by Zoe Chant
He turned in her arms, rolling onto his back and lolling his head back to look at her.
“You’re pretty fine looking this way, too,” Jamie said admiringly. “Look at those murder mittens!”
His paws were the size of dinner plates, and when she stroked them, marveling at their softness, claws like curved box-cutters extended and caught her fingers.
Like all of Devon, they were gentle and strong, just holding her for a moment before retracting into the dense fur.
“Is it a trap if I try to pet your belly?” Jamie joked.
Devon wriggled invitingly, underestimated the width of the bed, and fell off the side of it with a miraculous twist that had him standing on all four feet.
Then he was human again, in a move like a sheet of silk blowing in a breeze, and crawling back up onto the bed to kiss her.
“My Jamie,” he said possessively, and it thrilled her to her toes.
Then he backed away reluctantly. “I don’t want to nag, and I won’t ask again if you don’t want me to…but I didn’t get an answer.”
Jamie knew what question he was referencing. “I’ll...I’ll marry you,” she agreed, feeling excited and relieved and nervous all at once. It would be official. It would be real.
Devon took her face in both hands and kissed her soundly.
“Thank you,” he said. “Do you hear something?”
Jamie didn’t, but apparently, being a lynx shifter gave him super-hearing, because he followed the sound out the door and down the stairs to where his phone was vibrating in his abandoned pants.
He missed the call, but frowned at the clock. “I have to get home,” he said reluctantly. “It’s getting really late and Abby’s wondering where I am.”
He texted his sister, took the swiftest shower possible, did an equally sexy reverse strip-tease, and vanished with a sound kiss on Jamie’s head.
Jamie took a much more leisurely shower and dressed slowly. She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the station table, where her father’s phone number was folded into the tiniest square that the paper could manage.
She was still folding and unfolding it when there was a knock at the door.
Jamie stood and called out, “Come on—”
Before she could finish, it was opened aggressively, and Abby stomped in and slammed it behind her.
“Look,” Abby said firmly. “I’m here to talk about Devon.”
“He just…”
“You have to fix this,” she said almost hysterically. Jamie suddenly wondered why she’d never realized how kittenish Abby was. It wasn’t just the half-grown puberty proportions, there was something about her golden-green eyes, and how she blinked, and the laser focus of her gaze.
That gaze was entirely on Jamie now, as she advanced across the garage.
“You have to take him back! It was my fault, he was trying to protect me, I’m the one who screwed up and told you instead of letting him do it, and—and you have to make it right because I can’t.”
Jamie blinked at her vehemence.
“Devon has never been so happy,” Abby said furiously. “And if I screwed that up and you go away, I will never forgive myself and this is all my fault I should never have said anything and I’m s-s-s-sorry!”
Jamie opened her arms and Abby staggered into them. “It’s okay,” she said, as comfortingly as she could. “It’s okay. We...made up. I’m not going anywhere without you.”
And she wasn’t, Jamie realized, as Abby collapsed into tears in her arms, hugging furiously back. Jamie was done running away from things. She could no more leave them than she could leave her past.
Home was here in Green Valley, with both Devon and Abby.
She didn’t consider herself good at comforting people, but she patted Abby and hugged her close and let the girl sob herself out, then took her to sit at the round table. “Devon would probably kill me if I gave you coffee at this hour, but we’ve got some hot chocolate powder.”
Abby wiped her face on her long sleeves. “Yes, please.”
Jamie dumped out the old coffee and the coffee grounds, and set a pot of just water to heat. She cleaned out Turner’s mug and heaped it full of chocolate mix.
When she turned back to the table, Abby was picking up the folded paper and sweeping it towards the trash.
“Wait!” Jamie said in alarm.
Abby froze. “Sorry,” she said. “I thought it was garbage.”
“Maybe,” Jamie said. “I mean, in a manner of speaking.”
Abby looked confused.
Jamie set the chocolate in front of her and sighed. “That’s my dad’s phone number. Devon found it for me.”
Abby blinked rapidly. “I guess I just figured you were an orphan. Like us.”
“Nah,” Jamie said casually. “I never knew my dad. He...left when I was a baby. I didn’t know that for a long time, and I still don’t know why.”
“You going to call him?” Abby asked in a small voice. Her expression was complicated.
Jamie knew her own face probably betrayed as many emotions as Abby’s did. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I never knew him. He’s not really my dad, you know.”
Abby looked down into her mug of cocoa. “Yeah. I mean, I don’t really remember my dad, and whenever someone says ‘your dad,’ I think of Devon. Even though he’s my brother. I mean, I know that. But he was always the dad I had.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Jamie said thoughtfully. “I have family now, too. Like you and Devon.”
Abby’s eyes were huge. “You sure?” she asked.
Jamie grinned at her. “Positive. Now, I have to ask you about some long-term things.”
“Thanksgiving?” Abby said brightly. “Devon kept saying not to bug you about it.”
“Longer than that,” Jamie said bravely. “How would you feel about living together?”
“In our house?” the girl asked dubiously, doubtless thinking of their paper-thin walls and tiny footprint.
“Maybe not,” Jamie agreed.
Abby scrambled to add, “I mean, not that I want you to think I wouldn’t like living with you, just…”
“Someplace with your own space?”
“Yes, please,” Abby said firmly.
“We could look at other towns, if you wanted. Devon might be up for going back to the city, and I’d do that. Or Alaska.” Home wasn’t a place, Jamie realized abruptly. It didn’t matter where she lived, it mattered where her family was.
“I don’t hate it here,” Abby said too quickly. She turned scarlet, and took a hasty gulp of her hot chocolate.
“A boy?” Jamie guessed. She remembered how that felt. She still felt that, when she thought of Devon, whenever she thought about seeing him for the first time after any amount of being apart.
Abby didn’t answer, finding something much more fascinating in the bottom of her mug.
“Green Valley, then,” Jamie said with a smile, and it wasn’t reluctant. She wasn’t here just to repay a debt to Turner anymore.
Green Valley was...home. Over the space of a few weeks, she had forgotten why she even wanted to go anywhere else.
The door to the station suddenly burst open. “Have you seen...oh, Abby!” Devon looked ruffled and half-panicked. “Why didn’t you text back?”
“You were the one who wouldn’t answer me!” Abby protested. “I sent you like seven texts and tried to call!”
“And then I texted you back!” Devon insisted.
“No, you didn’t!” Abby argued, pulling out her phone. “See...uh...oh. Never mind!”
Devon gave a sigh and shook his head. “Well, now that I’ve got you both here, let’s talk about things. Future things. Jamie said...” he blushed absolutely scarlet. “She said she’d marry me.”
Abby gave a little squeal, then cleared her throat as if she’d embarrassed herself. “It’s about time,” she said casually. “But there’s one thing we should talk about first.”
Jamie expected
it to be where they would live, how they would work out a summer schedule, who would go where and do what.
But Abby’s focus was much narrower. “I want to know if I get to make Thanksgiving dinner for everyone.”
Jamie burst out laughing, because it was absolutely perfect.
All her life had felt like no. But now, at last, it felt like: “Yes.”
Abby gave an airfist. “I am going to make the best turkey,” she declared. “And yams. And pumpkin pie. And buttermilk biscuits. And green bean casserole with the crunchy onions on top. Oh my God, I’m starving. I forgot to eat dinner.”
“There’s pizza in the fridge at home,” Devon suggested.
“Out of my way,” Abby exclaimed, and she vanished out the door, leaving Jamie alone with Devon again.
“I like that she can come and go here,” Devon said, with a fond look after her. “In the city, I worried if she went out. Here…”
“Green Valley has a few things going for it,” Jamie agreed.
“You, for one,” Devon told her.
“I don’t hate it,” Jamie said thoughtfully. “I don’t hate it a lot.”
“I don’t hate you,” Devon added. “I don’t hate you a lot.”
“I’m looking forward to not hating you for a really long time,” Jamie said, smiling up at him.
Then he kissed her, and she really didn’t hate that at all.
Epilogue
Turner had planned on a quiet Thanksgiving in his own house. Football games on the television, one of those rotisserie chickens from the grocery store. Maybe he’d open some olives and eat them all, sitting on the couch, straight from the can.
But Jamie invited him to dinner with Devon and Abby and when he tried to wriggle out of it, dropped the bomb that her estranged father would also be attending, and Turner didn’t know how to turn that down.
The food was likely to be better, anyway.
Marta had been at Gran’s when the invitation was brokered, and she had, in her usual forward way, invited herself as well.
Which is why Turner was at the door to Tawny’s tiny old house with Marta’s hand in his elbow while she complained about the snow and the ice on the sidewalk and the fact that one of her favorite television shows had been canceled ten years ago.
“Turner and Marta are here!” Devon called as he opened the door.
“I’ve already dibs-ed one of the drumsticks!” Jamie yelled in reply. She was setting the kitchen table, which had been pulled out into the living room so that chairs could be put around all four sides.
“It smells great,” Turner said gruffly. He had to go sideways through the kitchen to get in past Abby, who was stirring something in a saucepan with a look of concentration.
Turner didn’t tarry—Marta was hurrying him forward from behind. “I brought a pie,” she said, putting it down on the counter next to Abby. “Apple with extra cinnamon.” She cast a critical eye at Abby’s work. “You’ll skin the milk at that temperature.”
“Only if I stop stirring,” Abby retorted, not even bothering to glance at her. “And it’s called lactoderm. We learned about it in biology.”
“Kind of like life,” Marta observed, and she walked into the living room with a sniff. “Just got to keep stirring.”
“They taught you the word lactoderm in middle school bio?” Devon said, rifling through a cabinet to find another serving plate.
“This is Green Valley,” Abby scoffed. “It’s all cows, all the freaking time.”
“I brought sparkling cider,” Turner said gruffly, putting two bottles on the table. “Non-alcoholic.”
“I didn’t sign up for a Thanksgiving dinner without social lubricant,” Marta said smartly. “I was expecting a bottle or two of your homebrew!”
Turner shrugged in embarrassment. He sometimes, very sheepishly, gave out bottles of his ales, but he hadn’t been sure it was appropriate to bring to a dinner with a former and future high school student.
“We’ve got wine,” Devon chuckled. “And some beer.”
“I should hope so,” Marta said.
“I’m on call,” Turner said regretfully. “Just one glass for me.” He might need something stronger than wine to get through this meal anyway.
“Who’s going to have a fire on Thanksgiving in Green Valley?” Marta asked.
“It’s not like people schedule them around holidays,” Jamie laughed.
“If I’d known we’d get a kitchen this nice, I would have burned that awful popcorn popper months ago!” Abby sang from in front of the stove. “If I light my curling iron on fire, can we get the bathroom remodeled?”
“Insurance fraud is a felony!” Devon called back. “Can you at least wait until you’re eighteen and not my responsibility before you plan your life of crime and arson?”
Turner winced and caught Jamie watching him. “Fire’s not a joke,” she said chidingly. It was surprising to catch her being the sensitive one in the group. But she’d grown up a lot since she was a gawky, rebellious student at Turner’s high school. He could sense the nervousness prickling from her.
They’d all grown up. Even Marta looked a little older and seemed less blunt as she fussed with the table settings. Certainly, he had more silver hairs when he looked in the mirror these days, and the knee he’d hurt skiing twenty years ago was proving to be a reliable weather compass.
“I heard Dean is moving to Madison in the summer,” Marta volunteered. “Getting a degree in engineering, and Shelley’s working on some kind of fashion line for kids.”
Turner watched Jamie and Devon exchange a significant look.
“Yeah,” Devon said. “We’re going to be moving into his house.”
“You’re buying it?” Marta always sounded sharp when someone scooped her on gossip.
“What about Alaska?” Turner asked.
Jamie shrugged with one shoulder. “We’re looking into taking over Dean’s hardware store. It’s a more long-term career than fighting wildfire.”
“And Dean’s house has an office, so I’d have space other than the kitchen table to work on my programming business,” Devon added.
“I’ll do the invoicing for you,” Jamie said, and they shared what was clearly an inside joke.
“That’s a lot of advance planning for you,” Marta observed skeptically.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jamie said dismissively, clearly embarrassed now. “Well, Turner keeps harping on how people have to be able to rely on each other.”
“I’ll be glad to have you on call for a while,” Turner said gruffly.
Jamie gave him a brief, sheepish smile and hurried back into the kitchen for a load of plates.
“You look as proud as a father,” Marta said with a smirk, pouring herself a glass of wine. It was clear she was only there because she wanted to see the anticipated reunion between Jamie and her real father, and her glance was appraising.
Turner shrugged. He was more nervous that he cared to admit to see Jamie meeting her father and it felt bittersweet being here, included in a family. Devon and Jamie were pretending not to make eyes at each other, Abby looked smug as a mother. Even Marta felt right here, the spinster aunt with an opinion about everything.
“It’s perfect!” Abby called in triumph from the kitchen. “This is the best turkey ever baked in the history of the world.”
“You need help getting it out of the oven?” Devon offered.
“Back off, big brother. This is my turkey.”
“Dibs on a leg,” Jamie reminded everyone.
Then everyone went absolutely silent at the sound of a hesitant knock on the door.
“I’ll get it,” Jamie said, squeezing behind Abby to answer it.
The man on the porch looked every bit as nervous as the people in the house when Jamie opened the door for him.
“You must be Jamie,” he said, and for a moment no one moved or said anything.
Then Jamie, with uncharacteristic shyness, said, “Hi, Dad.”
Abby was frozen
with the oven half-open and Devon was wringing an oven mitt in his hands, looking like he might like to hit someone.
Just as Turner was considering whether he should sweep in and somehow save the situation, though he had no idea how, the stranger broke into a wild grin. “Well, that certainly is the damndest thing to hear!”
Jamie turned and gestured him into the house. “This is Jim,” she introduced generally. “My fiancé, Devon, his sister, Abby, she made the dinner. This is Marta, and...” she paused as she reached Turner, still standing back at the entrance to the kitchen not sure what to do with his hands. “That’s Turner.”
Jim strode forward and extended his hand directly to Turner. “I understand I owe you a helluva debt,” he said frankly.
Turner shot a look at Jamie, who was smiling foolishly with eyes full of happy, unshed tears, and slowly shook the man’s hand. He realized that he was scowling and tried to smile instead.
It was Marta who said what none of the rest of them would, of course.
“So, where the hell have you been?” she sniffed.
“Beverly never told me,” Jim explained at once, just as Jamie tried to say, strangled, “Marta…!”
“The turkey’s ready!” Abby said brightly.
“I’ll pour the wine,” Devon offered.
“Lots of wine,” Turner agreed.
They scattered back to the table, making small talk and chattering over each other.
The turkey was beautiful, golden-brown and covered in crisp skin. “Have a delicious, murderous mini-dinosaur,” Abby said, putting it down carefully.
Turner chuckled; everyone in Green Valley knew about the flock of angry wild turkeys by now, and they’d left as swiftly as they’d appeared, but it required explanation for Jim, who tipped his head back and laughed in a way so like Jamie that there could be no remaining doubts about her paternity.
They all sat, said a brief grace, and dug in, praising Abby for the amazing spread. Even Marta agreed that it was an exceptional turkey, though she was unimpressed by the yams. Conversation was cautious at first, but by the end of the meal, they had gradually relaxed and were all chatting easily, and Turner decided he liked Jamie’s father. Jim suggested that they go fishing some time—he had a friend with an ice shack further north—and Turner gladly accepted the offer.