by Susan Shay
Then he turned to Cassie. Her hair was pulled out of her face into a low ponytail, making her blue eyes look enormous. Her face was flushed from the heat of working over the stove, but instead of giving her a tired, overworked appearance, the rosy complexion made her look hot—and it had nothing to do with temperature. “Happy Turkey Day to you, too, Cassie.”
“Thank you.” Her answer was warm, full of sincerity, all sign of her pissy manner from the last three days gone.
“Anything I can do in here?” He glanced around, but it looked as if they had everything well in hand.
Miriam smiled sweetly. “You can go watch the game with the guys, if you want.”
“Watch a bunch of sweating football players with four old men, when I could stay in here with two sexy women? You think I’m out of my mind?”
“If you’re going to stay in here, you’ll have to help.” Miriam flashed him a mischievous smile.
He met her smile with wide-eyed innocence. “Of course. How could I do less?”
“Good,” Cassie answered, her word almost covering Miriam’s snort of laughter. “Then you can mash these potatoes.”
Wishing he could take back his impulsive offer, he took a step backward. “Mash potatoes? Next to the turkey and stuffing, they’re the most important part of the meal. I don’t want to ruin them.”
“In this kitchen?” Cassie shook her head, then winked. “With all the professional equipment in here, you couldn’t ruin mashed potatoes if you tried. There’s the machine.”
Following her direction, he saw a gleaming white mixer, big enough to be a first cousin to the monster vacuum at the store. “I just hope I don’t get my finger bit off in that thing,” he muttered as he walked toward it.
“Hey, it wouldn’t stop with just a finger,” Cassie responded, her teasing smile pulling at him. “If a brute that size got hold of you, it would take your whole arm.”
Miriam set the pot full of potatoes next to one of the sinks with a thump. “First you have to drain the potatoes, then you can start mashing.”
Never having drained potatoes before, he warily approached the sink. What if he dumped the whole mess down the drain? But Cassie must have been worried about the same thing, because she pulled something off the wall and set it in the sink. “Here, Keegan. Pour them into this colander.”
Still concerned, he picked up the pot and held it over the sieve. After he started pouring and Cassie saw he wasn’t going to miss the huge strainer, she walked to the gigantic refrigerator, opened the door, removed the butter and milk, then walked back to place them next to the mixer. Moving the salt and pepper nearby, she went back to stand by him at the sink.
Even over the rich scents of their turkey dinner, her light fragrance filled his head, making him wish they were alone. With her so close, his natural impulse was to slide an arm around her and pull her nearer yet, then nudge aside that ponytail and nibble on her for a moment before dinner. In fact, with half a chance, he’d ditch Thanksgiving dinner altogether for something a hell of a lot more interesting.
But she reached past him to pick up the colander and give it a shake. “Would you get the mixer bowl?”
Move away from her when he’d just discovered the place where he belonged? With superhuman strength, he forced himself to walk across the kitchen and grip the stainless steel bowl’s handle. Then, as if on a string, he was pulled back to her side. When he held the bowl out to her, she pushed his hand until it was over the sink, then dumped in the potatoes.
Probably knowing he would follow like a hungry puppy, she walked back to the mixer, then turned as she waited for him to catch up. At her look, his mouth filled with sand as he tried to remember what to do with the bowl in his hand. Oh, yeah, the mixer. He shoved the bowl toward the stand, but when he let go, it listed drunkenly.
“These mixers are so hard to use,” she whispered, then expertly fitted the bowl where it belonged. Picking up a single, oddly shaped beater, she attached it. Using a knob on the side, she adjusted the bowl’s height, then turned on the mixer. Very slowly it made a circuit, smashing potatoes as it went. “There. You shouldn’t have any trouble now.”
She was about to walk away from him. Putting empty space where she was now standing seemed a sacrilege. “But I don’t know how to mash potatoes.”
Rolling her eyes at his feeble line, she shook her head, but relented. “Okay, after all the potatoes have stopped looking like potatoes, you add milk and butter, then salt and pepper.”
It was all he could do to keep from reaching for her. “But how do I know what amounts?”
Lifting her face to his, she met his gaze. “Why don’t I show you this time?”
Ignoring his sister’s second unladylike snort, he nodded. He didn’t mind looking like an idiot, as long as Cassie stayed close.
As he watched, she turned up the speed on the mixer. After a moment, she added the milk and butter. When they’d mixed awhile, she seasoned them, stopped the mixer, took a small amount on a spoon, and dipped her finger into it for a taste. After adding more salt, she started the mixer for a moment, then dipped up another portion. This time, when she had the fluffy white concoction on her finger, he caught her wrist and tugged it to his mouth.
As he sucked on her finger, she held her breath, slowly closing her eyes. When her head tipped back and her mouth dropped open, she opened her eyes slightly to gaze at him.
“Isn’t that food ready yet?” Miss Marcie demanded, startling him into stepping away from Cassie as she stomped into the kitchen. “Do I need to get busy in here so we don’t all starve to death?”
“We’re just taking things up,” Miriam answered. “Why don’t you start carrying the vegetables out to the serving table?”
With a sharp glance at being told what to do, Miss Marcie marched over to pick up a bowl of corn, then pushed the door open to the dining room. “Ruthy, get in there and help carry. This bunch is slower than molasses in Alaska. Vernon, get your rolls out of that oven and put them on the table. Mack, is the ice tea ready yet? Got the glasses filled with ice?”
The spell broken, Cassie turned away from him, then cleared her throat. “Which bowl do you want the potatoes in, Miriam?” she asked, her voice husky.
As affected as Cassie was, the look on her face had gotten to him so badly, he couldn’t talk if he tried. And if he stayed near her much longer, he was going to need a napkin to hide his problem below the belt.
“Doesn’t matter. Whatever they’ll fit into.” With a triumphant smile, Miriam pulled the turkey from the oven. “Hey, Keegan. Will you put the bird on that platter for me?”
Afraid to trust his voice, he nodded, then with a sliding glance at Cassie, walked away from her. Taking a pair of large forks, he hefted the turkey, then placed it on the appointed platter.
“Do you want to carve?” Miriam asked.
“No way. I’d make mincemeat of it. Who usually carves?” Before the words were out of his mouth, he wished he could bite off his tongue. Who else but Steve would have carved? A job that made a guy the center of attention? A perfect Steve job.
Miriam didn’t look at him. “Never mind. I’m sure Vernon or Mack will do it.”
Wishing he could apologize without making things worse, he glanced at Cassie, who shook her head and gave him a sad smile. With a sigh, he touched Miriam’s back, then headed for the door. “Well, I’ve earned my dinner, so I think I’ll go find my chair.”
Miss Marcie stormed back into the kitchen and shooed him out. “Let us women finish this. I’m starving to death.”
With a nod, he went into the dining room. Why hadn’t he gone to New Orleans for that wild weekend like he’d planned? There, at least, he wouldn’t have had all the emotional entanglements to worry about—just which woman’s acquaintance to make.
But with Cassie’s smile still warming him, the prospect held no appeal.
Chapter Seven
Miriam sat in the chair Mack held for her at the head of the table and looked at th
e others gathered there. Alone again. For eight Thanksgivings she’d had Steve there, sitting with the others and she’d know she wasn’t by herself anymore. She’d had someone who cared especially about her. She’d had him, but no more.
Now, just like so long ago when her parents had gone to Arizona, she’d been abandoned. Oh, there was still Keegan and Cassie, but a brother’s and a friend’s love just weren’t the same. She wanted to be loved because of who she was, what she said and did, the way she walked and laughed and cried. Not because of an accident of birth or proximity.
After she thanked Mack, he circled the table and sat next to Miss Ruthy. Lucky guy, he was sitting near the sweetest old lady in the world while she was stuck with Miss Marcie, who was, without a doubt, the crankiest. With Vernon on her other side, the silly ceramic turkey with flowers sticking out of his butt in the middle of the table would probably give her the most enjoyable conversation. Maybe next year she should change Aunt Hattie’s rule that close friends couldn’t sit together—or at least control the arrangement of the place cards.
Without warning Vernon announced, “Shall we pray?”
Swallowing a sigh of resignation, she followed ritual from years past, folded her hands and bowed her head. From the corner of her eye, she saw Vern glance around the table to check that everyone had assumed the proper position. When he noticed her eyes weren’t quite closed, he frowned and waited until she obligingly closed them.
“Oh, Lord, we thank thee for thy bountiful goodness,” he boomed in what she’d come to think of as his holy voice. “We thank thee that you have seen fit to put us in this free country you created to show the rest of the world what it should be.
“We ask thee for forgiveness for our most grievous sins, oh Lord. Forgive us when we lust, Lord, after filthy lucre, after possessions, after things of the flesh. Help us to live our lives as you intend them, not as we’d like them to be. Perfect us, oh Lord, so that our days of woe won’t last for eternity, but be removed before we face the final judgment.
“Now, Lord, bless this house and all who are in it. Bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies. Bless the hands that prepared it, and keep them always pure. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, thy will be done. Amen.”
Miriam flexed her fingers to get the circulation back as she glanced down the table, hoping the food hadn’t gotten cold during Vern’s long entreaty. Maybe she should think about asking Mack to pray next year. He was a deacon in his church and was comfortable doing it. But Vernon had been doing it for so long, he’d come to think of it as his part of Thanksgiving and she hated to disappoint the old man. She just hoped that his lengthy call upon the Lord didn’t make the meal last too long, because this was one night she didn’t want to be late.
Unable to hide the smile blooming inside, she looked at Mack, who sat at the far end. “Will you carve for us this year?”
He shrugged, then nodded. “I’ll do my best, but I’m not very good at it.”
“Can’t be any worse at it than Steven was,” Miss Marcie blurted. “Felt like I was eating giblets stolen from the gravy when I ate that mess he made. Start the rest of that food around while Mack’s carving. It’s getting cold.”
At Miriam’s nod, Cassie picked up the mashed potatoes and handed them to Miss Ruthy. “Umm, these look delicious.” The old woman took a small spoonful, then passed them on.
“Well, of course they look delicious, you goose. How can you mess up mashed potatoes?” Miss Marcie harped. “Besides, if they don’t taste good, all you have to do is add salt or pepper. Even Keegan can’t mess up potatoes.”
Sitting at the foot of the table, Keegan chuckled as if she hadn’t just blasted him. “Aw, now, Miss Marcie. Knowing me since I was a kid, you should know I can mess up just about anything.”
The old woman snorted rudely, then nodded. “I do recall some things so simple, even a teenager should have been able to handle them, but you managed to screw them up. I never understood how you were able to do that.”
He lifted his eyebrows and smiled coolly. “Why, Missy Marce, it took hours of concentration.”
“It’s Miss Marcie, not Missy Marce. I don’t enjoy it when you call me that.”
He dropped his brows as he nodded, then lowered his voice as if only the two of them were in the room. “And I don’t enjoy discussing Steve when it hurts my sister to be reminded of his absence. So what do you say we make a truce?”
Miriam’s heart swelled with pride. Not only had her brother shown Miss Marcie that she could no longer intimidate him, he’d taken up for her, too. She just wished there’d been no reason to do it. If Steve hadn’t left, he’d be there fighting her battles, and the day would have a special spark instead of being a little bit dull.
She stifled the sigh building in her, picked up the basket of rolls, took one, then held them out to Miss Marcie. “Care for a roll?”
“Of course I do,” Miss Marcie snapped, as she jerked the basket from her hand. “Even Keegan can’t ruin my appetite. Ruthy, start passing those sweet potatoes around.”
Miss Ruthy ducked her head, nodded, then picked up the bowl and passed them to one of the old men who played chess with Vern and Mack. Although Miriam could never remember which one was Al and which was Clell, she was always happy to have them. Without families, they’d most likely eat frozen dinners or turkey sandwiches if they couldn’t have dinner at the apartment house. And what were two more guests? At Thanksgiving, there was always more food than they could eat.
Miss Marcie glanced at Miriam’s plate. “Are you trying to starve yourself since Ste—” she caught herself mid-word, then with a quick glance toward Keegan, continued. “Since you’re single? If you don’t eat, you’ll be skin and bones, and no man wants to get close to a woman like that.”
You’ve never been married, how would you know? Miriam wanted to ask, but her healthy respect for the retired woman kept the words at bay. Instead she shook her head and smiled pleasantly. “You know, Miss Marcie, I’ve been up since before dawn, cooking, seasoning, and tasting all this food, so I don’t have much of an appetite left.”
Why couldn’t Steve have come just to eat with us? Yes, the others might have been a little uncomfortable at first, but he wouldn’t have had to sit near me.
If I could have just looked at him from time to time, my heart might settle back into place. As it is, it has shifted to where I can barely swallow past it.
“Haven’t you watched TV lately, Marcie?” Miss Ruthy asked. “All the young girls are very thin these days. Reminds me of that model in the sixties. What was her name? Twixie? Trixie?”
“Twiggy.” Vernon glared at the food on his plate, then shifted his focus to Miriam. “She was amoral, as are most of the young women in public life today. I certainly hope you haven’t chosen one of them as your role model. It’ll do you no good in the long run.”
Uneasy with the turn of the conversation, Miriam swallowed hard, then took a breath. “I’m a little old to let some TV person dictate how I live. It has been proven, though, that carrying extra weight is bad for your heart, so I don’t think it would hurt to lose a few pounds.”
“Well, I don’t know who told you that, but they’re wrong.” Vernon scooped in a mouthful of potatoes before continuing. “A good body is the sign of good health. When I was a deputy, before I became sheriff back in Carson County, Oklahoma, I had to take an extensive first aid course, so I know.”
Of course, you do. As a retired sheriff of Carson County, you know everything, don’t you? Except how to close your mouth when you chew, or how to wait until you’ve swallowed to speak. Or how to wash your clothes often enough to keep from smelling or how to trim your fingernails so they aren’t old and long and yellow. But rather than give him the answer echoing in her mind, Miriam just smiled. After all, he was a tenant in her apartment house who paid his rent on time each month, and he was a regular at the bookstore. A nice guy who meant well, so she didn’t want to alienate him.
She tried to pay attention and even enter into the conversation flowing around her, until Miss Marcie and Vernon got into their annual religious discussion—Presbyterianism versus whatever religion it was that Vernon lived by. Then she looked at the flower-filled turkey and wished he could talk. Maybe tell her a story to entertain her.
Down the table, Keegan was talking while Cassie, Miss Ruthy, and Mack listened closely. When he finished, everyone at that end of the table laughed, including Clell and Al. And once more she’d been left out.
Fighting the urge to pick up her place setting and simply move, she took a drink of iced tea.
“Oh, I forgot the wine!” Mack jumped to his feet and hurried out of the community room. When he returned, he carried a box with four green bottles and a stack of small plastic cups. After handing the cups to Cassie, he opened the first bottle. “I made this especially for today.”
As Cassie moved around the table setting cups in front of the guests, Mack followed, filling each cup. But before Mack could fill Vernon’s cup, he turned it upside down and put his palm on the bottom. “I don’t want none.”
“Aw, Vern, Thanksgiving only comes once a year,” Mack said with a slight smile. “And a chance to drink wine that I personally stomped out of grapes may come only once in a lifetime. It won’t hurt just this time.”
Vern slowly mashed his cup until it lay crumpled beneath his hand, then shook his head. “No.”
Hoping to lighten the moment, Miriam held out her cup. “That leaves more for the rest of us. Fill mine to the top.” When her cup was full, she sniffed the bouquet, but waited with the others while Mack finished filling glasses.
When he was back in his chair, and everyone except Vernon held a glass, Keegan lifted his. “Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.”
The others lifted their glasses, then took a sip of the liquid. The fruity flavor made Miriam wonder if there really was grape juice in the mixture, or if some exotic fruit had gone into the vat. Whatever it was, it tasted delicious. After draining her glass, she asked for another.
