. A very handsome five-year-old, but still.

  Did she have a fiancé or was she babysitting? Part of what attracted her to Beckett was his independence. If this was a hint of what it would be like when they were married, he wasn’t the only one who was bored.

  “What if you let me read another chapter—?”

  “You do realize the general could call me at any time? Ask me to do something?” Beckett stood, holding out his hand to her. “Come on, Johanna. The Broadmoor? Lunch?”

  “Fine.” She closed the book. “The Broadmoor—but just for a couple of hours.”

  “Great! Can I bring your camera?”

  “My camera?”

  “Mine’s at my apartment, so yours will have to do.” He rubbed his palms together. “I can still get some decent photographs, even without my lenses and tripod.”

  “I thought we were having lunch.”

  “We are, but I’m not going to miss the opportunity to take a few photos. I’ll even take some of you—my favorite model.”

  Now she had to put on some basic makeup and change her clothes. “Don’t think flattery is buying you extra time. I’ve got to be prepared for my meeting on Monday. I know Dr. Miller wants to fire me.”

  “You are being paranoid.” He took her hands, pulling her to her feet.

  “I’m watching my back. The guy doesn’t like me or the way I do things at the hospital.”

  “Don’t worry so much. You’ve been at that hospital longer than he has—you’ve got clout. Just keep doing what you’ve been doing—”

  “What I’ve been doing was good enough until Dr. Miller came along with his padded résumé and talk of team. Now he’s the golden boy and I’m back to being the assistant.” The words tasted bitter on her tongue. But why not? She was bitter. What was the sense of networking and developing a strong relationship with her former boss if all of that failed her when she needed it the most?

  Beckett trailed behind her as she changed her casual top for a sweater and opened the makeup drawer in her bathroom. “How do I know he doesn’t have some other person waiting in the wings to take my place? Somebody he’s already talked to Dr. Lerner about?”

  “He can’t shove you out of your job.”

  “He can if he convinces Dr. Lerner that I’ve ruined staff morale. As if we work at Disneyland and I’m supposed to make the pharmacies the happiest places on earth.”

  Johanna paused applying eye shadow to one eye. Thanks to all his talk about team, she couldn’t think straight, much less read a book or formulate a plan to make everybody happy. What did he want her to do? Plan outings? Barbecues? Celebrate birthdays?

  Yes. He did expect birthday cards and cakes.

  Beckett wasn’t even listening—he’d gone off looking for her camera. Not that it mattered. She’d handle the work issue herself.

  She was tempted to bring the book with her and read in the car but left it at home. Maybe the drive and a walk around the Broadmoor—a brief walk around the Broadmoor—would clear her mind, even provide some inspiration for impressing Dr. Miller on Monday.

  The five-star resort had gone through several renovations since the last time she’d been there, not that she could remember when that was. As they wandered after lunch, she couldn’t help but be captivated by the beauty of the well-kept grounds and elegant decor, from the marble floors and the rich Persian carpets to the fountains and artistic floral displays, including a two-foot-diameter round brass bowl filled entirely with an orb of red roses. Beckett lagged by a roped-off area on the second floor of the main building where chefs worked on a stunning gingerbread house display in preparation for the annual Christmas lights festivities tomorrow.

  “I don’t know why I came along. All I’m doing is following you and watching you take pictures.”

  “And posing for me.”

  “Yes.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “I’m really enjoying that.”

  “A beautiful woman and the Broadmoor as the backdrop. I wish I had my camera and lenses.”

  “Sorry, but we weren’t driving all the way to your apartment before coming here.” Johanna allowed Beckett to lead them back outside, across the stone bridge spanning the lake, where a flock of ducks and geese, as well as a duo of white swans, floated on the surface. He guided her into the west building. “We had lunch at the Golden Bee, just like you wanted. We already walked around the lake once, and we’ve been all over both sides of the hotel. Surely you have enough photos—”

  “Oh, come on. Are you telling me you haven’t had any fun?”

  “I admit this has given me an idea.” Johanna stopped inside the doors, surveying the marble floors and the shimmering chandelier hanging from an ornate ceiling mosaic in black, white, gold, and umber.

  “Really? What?”

  “What if we did our wedding here?”

  Beckett lowered his camera. “Here?”

  “Yes, here. At the Broadmoor. It’s classy—the ultimate Colorado location for a wedding.”

  “If by ‘classy’ and ‘ultimate,’ you mean expensive, I agree.”

  “It’s not like we can’t afford it. And I’m not planning on a big affair—but I do want something memorable. The Broadmoor is definitely that.”

  “Are you saying you’re finally ready to set a date?” Beckett took her hand, crossing the foyer toward the south lobby they’d visited earlier.

  “I’m not the one who has been traveling all over the world with their job.”

  “I’ve invited you to join me a dozen times . . .”

  “We are not having this argument, Beckett. You knew when you met me that I liked my job.”

  “And you knew when you met me that I was in the military.”

  She stopped in a long hallway lined with dozens of framed photographs of celebrities and dignitaries who’d visited the Broadmoor through the years. “Well, the military has you in the same town as me for once. Do you want to squabble about details of our relationship, or do you want to plan the details of our wedding?”

  Whenever the topic of the wedding came up, this was what they did—they got sidetracked by quarreling, instead of getting serious and setting a date and then going through with it.

  She wore an engagement ring, but there were some days when people asked her about Beckett and she almost asked, “Beckett who?”

  “All right, let’s plan our wedding. Here.” He ushered her into the hushed room—no one there but the two of them. This could easily be her favorite area in the Broadmoor. Secluded. Providing varied glimpses of the resort, depending on whether she decided to relax in a leather chair or on a couch or at one of the small wooden tables positioned around the room, inviting people to sit and stay. Read. Unwind. Savor the refreshing sound
of water spilling from the fountain topped by the figure of a lion. Maybe she’d toss a few pennies in it before she left.

  “But first, I want a photo of you at that piano.”

  Johanna didn’t move. Couldn’t move. “At . . . the piano? I don’t play the piano.”

  “I didn’t say you had to play it—or drape yourself across the top. I just want you to sit there.” Beckett took her hand again, pulling her, step by resistant step, toward the piano. “Let me have your coat and purse and sit down for a minute. The lighting is nice here.”

  Johanna settled on the bench in front of the grand piano, unsure what to do with her hands. She rubbed her palms together and then finally balled them into fists in her lap.

  “You look like you’re afraid of the thing. Relax. It’s not going to turn into some sort of monster and eat you.”

  “I’m not afraid . . . Don’t be silly.”

  She just couldn’t breathe.

  “Open the lid. Put your hands on the keys.”

  “Did you see the sign right there?” She turned the framed words—her salvation—so Beckett could read them. “It says guests aren’t supposed to play the piano.”

  “We’re not guests.” Beckett removed the sign, setting it on the floor, out of sight.

  “Very funny.”

  “No one’s here but us.” He eased open the lid. “Just sit there for a couple of seconds and act like you’re playing the piano. You can do that, can’t you?”

  Yes. She could do that.

  Beckett was right—no one else was in the room, although she didn’t know why. It was beautiful, all golds and brocades, with a fireplace right next to the piano and windows framed by heavy curtains pulled back by golden cords to showcase views of the outside.

  The sooner she did what Beckett asked, the sooner they could leave.

  She shook out her hands, resting her fingers on the ivory keys, finding the natural placement with ease.

  Still so familiar after all these years.

  “Oh, that’s good. You look like you’re playing a song. . . .” Beckett’s voice seemed to fade into the background.

  “People like to say, ‘Practice makes perfect,’ Johanna.” Her piano teacher’s eyes were half-closed as she spoke, her hands clasped together. “But you play so well already. Now I want you to discover how the music can come from your heart.”