“Didn’t you call me a matchmaker not long ago? Seems to me you’ve got some skill in that area, too.” Al put a hand on her shoulder as she formed the rolls after punching down the dough for the last time.
“Mind if I grab a bite here? I’ll stay and help as long as you need me.”
“Sure. There’s some cold beef in the Frigidaire. Heat it up and take some in to the men, only they’ll have to eat somewhere besides the dining room table. Tell them I’m so busy getting ready for tomorrow, I forgot to make supper, and remind them not to mention this to Helene.”
“You don’t need to worry. We all watched her back down the driveway a long time ago. The men are looking forward to tomorrow more than you know. Shall I take out some milk too, and bread?”
“Yes. Whatever you can find to fill them up—there’s a bowl of leftover goulash in there, too. Why don’t you have them eat in here?”
Al hauled in a couple of extra chairs, and the men crowded around the table. Dottie liked having them so close, jostling back and forth. She even liked the smell of them—lye soap and muscles latent under plaid flannel shirts.
Al took over as host, cleaned up the table, and set to washing dishes, with George wiping. The kitchen took on a festive air, not much different from when Owen and the children helped with Thanksgiving preparations years ago.
Dottie and Bonnie Mae snacked on the go, and that girl plunged into the work with gusto. Midway through the evening, she turned to Dottie. “Care if I invite Ned, too? He’s got nobody to spend Thanksgiving with.”
“Sure, bring him along—I don’t believe I’ve ever met him.”
Chapter Thirteen
So it was that the four boarders, Bonnie Mae and Tom, his three children, and Ned gathered at noon on Thanksgiving Day. Al and Dottie presided over the group like proud grandparents. When Dottie passed his house at five a.m., Al joined her. The turkey, basted in its own juices since six, couldn’t have tasted better.
Bonnie Mae bounced into the kitchen early that morning and learned more about producing a good meal than she had in her entire life. Aromas of roasting turkey, gravy, fresh-baked rolls, and pie billowed out of the kitchen into the rest of the house.
When Tom arrived, Bonnie Mae brought him and the children in to meet the cook and her chief assistant. Al even donned a crisp green cobbler’s apron for the workout, complete with appropriate utensils popped into its pockets.
Once Tom’s youngsters each had a job carrying things into the dining room, they relaxed. Their laughter added more than Dottie could say. She lost the forlornness she’d felt when Millie called from Cedar Rapids two weeks ago to say they wouldn’t be driving up this year.
Crowded into the dining room were people who had little or no family, all in one place, enjoying the day. Dottie viewed the gathering through misty eyes. Once or twice, she thought of Cora needing her so much, especially since she expected another baby now. Five months along, tired and feeling sick, with two energetic little ones to care for—how would she ever manage? But she forced herself to put that image aside for the time being.
Al seemed to sense what was going on. Twice during the morning, he patted her arm. She’d probably told him too much when he came over after Cora called, but what was done was done. Her frustrations about the impossible train trip tumbled out, and he hardly gave a peep. He simply listened.
She appreciated that most of all—he didn’t try to patch up her woes or make suggestions. He simply sat there and listened with such a sympathetic look that her heart went out to him. Before the evening ended, they delved into the plans for this dinner, so she went to bed with a lighter heart.
Because of Al’s patience in listening to her, she’d been able to sleep. Otherwise, she would have spent the night worrying about Cora, traveling an endless circle of wanting to help yet seeing no way. Today, all it took was that pat from him to remind her that things would be just fine. That was what he’d told her before he left for his house the night before.
“I have a feeling it’ll all work out, Dot.” Such a brief statement, but the resolution and confidence in Al’s eyes calmed her. His words prompted her to remember what she already knew—the best thing she could do for Cora but pray.
But today, she could attend to these fine folks, and attend to them she did. When they’d passed and re-passed the main course, she jogged Bonnie Mae’s shoulder. “Come with me. You can whip the cream.”
Emerald eyes sparkled like a little girl’s on Christmas morning. Bonnie Mae followed Dottie’s instructions to the letter, and the cream cooperated. The result was something to behold, sitting up on the pies like snow fluffed and frozen in place.
“Thanks for teaching me, Dottie.” Bonnie Mae’s eyes turned heathery.
“The more you know about cooking, the better. I know my girls—”
She stopped herself. No use adding to Bonnie Mae’s hurt. Obviously, Felicity taught her daughter nothing about functioning in a kitchen. But neither her grandmother nor Helene had taken time to help her, either.
Bonnie Mae proudly carried the luscious creation to the dining room, where Al proposed a coffee and hot chocolate toast. He raised his cup and surveyed the diners.
“One thing I’m thankful for this year is having met you men—I’ve had a gay old time matching my wits with yours at checkers. May I propose a round robin tournament this afternoon—everyone included?”
“Women and children, too?”
Al caught Dottie’s eyes. “Absolutely. No one left out. But first, you put your feet up, and we’re going to do the dishes.”
Bonnie Mae joined in. “Good idea. I’ll put everything away.”
George and Al took over the dishpan. Sitting in the parlor surrounded by Tom’s children, Dottie finally stopped sputtering. Ned and Bert joined them, and she learned about the importance of greasing engine valves. In no time at all, the tournament began.
At five-thirty, weary guests hovered around the last players left standing—or sitting—Ned and George. Everyone awaited one final brilliant move. Bonnie Mae took Tom’s two youngest to make turkey sandwiches for supper, but his teenaged son wedged a stool between Ned and George, as close as he could get to the game.
Al stood like a grand marshal, ready to award first prize. George’s last play astounded them all into applause. Ned shook George’s hand and raised it in victory.
Al made the pronouncement: “Behold the winner of the first Thanksgiving Day tournament in Happiness Haven.”
“Happiness Haven?” Ned raised the question, though he had been quiet much of the day.
“Yes, I christen this place anew. Why not? Today, it’s been a haven for all of us.” Al bowed in several directions. “Thanks to each and every one of you. This was the finest Thanksgiving I’ve had in a long time.” He turned toward Ned. “You ought to start coming over here for our afternoon games. We’ll have to hustle to keep up with you.”
Ned’s wide smile answered for him. Bonnie Mae swished through the kitchen door with a huge tray of food. Tom’s daughters followed with coffee and milk.
Tom reached for the tray, and everyone dived in again.
“I don’t know about you, but I’ve eaten far too much. How about we all take a walk?” Dottie liked Al’s suggestion, and George, Bert, and another boarder joined them in a promenade down Main Street and back as dusk eased into twilight. Back at the house, Tom and Bonnie Mae left with the children, but not before the younger woman wrapped her arms around Dottie. Her eyes brimmed.
“Thank you so much. I can come back and help with dishes…” An unvoiced communication passed between them. If Dottie had to put it into words, she would say it spoke of love and respect.
“Thank you for offering, but Al and George will handle them, I suspect. You go on and have a good evening.”
An hour later, with the dining room cleared and set to rights by the boarders and Ned, George helped Al with the dishes. Dottie scrubbed the kitchen counter and table clean. George’s bulk somehow ma
naged to fit into the nook near the dishpan. Beside Al’s Stan Laurel, he looked even larger.
The two men ribbed each other, leading to frequent outbursts of laughter. Dottie searched out containers for all the leftovers, not an easy task. For the dressing, she had to resort to an empty roaster that dared her to fetch it from the top of the cupboard.
She pulled open the bottom door, stepped up on the shelf, and stretched her arm as far as she could. All of a sudden, a warm hand supported her lower back. She looked into Al’s eyes.
“That’s quite a reach for you. One of these days, you’re going to hurt yourself.”
That got her ire up, maybe because George was watching. But he joined in, too.
“He’s right, Missus. No use puttin’ yourself outta commission. Then where would the rest of us be?”
Dottie jerked her shirtwaist into place and took the roaster from Al. He noticed everything, and saw that she needed help. He was right, but for a moment, she had visions of Owen, when he’d taken to the house during his last months. It seemed to her that he watched her every move. She’d actually felt relieved when he lost the strength to follow her into the kitchen.
She spooned in great wads of sage dressing. When she finished storing everything, the porch resembled a circus vendor’s tent, piled with wares from end to end.
With the dishes almost done, she brought the mop pail from the closet, but Ned took it from her. His no-nonsense look told her not to argue.
“Here, let me do that. You take a rest. Best turkey I ever ate.” His nose, splotched in variegated shades of brown and red, shone like a beacon. “Especially that stuffing—reminds me of my mother’s.”
George looped his fourth soaked dishtowel over the basement doorknob and took a fresh one to dry the last two remaining pans. “Me, too. That was some dinner you cooked, Missus. Some fine dinner.”
“My pleasure to cook for such good eaters. Happy Thanksgiving.”
****
In the dining room, Bert engaged a boarder in another round of checkers. With George’s promise to check the lamps and lock the doors, Al guided Dottie into her coat and out the front door.
“Today was a success, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, a great success. Remember, it was your idea. And your turkey.”
“But you cooked the massive thing. Oh—that wonderful stuffing—sage, onion, chicken broth, but what was the other taste? You mixed in some other ingredient.”
“Cook’s secret. But it sounds like George and Ned’s Mama’s knew it, too.”
“Mine didn’t—and she called it stuffing.”
“Same thing, no matter what you call it.”
“Right, and the best part is, there’s some left for tomorrow!”
Dottie chuckled. “You’ll be ready for more by then?”
“Sure will.” Her shuffle told him her feet hurt more than usual. “Let’s stop by my house and soak your feet.”
“Soak…?”
“That’s what helped Nan when her feet hurt so much. Hot water with a little hand soap scraped in.”
“All right, but at my house. That way, I won’t have to walk home later.”
Al grinned. “You’ve got a point.” He walked her to her door. Her gait on the stairs made him wince. “I need some supplies. Sit in your armchair and wait.”
Dottie saluted. “Yes, sir!”
Al muttered to himself on the way to his back door. “Dot’s a strong woman, but this day really was too much for her.” He hurried up the porch steps. “She works far too hard. I wonder if she has to, or just doesn’t want to be at home all day long.”
Owen left Dottie his pension, but Al had no idea how much that amounted to. Crossing the porch, he tipped his head to study clouds closing in. The weatherman predicted snow in the next few days. He could feel the change in the air. He turned his doorknob, glad he didn’t have to settle into this cold house yet.
****
Dottie’s heart swelled with weary satisfaction as she turned the thermostat dial. Good memories of Thanksgivings past flooded in, with the children at home and a much smaller turkey than she’d cooked today, but always with a spirit of gratitude. Those had been good years.
For a fleeting moment, three faces, Millie, Bill, and Cora, glowed around the dining room table, Owen at the head. When Millie called to say they wouldn’t be able to make the trip up this year, she hadn’t been too surprised, since Millie and Ren both worked fulltime, even after the war.
But her heart would have been heavy today without Al’s boarding house idea. Why hadn’t Al’s youngest, Charlie, driven his family home for Thanksgiving? Seemed like he had every other year for as long as she could recall.
“Nothing stays the same.” Her whisper echoed against the walls as pain zinged the soles of her feet. She leaned against the entryway threshold to take off her boots and scuttled toward her beckoning armchair on slanted ankles. She used to work just as hard, but her feet never hurt like this. The cold weather didn’t help any—or maybe it was time to face what her body proclaimed—she’d turned old.
She dropped her coat and hat on the brown velvet sofa, raised in some places, bare in others from decades of hard use. The old matching stuffed armchair received her as if waiting for her. She groaned as the cushions conformed to her back. Ah…nothing like your favorite chair.
The front door squeaked. Al tapped on it and pushed it open.
“I’m in the living room.”
She waved him in as spokes of pain shot up the backs of her legs. Shin splints raised insistent voices in the front. How did she get into such a fix?
Al rested a grocery bag on the sofa, took off his wraps, and eyed her. “Hurting pretty bad, aren’t you?”
Those perceptive gray-blue eyes didn’t wait for an answer. He whisked his pail into the kitchen, rattled it around and let the water run while it heated. Dottie leaned over, rolled her white stockings down to her ankles, pulled them off and tossed them to the side. She closed her eyes, knowing whatever Al had in mind, it would be fine.
Recollections of the way he took care of Nan in her last days floated to the surface. Dottie had been willing to do whatever she could for her dear friend, but she really didn’t need much at all.
“Just brew some tea and sit with me,” Nan would say. “Al’s a peach—he takes care of everything.”
Dottie drifted off until he knelt before her and lifted her feet, one by one, into hot water. He smoothed his fingertips over them, easing into a firmer hold.
“Old Doc showed me how to do this when Nan’s legs gave her such fits. He used to work with Army horses, you know. Something about the nerves—what you do to your feet can affect other parts of you, he said.”
Dottie had never heard of such a thing, but the sharp leg slashes she’d tried to ignore since about noon took on a life of their own. She didn’t care how his treatment worked, only that they did.
Her trusty chair invited her to sink in deeper. Al’s fingers traced her heel down to her toe tips, eased along her arch, massaging with a gentle touch. A soothing current rimmed her neck and shoulders as he continued to knead the bottoms of her feet with increasing pressure.
Her sinuses let loose when he rubbed the tops and ends of her toes—she’d never experienced the like. She fished in her pocket for her hankie and blew her nose.
Head bent with intensity, Al tackled her other foot. Dottie’s wrists flopped outward on the chair arms. She must look like an old hen ready to stew, her legs stuck out and her arms like rubber. But she didn’t care at all. She willed him to rub harder under her arches. As if he could read her mind, he increased his thumb pressure.
She felt herself slipping away. He didn’t say a word, but continued to massage as Dottie faded.
Chapter Fourteen
The taut lines of Dottie’s face relaxed, and her fine foot bones melded under his touch. Sitting at her feet brought to mind Nan’s troubles before she left this earth. Good thing Doc taught him this technique to ease he
r pain. But mainly, Dottie filled his mind.
He changed his position to stop a cramp in his thigh, and viewed her from a slightly different angle. Such a good woman—she’d given fully of herself today, working nonstop to satisfy everyone.
Pies, fresh rolls, heaps of mashed potatoes, tawny gravy as smooth as glass, that massive turkey, so moist and succulent, cranberries with walnuts and raisins, and her dressing—yes, he could call it that instead of stuffing. He had trouble finding words for the unique taste. What was that secret ingredient?
“Ooh…” His unintended verbalization fell short of her ears. He peered closer in the dim light. Why, she’d fallen asleep. That was a good thing, and not just for her—it gave him time to study her high forehead and the curve of her cheekbones.
Every nook and cranny revealed strength. A very strong woman—larger-boned than Nan and solid, but Dottie kept herself shapely.
Her ankles cracked and popped, the bones sharp and delicate in his palms. He massaged around and above them a few inches, keeping an eye on her face in case she showed signs of discomfort. But her eyelids never twitched.
When the water turned tepid, he tiptoed to the bathroom for a towel, removed her left foot from the water, fluffed the skin dry, and placed her heel on the scatter rug. She didn’t budge. He repeated the movements with her right foot and carried the water out the back door, splashing it across the snow-covered yard.
Moonlight pervaded the sky. A long breath of cold night air enervated him. His fingers still tingled from the texture of Dot’s skin. He pictured her asleep: quiet and trusting—trusting him.
His prayer ascended like an updraft. “What should I do?”
What he’d known in his heart for weeks settled there in a new way, converting from knowledge into desire and determination. He paused longer, the pail’s cold enamel harsh against his hand, Dottie’s back steps solid under his shoes.
The world around him kept changing. Didn’t somebody once say, “Nothing is as sure as change?”
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