“Don’t give me ‘nothing.’ By the looks on your faces, I can tell it was something. Get your coats. It’s time to go. I have some work to do tonight. Did you thank Harley for the meal?”
“Thank you, Harley,” they sang in chorus, approaching her with outstretched arms.
Harley bent to their level and gathered them to her breast. “I love you guys,” she said.
“We love you, too,” they said shyly, while behind them, Jack beamed.
Chapter Thirty-two
“Hello, this is Melinda Friestatt calling. I’d like to make reservations for Thanksgiving dinner. Twenty-eight. That’s right. Would it be possible to push some tables together? I’d appreciate it. And one more thing—would you happen to know if Harley Miller-Jones is working that day? She is?” Melinda had been counting on it. Harley had only been back at the club a couple of months. The newest hires always got the shaft during the holidays. Now, she relished the thought of her plan coming together more than she relished the feast itself. “I’d like to put in a special request that she be our server.”
* * *
“What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” Jack asked Harley, curled up next to him. The movie they’d been watching on TV had ended and the credits were rolling.
“Same thing I do every Thanksgiving,” she said, without a trace of self-pity—“working.”
Jack pictured Harley in the brown uniform with the club’s embroidered logo, setting two plates loaded with turkey and mashed potatoes and baked corn in front of members in sport coats and Fair Isle sweaters.
“Not that postponing my own dinner is easy.” She chuckled. “The smell of thyme and sage and onions in the restaurant kitchen drives me crazy. But I’ll get my turn Friday.”
“I was going to ask you to have Thanksgiving at my house.”
Harley paused. “With your mother?” She huffed. “Did you happen to run this idea by her? We both know I’m number one on her hit list.”
Jack stroked a lock of her hair over her shoulder. “It’s my house, too. And it won’t be just her. There’s usually a full table. Hank and Jamie will probably be there. And Kerry and Alex and their brood, and who knows who else. It’ll be an opportunity to announce to the world that we’re together. You know . . . safety in numbers.”
“We might be ready, but your mother might resent us using an important family holiday to do it with. Besides,” she said, laying her head on his shoulder, “I have to work. I have mountains of bills to pay.”
He stroked her forehead. “I don’t like it . . . you working on Thanksgiving.”
“It’s no big deal. That’s how we’ve always done it, even when I was in Seattle. I’d waitress on the holiday, then get up early Friday morning to drive down here and walk in my parents’ house as Dad was lifting the turkey from the oven.”
He turned to face her. “It doesn’t have to be like that anymore. Can’t you take a year off? Just one?”
“I just started at the club. I’m the low man on the totem pole. Not only that, I’m single. If I call off, that means some mother or father’ll have to come in.”
* * *
A couple of days later, Jack had just put the girls on the bus and was pouring a second cup of coffee to take out to the winery when his mother said, “I’ve decided to have Thanksgiving at the club this year.”
The coffee pot in Jack’s hand halted in midpour. “We never have Thanksgiving at the club.” Of all years, why this one, when Harley was working there?
Mother sighed as she set down her newspaper and slid off her reading glasses. “I’m just not up to orchestrating a big meal.”
“I don’t think restaurants should be open at all on Thanksgiving,” said Jack. “It’s a national holiday. Everyone should be able to be home, with their friends and families.”
“That’s rather extreme. It’s not like we’ve never eaten out on Thanksgiving. You never complained before.”
That was before he’d found out that the woman he loved had to defer her own holiday to wait on others.
“How about this. I’ll chip in. The girls can help cook, too. They’re plenty old enough.”
“It’s nice of you to offer, but even with help, it’s getting to be too much. Hank and Jamie are coming.”
“You’ve already started inviting people?” he asked, indignant.
“And Rose and Seamus and their brood.”
“The entire Friestatt-O’Hearn clan?” This was going from bad to worse.
“You make it sound as though they’re strangers. Besides, it’s hardly the whole clan. I’d have to rent a hall for that.”
“You’ve never invited the entire Ribbon Ridge contingent to Thanksgiving.”
“We could hardly fit everyone around our dining room table, now, could we? Not only that, half my silver spoons are missing. I wish I knew what happened to them. I tried to find replacements, but the only pieces to be found are monogrammed with someone else’s initials.”
At the mention of the missing spoons, guilt stabbed at Jack. Aside from that, giving Harley the Victorian had been a step toward taking his life into his own hands. But planning an elaborate feast was way out of his wheelhouse. He didn’t know the first thing about how to make turkey and mashed potatoes and stuffing.
“I’ve already spoken to the club. They’re going to push several tables together for us. It’ll work out fine, you’ll see.”
No, it wouldn’t be fine. Jack wanted Harley by his side for the annual celebration. Instead, she would be forced to wait not just on him but his entire family.
* * *
At the club on Thanksgiving Day, an enormous red and gold floral arrangement sat on a round table in the center of the dining room. Freshly polished hurricane lamps sparkled atop the linen-covered tables.
Harley checked her watch yet again. The Friestatt party was due any minute. All twenty-eight of them, according to the reservation.
She inhaled deeply and smoothed down her uniform. You’ll be fine, she told herself.
Down the hall, a commotion interrupted the music coming from the grand piano. Harley peeked around the corner toward the lobby to see Jack helping his mother out of her coat.
Harley took a deep breath, breezed through the swinging kitchen door, and stood off to the side, half hidden behind a large fern on a pedestal.
Melinda led the way, carrying herself like the queen of Willamette Valley society she was.
Jack walked at her elbow, matching her pace, listening to what were undoubtedly some last-minute instructions. Though what instructions were needed for Thanksgiving dinner, Harley could only imagine. Probably guidelines on who should sit where. Or maybe she was reprimanding him for something he’d done in the car on the way over. Failing to signal or forgetting to open her door.
Behind them came the twins in stiff taffeta dresses. Harley wondered when they would stop letting Melinda dictate their style and start dressing like other girls their age.
Next in line were Rose and Seamus O’Hearn, Jack’s great-aunt and -uncle. Rose walked haltingly with a cane, but she still looked elegant in low heels and a satin bow blouse.
Then Ryan O’Hearn, the Grimskys’ attorney, and his wife, Indra, wearing a printed silk. Kerry and her daughters, Alex, and his foster children. And little Griffin.
Hank and Jamie. At the sight of the basketball under her fitted knit sheath, Harley’s breath caught.
Bringing up the rear were Keith, the youngest O’Hearn boy, who’d shared Harley’s locker in tenth grade, Marcus, the middle son, and their wives and a tangle of kids of whom she wasn’t sure who belonged to whom, but clearly, they were all either Friestatts or O’Hearns. You could tell by their caramel-colored eyes and auburn hair.
Harley couldn’t help but wonder what it was like to be part of such a big, tight-knit clan.
And yet there seemed to be someone missing.
Following several false starts, minor arguments, and redirections, the hostess finally got them all seated to Melinda
’s satisfaction.
It was time. Harley took a deep breath, breezed through the swinging kitchen door, and approached Melinda’s chair at the head of the table. “Happy Thanksgiving. May I take your drink orders?”
The second he saw her, Jack was on his feet. “Harley. Good to see you. Happy Thanksgiving.” He kissed her cheek in front of her ear, where it tickled.
Her face warmed and she grinned. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Mae West!” said Freddie. “How come you’re here?”
Melinda frowned. “Frederica, remember our little talk?”
“You mean about not talking to the waiters? But she’s not a waiter.” Freddie pointed, her brow furrowed in confusion. “That’s Harley.”
Harley smiled at Freddie. “I work here.”
“You do?”
“I do.”
“Even on Thanksgiving?”
Next to Freddie, Frankie scratched unself-consciously at the seam cutting into her waist where her bodice was sewn to the gathers in her skirt.
“If not for me, now, who would bring you your food?”
Jack looked miserable. But as there was nothing else he could do, he returned to his chair.
“How are you, Harley?” asked Ryan from a few seats down.
“Fine, thank you.”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” called out Jamie.
“Same to you,” Harley replied.
“Nice to see you again, Harley,” said Kerry. “Happy—”
“I’ll have a Bloody Mary,” said Melinda. “And I want it with real tomato juice, not the bottled mix, and plenty of ice.”
It took Hank and Jack but a moment to agree on the brand of celebratory champagne for the toast.
When the bartender had filled their order, Harley returned promptly and passed around their beverages.
“How’s your drink, Mrs. Friestatt?”
Melinda took a sip and smacked her lips. “A little too much horseradish, but it’ll do.”
“Wonderful. We have turkey and all the trimmings on the buffet. Is everyone ready to order?”
“What else is on the menu?” asked Melinda.
Harley leaned on her long experience with difficult customers. “Most people will want the buffet, but the chef can make anything you want.” One of the benefits of a private club.
Melinda put her finger to her lips and thought. “What about the onion soup?”
“Of course, Mrs. Friestatt,” said Harley, jotting it down on her pad. “Anything else I can get for you?”
“I’m not in the mood for turkey. Give me a crab cake, extra crispy, tartar sauce on the side.”
Up and down the table, amid giggling children with their napkins draped over their heads, wary eyes turned.
Harley scribbled on her pad. “One crab cake, extra crispy.”
“And the Country Club Salad, no anchovies.”
Jack clenched his jaw. This was exactly what he had been fearing . . . Mother throwing her weight around. But it was understood that she was the matriarch, and this was her gig.
He could take Mother’s antagonism toward himself. But he couldn’t abide her dumping on Harley. If Mother only knew—the way Harley took her provocation in stride only made him think the more of her.
Harley moved around the table, smiling and chatting easily. She chucked Griffin under the chin. Asked Jamie how she was feeling these days.
Jack couldn’t have been prouder. He also couldn’t have imagined Harley looking better than when she’d first come back to Newberry. But a summer on Ribbon Ridge had put some color in her cheeks. She was almost glowing. If not for her hourglass figure, he would almost think she was expecting, too.
Kerry’s baby let out a wail and Harley jumped. Seemed she could take whatever Mother dished out, but when it came to babies, she was supersensitive.
On Jack’s right, the twins had been waiting patiently for Harley to make her way to them.
“And for you?” she asked, finally.
Like everyone except Mother, Freddie ordered the buffet.
Then it was Frankie’s turn. “I’m a vegetarian,” she announced to the table at large. “I don’t eat anything with a face.”
Today, of all days, Frankie had chosen today to go cold turkey? thought Jack.
Harley raised a brow and looked inquiringly at Jack. But before he could respond, Mother did it for him.
“Frances. Girls your age need iron in their diets.” Without bothering to look at Harley, she instructed, “She’ll have the buffet.”
“How come you get to have whatever you want and I don’t?” asked Frankie.
“You’re my grandchild and you’ll do as I say. Adults shouldn’t have to explain themselves to children.”
“But—” Frankie burst into angry tears. Looking around for moral support, she cried, “It’s not that I don’t like meat. It’s just that I feel sorry for the poor turkey.” Her fists screwed into her eyes pathetically.
Jack put his arm around her. “Shh. There are plenty of other things on the buffet that don’t have, er, faces.”
“Come with me when we go up,” said Indra. “You can get the same things I’m getting.”
Harley had come full circle around the table. She turned to leave, then halted and read over her list, her forehead furrowed. “I feel like I’m missing someone.” She gazed around the table until her eye stopped on the empty seat at the far end, opposite Mother’s.
“Alfred.”
Mother’s neck turned the color of pinot noir.
Harley repeated, “Where’s Alfred?”
* * *
On a piece of grassy bottomland, in a modest ranch house that sat just far enough back from 240 to muffle the road noise, Alfred reclined his La-Z-Boy with only his plate for company.
Out in the galley kitchen, the nicely browned, twelve-pound turkey rested on the stove, the carving knife sticking out of it. Alfred always bought a decent-sized bird at Thanksgiving, to last him through the week. No sense going to all that trouble for one meal. A pot of gravy congealed on a cool burner, and there was plenty more mashed potatoes on the counter.
He sipped his wine and forked a bite of stuffing into his mouth at a leisurely pace while he thumbed through the channels on his remote. There was a feast of football on TV. Three NFL, and one big college game. Which one to watch? Minnesota vs. Detroit? Chargers at Dallas? Washington and the Giants? Or maybe he should go with Ole Miss vs. Mississippi State. But that wasn’t on until later that evening. By then, he would be back at the winery, checking to see that everything was stable. He spent most of his waking hours there. So much so that no one had batted an eye when he’d hauled in a secondhand easy chair and floor lamp and installed it in the supply closet. Everyone assumed it was for him to catch the occasional catnap. But it was really for Melinda and him. If the only place she would be with him was the winery, then he would make it as comfortable as possible for her.
Alfred had only a passing interest in football, and the Vikings were ahead by two touchdowns. And then a golf club commercial came on, and he thought of Melinda, eating dinner with her family at the country club.
Though his stomach was full, he felt somehow hollow. He got up and went to the fridge, grabbed a handful of carrots, and headed out to the stable.
Nowadays, Alfred let the cellar rats do the heavy lifting at the winery. The work following the crush was strenuous. There was a lot of dragging hoses around and moving barrels, not to mention cleaning. Sometimes the young ones complained they spent more time cleaning than they did making wine.
“Here you go, Dave,” he said, holding a carrot under the gelding’s nose, watching as he nibbled it with velvet-soft lips.
But as long as he’d been at Arabella Cellars, his appreciation of being part of the process never faded. He lived to watch the tasting-room employees pull the cork on a new vintage. He would stand back anonymously and watch the ruby liquid trickle into the glass. The pourer would hand it to one of thousands of annual visitors and s
ay, “Here, try this.” Then Alfred would wait for their faces light up.
From beneath Dave’s neck appeared another greedy muzzle.
“Wondered where you were, Petey. Hang on a minute. I didn’t forget you,” he said, feeding a carrot into the donkey’s mouth.
“That’s it,” said Alfred with a pat to Dave’s neck. With no more carrots in sight, Petey had already wandered back to his favorite corner of the stall.
“Happy Thanksgiving.”
* * *
Back at the club, the adults stopped chatting and sipping their water and they, too, searched for the venerable vineyard manager. Not finding him, they exchanged puzzled looks. It only made sense that Alfred should have a place at the table. He had been around as long as any of them could remember.
“Harley has a point,” said Jack. “We should have invited Alfred.”
“Thanksgiving is for family,” said Melinda firmly. “This is a family dinner.”
“Alfred’s practically family.”
As Alex quietly reprimanded his boys for sword fighting with their butter knives, the other adults decided now was a good time to retrieve their napkins from the floor and remind their kids to hold their hands when they went up to the buffet line and not cut in front of anyone.
Harley smiled. “I’ll have the chef put your order in right away, Mrs. Friestatt. The rest of you, feel free to go up to the buffet.”
“Crab cakes?” Jack whispered to Mother under his breath, as Harley left to put in her special order. “Today, even Indra’s making do with the side dishes.”
“I’m paying for this meal. Shouldn’t I be able to get what I want?”
Jack just shook his head, then clapped his hands and rose. “Who’s hungry?” he asked his girls. “Let’s go up and fix your plates.”
For her next drink, Mother requested a Rum Martinez, again made to order. More tartar sauce. Another bread basket. Was there any of that sweet raisin bread? This Portuguese loaf tasted old.
Thirty minutes later, half the wine had been drunk and the kids had finished pushing their food around their plates and were getting antsy.
“There’s no one out on the greens. Why don’t I take them outside?” offered Indra. “Let them run off some steam.”
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