by Nora Roberts
“I know it’s damn right. She was … she was a good woman, a good friend. She was kind. Maybe she didn’t take crap off of anybody, but anybody could count on her when they needed it. She couldn’t count on me. I cheated on her. I lied to her. Maybe I didn’t ever raise my hand to her or any other woman in this world, but I didn’t treat her with respect. If I’d been a better man, maybe we’d have still been together. Maybe if we’d been together, she’d still be here. I don’t know.”
Tears slid down his cheeks.
“I just don’t know, and I never will. All I know is someone kind and good, someone who knew how to laugh, who liked to dance and gave her trust to me is gone. There isn’t a thing anybody here can say to me worse than what I say to myself every day. But you can say it. I won’t blame you for it.”
He stepped away from the mic. His legs seemed to shake as he walked off the stage.
Bodine saw she had two choices. Let those murmurs and hard looks turn to words, and maybe worse. Or start the healing.
She moved through the crowd, saw Chad stop, raise his tear-streaked face to hers. He broke into sobs when she slid an arm around him.
“All right now, Chad. You come with me now. You don’t blame yourself for what happened. She wouldn’t want you to. She wasn’t like that.”
She made sure her voice carried as she led him out of the memorial, and to the steps leading down.
In the heavy silence, Jessica walked quickly to the stage. From what she could see, Bodine had started turning the tide. She’d try to keep it moving.
“I didn’t know Billy Jean very well. I haven’t worked here as long as most of you. But I remember after my first week here, going into the Saloon. I was feeling good about the work, but a little out of place, maybe a little homesick.”
She brushed her hair back from her face. She’d left it down so it waved its way to her shoulders. More casual, more friendly, she thought, than wearing it up and sleek.
“I wanted to fit in here,” she continued, “so I went into the Saloon that evening. Billy Jean was working the bar. I asked her what she’d recommend, told her I’d just started working here.
“She told me she knew that already, that bartenders hear everything sooner or later, and usually sooner. She recommended a huckleberry margarita. I’m going to admit it didn’t sound appealing.”
On stage, Jessica smiled at the chuckles.
“A lot of customers were in there that night, and I noticed how easy she made her job look. How she had a smile for everybody, even if she was working with both hands. She put that drink in front of me. I looked at it thinking why in the hell did people around here put huckleberries in everything. Then I took a sip, and got the answer.”
She smiled again at the quick laughter, waited a moment. “I drank my first huckleberry margarita. Then I drank a second one, sitting at the bar, watching Billy Jean work. When she put a third one in front of me, I told her I couldn’t. I had to drive home. Only to the Village, but I couldn’t get behind the wheel with three drinks in me. And she said: Honey, you go ahead and have that drink, and celebrate your first week here. That she was off in an hour, and she’d drive me home. So I did, and she did. It wasn’t the huckleberries that made me feel like I was beginning to fit in. It was Billy Jean.”
She stepped off the stage, took an emotional test of the air around her. And, deciding the tide had fully turned, moved to the background.
“That was a good thing.”
She glanced over at Chase. She hadn’t seen him move in her direction. “Your sister did the right thing. I just finished it off. And the story was God’s truth.”
“That was a good thing,” he repeated. “Just like this memorial. I want to say you put it together just the right way, and maybe you knew her better than you think.”
“I had a sense of her, and I talked to people who knew her well.” She looked around the space, at the photographs, the flowers, the faces. “All this has taught me a couple of things. I wish I’d spent more time sitting at the bar when she was working it. And she was—we all are—part of a whole, not just employees of a good company. Bodine told me some who came here today are seasonals, and some of them drove a hundred miles and more to come. That’s what family does. And that kind of sensibility comes from the top. Your family set that tone, and it rings true.”
“I’m going to apologize.”
She aimed those blue eyes straight into his, raised her eyebrows over them. “Are you?”
“I didn’t mean to make you feel you don’t belong.”
“You just don’t think I do?”
He shifted his feet. “I’m apologizing.”
“And I should be gracious enough to accept it. So I will. Bygones.” She held out a hand.
“All right.” Though it felt awfully damn small in his, Chase shook her hand. “I need to get back, but—”
“Miss Fancy’s sitting over there, and Rory’s due any minute. It’s fine if you go.”
“Then I’ll … ah…” Since he’d run out of words, he nodded, escaped.
As he made his way out, exchanging more words with some who sat at tables set up on the main floor, he saw Callen coming toward the Mill.
“Couldn’t get away before now,” Callen said.
“More than enough time. We had some drama when Chad came along, had a say.”
“Is that so?”
On a sigh because he knew the tone, Chase settled his hat down further on his head. “You’re still mad.”
“You broke an oath.”
“You weren’t there. I’m sorry I let temper get in the way of it, but it did. And it’s done. You want to even it up, I’ll give you leave to break the oath we took about me pouring whisky into a Coke bottle and sneaking it out of the house, and the pair of us trying to drink it up at the campsite, and getting sick as dogs instead.”
“You got sicker.”
“Maybe. You puked your share. You can tell that one if it levels this.”
Considering, Callen hooked his fingers in the front pockets of his jeans. “Picking what you say I can tell doesn’t level it. I should be able to pick one.”
Because he couldn’t argue with the logic, Chase frowned out at the mountains. “Go ahead then. Pick one and let’s put this away.”
“Maybe I’ll pick how you lost your virginity when Brenna Abbott lured you into the hayloft at your sister’s thirteenth-birthday party.”
Chase winced. It might not have been his proudest moment—considering his whole family and about fifty others had been within shouting distance—but it had been a seminal one.
“If that’ll do it.”
Callen stood hipshot, studying the mountains along with his friend, listening to the music and voices from inside the Mill.
“Hell, it’d just make me feel like an asshole, and stop you from feeling so much like one. I’d rather you feel like one awhile more. Whatever happened to Brenna Abbott?”
“Last I heard she was living in Seattle. Or maybe Portland.”
“How quickly we forget. Well, bygones,” Callen said, offering a hand.
Chase stared at it, then let out a laugh. “That’s the second time in under ten minutes somebody said that to me. I must be making it a habit to mess things up.”
“Nope, not a habit. Just a blip on the screen.”
“I got something else. Clintok starts something, you come and get me before you finish it.”
“I’m not worried about Clintok.”
“You come and get me,” Chase repeated, then spat on his palm, stuck out his hand.
“Jesus.” Touched, amused, and struggling not to think of Bodine’s comment about twelve-year-olds, Callen mirrored the gesture, clasped hands.
“All right then. I’ve got to get back.” Chase sauntered away.
Rubbing his hand on his jeans, Callen walked inside to pay his respects to the dead.
* * *
Bodine wouldn’t rank herself as a top cook. She might not rank herself in t
he top fifty percent of cooks. But on Thanksgiving, she did her duty.
She chopped, peeled, stirred, mixed. And following a tradition set years before, bitched that neither of her brothers served in the duty.
“It’s not altogether fair.” In her placid way, Maureen basted the turkey. “But you know as well as I do there’s not a man in this house who’s anything but a nuisance in the kitchen. Clementine and I both did our best to teach them, the same as we taught you, but Rory could burn water, and Chase turns into a bull in a china shop.”
“It’s on purpose,” Bodine grumbled as she and Cora peeled a mountain of potatoes.
“Well, sweetie, I know that, too, but the results are the same. Grammy, can you take a look at this ham?”
Miss Fancy, wearing an apron that stated WOMEN AND WINE IMPROVE WITH AGE, peered into the lower oven, nodded. “I’d say it’s about time for me to make the glaze. Don’t fuss too much, Bodine. You got the men out there doing the beef on the grill. And they’ll be hauling the second turkey and all the fixings over for the bunkhouse boys. I’d as soon not have them in here, crowding me.
“I like the smells and sounds of a Thanksgiving kitchen,” Cora added as she plucked up another potato. “Remember, Reenie, how I used to make extra pie dough and let you and Alice…” She trailed off, let out a sigh. “Ah, well.”
“I remember, Ma.”
Maureen spoke briskly, turning to stir something on the stove that didn’t need stirring.
“I’m not going to get maudlin,” Cora said. “I like to think Alice is smelling and hearing Thanksgiving today, too. That she found whatever she was looking for that we couldn’t give her.”
Miss Fancy opened her mouth, then firmly shut it. Bodine carefully said nothing. On the rare times her mother’s sister’s name came up, the grannies seemed to square off in separate corners. One heavy with sorrow, the other sharp with resentment—and her mother ranged on the resentment side.
“I think the whole kitchen staff deserves a glass of wine.” Maureen walked to a cupboard, pulled out glasses. “You can bet your butt those men have cracked more than one beer by now. Bodine, wash off those potatoes and let’s get them boiling. Ma, these sweet potatoes look about ready for your magic.”
“Just a couple more white ones to skin.”
Maureen set down the glasses, gave her grandmother’s hand a quick squeeze. In response, Miss Fancy jerked her shoulders.
“You think I can’t hear what you’re both thinking?” Cora demanded. “Don’t the pair of you start pandering to me.”
Bodine popped up at the sound of the doorbell. “That’s the door.” Relieved, she dashed to answer.
She opened the door to Jessica, said, “Perfect.”
“Well, thank you. And thank you for inviting me.”
“Come on in. When did it start snowing? I wasn’t paying attention due to kitchen duty and a family ghost.” Gesturing Jessica in, she stepped back. “You can join in the first and help exorcise the second just by being here. You didn’t have to bring anything,” she added, nodding at the cake holder Jessica carried.
“Have to implies obligation. Happy to is appreciation.”
“Thanks either way. Let me get your coat.”
Shifting the cake holder from hand to hand, Jessica drew off her coat and scarf as she studied the entranceway.
“This is fabulous. I love the beamed ceilings, the wide-planked floor, and oh, that fireplace.”
“I’d forgotten you haven’t been here before. We’ll have to give you a tour.”
“I’d love it.”
In her simple blue dress, Jessica wandered a few steps into the living area. “And the views!”
“We’re all about them. They’re pretty terrific from the kitchen, too. Come on back. Let’s get you a drink.”
The house rambled, charming her. Everything about it spoke of comfort, in a casual, family style. A lot of wood and leather, Jessica noted, a lot of Western art and artifacts interspersed with pieces of Irish crystal and Belleek. Windows framed with wide square trim and left uncurtained to bring in the fields, the sky, the mountains.
She stopped outside a room with a large antique desk, pointed to the wall. “Is that a … papoose?”
“A papoose would be what went into it,” Bodine explained. “It’s a cradleboard. My father’s grandfather’s cradleboard.”
“It’s wonderful, and enviable, to be able to trace your heritage back so far, on both sides, and have pieces like that, the tangible connection.”
“We’re a jigsaw puzzle of ethnicities.” Bodine led the way back. “Look who I’ve got.”
“Jessie. So good to see you.” Maureen left her vigil at the stove to welcome Jessica with a hug. “You always look so pretty.”
“It wouldn’t hurt you to put a nice dress on every once in a while, Bodine,” Miss Fancy said as she stirred the glaze for the ham.
“Thanks,” Bodine muttered to Jessica. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Whatever you’re having.” Jessica put the cake holder on the counter. “How can I help?”
“Wine first,” Maureen decreed. “What have you brought us?”
“It’s ptichye moloko.”
“Not sure I can pronounce that, so I’m going to take a peek.”
Cora walked over, lifted the lid. “Oh, that’s just gorgeous!”
“It’s a Russian dessert—bird’s milk cake, though you don’t use milk from birds. My grandmother always made it for special occasions.”
Bodine held out a glass of wine, studied the smooth chantilly frosting drizzled artistically with chocolate. “You made it?”
“I like to bake. It’s not much fun baking for myself, so this was a treat.”
“I’m getting out the fancy cake stand, putting this on the dessert buffet with the pies and Ma’s trifle.” Maureen rushed toward the dining room for the cake stand. “You sit down and drink that wine, Jessie.”
“I will,” she told Maureen, “if you put a kitchen tool in my hand.”
“Put the girl to work,” Miss Fancy ordered. “The men’ll be trooping in here before much longer and getting in the way of things.”
For Jessica, taking part in a large family gathering fascinated. The interaction and dynamics of the four generations of women, with some roles loosely assigned—Bo, grab me that, Ma, will you taste this—and other roles fiercely guarded.
Miss Fancy baked the ham while Maureen took charge of the turkey. The gravy stood squarely in Cora’s domain.
Whatever family ghost Bodine had referred to appeared to have departed, as the women worked in easy harmony, and with a great deal of affection. Though she couldn’t imagine herself ever making a vat of gravy, she got tips on doing so from Cora. And thought of the hours she’d spent in the kitchen with her own grandmother.
“You look a little melancholy.” Cora spoke quietly. “Missing your family?”
“I was thinking about my grandmother, how she taught me to cook, to appreciate the creativity of it.”
“Is she back East? Maybe she can come out for a nice long visit.”
“She died last winter.”
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” Instinctively, Cora wrapped an arm around Jessica’s shoulders as she whisked the gravy with her other hand. “Did she teach you to make that cake?”
“She did.”
“Then she’s here all the same, isn’t she?” So saying, Cora pressed a kiss to Jessica’s temple.
Chase stepped in, surprised to see Jessica a little teary-eyed and leaning against his grandmother’s side.
He cleared his throat. “Ah, we’re about ready to haul the turkey and such over to the bunkhouse.”
The announcement caused a quick and ruthlessly organized scramble for the sides and the desserts designated for the ranch crew.
One of the crew, a grizzled, barrel-chested man with his hat in his hands, stood behind Chase.