Lillian frowned, as if she had just tasted something sour. “So you say. But I haven’t heard that from my daughter yet. Will you stand back and watch that witless wonder ruin this town? You ran on this issue, Emily. You seemed sincere. Or was that all just empty campaign talk? I heard that a group is organizing to oppose new zoning. You can fight Charlie. And you can run again. People will remember whether you stood up for what you believe in—or hung back on the sidelines, baking yams.”
Emily sighed. Only Lillian could make “baking yams” sound so disreputable. “I’m taking a break from politics, Mother,” she explained patiently. “Just like Dan said. I’m going to sit this one out. Maybe you should join the group if you feel that strongly.”
“There’s an idea.” Ezra glanced at Emily, looking pleased at how she had turned the tables. “What do you think of that, Lily?”
Lillian snapped her napkin across her lap and sat up straight in her chair. “I’ve already signed on. I’m not just a talker, like some people around here.”
Emily was surprised to hear that and wondered if it was true. Her mother had volunteered quite a bit when she was younger, but except for the board of the Historical Society, she didn’t take part in committee work anymore. She’s just baiting me, Emily decided. But I’m not going to bite.
“You’ve always been a woman of action, dear,” Ezra replied smoothly. “Now that we have that sticky wicket out of the way, let’s move on to more cheerful topics. Do I spy an apple pie on the sideboard? Or did Charlie Bates ruin that tradition for us, too?”
Everyone laughed except for Lillian. But she couldn’t help smiling a little as she poked her husband with her elbow.
Thank goodness that Ezra is in the family, Emily thought, offering up an extra Thanksgiving prayer. Where would we be without him?
* * *
By the time Zoey sat down to her family’s Thanksgiving dinner, she had been facing turkey and the traditional side dishes all day, working at the diner with Charlie from noon until five. Her older adoptive brother, C.J., had gotten home from college late the night before and stayed home to help set up for their own feast. Zoey’s younger adoptive brother, Jamie, had come along to bus tables, but it had still been a hectic shift. The number of customers who showed up for the Clam Box “Thanksgiving Dinner Special” had surprised her.
To Charlie’s credit, he had created a cheerful atmosphere, with pots of brightly colored mums and pumpkins on the counter and tables. Many of the customers who arrived looked as if they lived alone or weren’t able to cook for themselves.
Her father was actually doing a good deed, Zoey decided, though she wasn’t sure he realized it. Or maybe he did? The price for the three-course meal was surprisingly low. “Everyone ought to have some turkey on Thanksgiving,” he had been grumbling all day. “Who else is going to serve it to them if I don’t?” Charlie might be gruff and stubborn, but he had a good heart.
Zoey was glad when they locked up and went home. Her mom’s dinner was much more appealing and far tastier than the one at the diner. Lucy was a very good cook, though she let Charlie have all of the glory.
“Charlie, are you done carving?” Lucy called back as she and Zoey carried side dishes out of the kitchen. “I don’t want the rest of the food to get cold.”
“Hold your horses. I know my way around a turkey by now. I can’t go any faster. There’s an art to this, Lucy.”
Zoey and her mother shared a secret smile. “Okay. But we’re waiting. Speed it up, Picasso.”
Tucker Tulley, her father’s best friend since childhood, chuckled softly, and so did his wife, Fran. Their children were a bit older than Zoey and her brothers and were busy with their own lives. But they would all be home for Christmas, Fran had been telling everyone. “I can hardly wait,” she said.
“I can. The house isn’t big enough to hold all of us anymore.” Tucker rolled his eyes, but Zoey knew that Tucker was happy as a clam when his children visited.
“There’s a beautiful colonial on Ivy Lane that just came on the market,” Fran said. “Plenty of bedrooms and motivated sellers.” Fran was in real estate, and always campaigning for a new house.
“I’m very thankful for the house we have now,” Tucker said. “And thankful to see Charlie finally bringing in that turkey.”
Her father bustled into the room, carrying the big platter, an apron over his dress shirt and tie. “I picked out a beautiful bird for you this year. It came out perfectly, if I do say so myself.”
Zoey knew that Lucy had cooked everything and should have gotten some credit. “Everything looks delicious, Mom,” she said. “Nice carving, Dad,” she added.
“Thank you, Zoey. Help yourself, everybody,” Charlie said.
“While we’re passing around the food, I think it would be nice if we each shared something we’re truly thankful for this year,” her mother added.
Zoey heard her brother C.J. softly groan. She glanced at him, and they both laughed.
Charlie’s eyes darted to his oldest son. “C.J., why don’t you start?”
“I better think about it, Dad,” Charlie Junior said quickly. “Why don’t you come back to me?”
“I’m going to think about it, too, Dad,” Jamie said.
Lucy’s mother, Grandma Dooley, sat at the head of the table, opposite Charlie. She was in her seventies and looked like an older version of Lucy, with a slim build and red hair that had mostly gone white. “I’ll start,” she said, bailing out her grandsons. “I think when you’re older you’re likely to appreciate little things. Just getting up in the morning seems like a blessing,” she added with a laugh. “I’m thankful for many things—my health and my friendships. But mainly for my family. I love you all,” she said simply. “And I’m just happy to share another Thanksgiving at this table.”
“Thanks, Mom. We love you, too.” Lucy smiled, her eyes a little misty.
“I’m thankful that our children will all be with us at Christmas,” Fran offered, “and that our family is growing. Michael’s wife is expecting. We’re going to be grandparents.”
“What wonderful news! We’re so happy for you.” Lucy leaned forward in her chair. “When’s the baby coming?”
“In April. We have plenty of time to prepare . . . and look for a bigger house.” Fran glanced at Tucker again, but he focused on spooning cranberry sauce on his plate.
“You’re going to be a grandpa, Tucker? That makes me feel old, my friend,” Charlie said.
“Maybe so, but I can hardly wait. You being elected mayor made me feel old, so I guess we’re even.”
Her father laughed. “That’s what I’m thankful for this year. In case anyone has a doubt. It took me long enough, but I finally did it.” He paused a moment and sighed, as if he had run a long race and just crossed the finish line, Zoey thought. When he looked up again, he fixed his gaze on Zoey and her brothers. “I hope the young people here take a lesson from that. You don’t always get what you want at the first try.”
“Very true.” Tucker nodded.
As Zoey expected, when it was her mother’s turn, Lucy was most thankful for her family and for being able to enjoy their dinner together. “When you work in a hospital, you realize not everyone is this lucky or has a real family.”
Zoey agreed. Even if she could forget her younger years—bouncing around foster homes—working at the diner today was proof enough that there were a lot of lonely people out there. She thought of her younger brother, Kevin. They had been separated in the foster system but always kept in contact. Kevin had also been adopted by a loving family, a short time after Zoey had been taken in by Lucy and Charlie. He had lived a short distance away and they had seen each other often, until recently, when his adoptive family moved to Minnesota. Zoey missed him, especially at holidays. But they kept in touch with FaceTime and Skype, and most of all, she knew he was growing up in a happy, safe home. An
d enjoying a Thanksgiving dinner today, just like this one.
“Zoey, would you like to take a turn?” Lucy prompted.
Zoey felt everyone staring at her. She knew most people thought she was brash and would say just about anything. But inside, she often felt very shy.
“Let’s see . . . I guess I’m thankful that I finally found something I really want to do when I finish school—work as an art therapist. A job that won’t even feel like work to me,” she added.
Lucy had been very encouraging, as always, of Zoey’s college major and career plans; Charlie, less so. He didn’t have a high opinion of her studying psychology, or art. He thought both were frivolous pursuits and never missed a chance to poke fun at therapy, especially one that involved “arts and crafts.”
Zoey ignored his objections. He could be narrow-minded about things he didn’t understand.
Lucy reached over and gently touched her hand. “Zoey volunteers at a youth center in Salem. It’s part of a psychology course, and she’s doing some wonderful work there. We’re very proud of her.”
“I’m glad for you, honey,” Grandma said. “But what does an art therapist do . . . if you don’t mind my asking?”
“That’s okay, Grandma. A lot of people don’t know. Basically, you’re a psychologist who helps patients work out their issues using drawings or paintings, as well as talking. The center where I volunteer works with children who can’t express their feelings well with words,” she added. “This method really helps them.”
“That makes sense to me,” Tucker said. “You’re lucky to find something that you can put your whole heart into.” He met her glance with a warm look of approval. “I guess you’ll need to go to graduate school for a degree in a field like that.”
“Whoa there, Tucker.” Charlie held up a hand. “One tuition bill at a time. She isn’t even done with four years yet. And we’ve got Jamie coming through the chute soon, too.”
Jamie was sixteen, a sophomore in high school. C.J. was a year older than Zoey and attending the University of Vermont on a lacrosse scholarship, which made her parents very proud.
Zoey didn’t want to worry about graduate school. She planned to work hard and get good grades. Maybe she would get a scholarship when the time came. She had applied for an internship at the center during her winter break. It would give her hands-on experience in the field, and would help with recommendations later. Zoey really hoped she’d get it, though she hadn’t even been called in for an interview yet.
“Good gravy, Lucy,” Charlie said as they started eating. “And the stuffing is very tasty, better than mine. Then again, I’m cooking for the masses. It’s hard to include the fine touches.”
“You do a good job. I bet a lot of people in town would go without a turkey dinner today if you didn’t keep the Clam Box open,” Lucy said.
“I agree,” Zoey added.
Charlie looked surprised at the compliments. “Thank you, ladies. I had second thoughts about staying open again this year on the holiday. But I don’t want anyone to think I’m getting too full of myself because I’m mayor. I felt it was my duty, in a way.”
“You’ve got a lot of love and loyalty for this town, Charlie. That’s why you were elected,” Tucker said. “How’s it going at Village Hall? How do you like being in the hot seat?”
“So far, so good,” her father reported happily. “I think Cape Light was ready for a change. I’m not going to sit here and criticize Emily Warwick—”
“I hope not,” her mother cut in. “The election is long over, and it is Thanksgiving.”
“I know, Lucy. Don’t worry. But we’re among friends here. Let’s just say a new broom sweeps clean. And there’s a lot to sweep after Emily’s umpteen years in office.”
A new broom? Charlie was full of corny mottos, spouting them night and day. Zoey had no idea what half of them were supposed to mean.
“Speaking of brooms, how do you manage running the diner and being mayor? You must run up and down Main Street all day,” Fran said.
“Tell me about it. I’m ready for the Boston Marathon. It hasn’t been easy, burning the candle at both ends.”
Another one. Zoey rolled her eyes, though she knew that was true; Charlie ran in and out of the diner all day and had almost doubled her hours over the last two weeks. She hadn’t made a fuss so far but wasn’t sure how much longer she could put up with it. She had her own life to take care of. He didn’t seem to understand that.
“You need a manager, Charlie,” her mother said. “I thought you were going to promote Trudy.”
“I’m trying. But Trudy says she doesn’t want the job. Can you believe that? I’m still working on her.”
Zoey could believe it. Trudy, a longtime employee, probably thought the job was more bother than it was worth. Trudy knew her father well—his good points and his not-so-good points.
“Zoey’s been a big help,” he continued. “She’s really stepped up. She can help me even more during her winter break.”
Zoey nearly dropped her fork. “I can’t work full-time during the winter break,” she said quickly. “I might get an internship at the center. That’s a full-time job. And even if I don’t get the internship, I promised them at least twenty hours a week in January, as a volunteer.”
Charlie nodded and spooned more mashed potatoes onto his plate. “We’ll see, honey. We don’t have to talk about it now.”
Zoey felt Lucy’s arm slip around her shoulders. “We’ll work it out, honey. Don’t worry about it now.”
Zoey nodded and sat back in her chair. Her mom would stick up for her; Zoey felt sure of that. Lucy understood that working at the center was important for Zoey’s future. She couldn’t act all dedicated and then disappear for two months. What kind of impression would that make?
Luckily, Tucker quickly changed the subject, asking her brothers if they had been watching the Patriots. What a question. That was like asking if they liked to breathe or eat food. They both started talking at once, trying to outdo each other, spouting statistics and recounting each play.
Zoey felt relieved to be out of the spotlight. It wasn’t right to argue about this with her parents now and ruin a holiday dinner. But no way was she spending winter break at the diner.
Excuse me? It’s my life, and I have some say, Zoey answered back silently. She was happy that her father was finally mayor. That was what he had wanted his entire life. But why was it suddenly her problem? No way am I going to be stuck in the diner all that time. Dad is crazy if he believes that.
* * *
The holiday gathering at Evelyn’s house went smoothly, thanks to the careful planning of Sophie’s daughters. Their large family sat at two long tables that were beautifully set. Beyond Sophie’s predictions, three turkeys were needed for their feast.
Evelyn was terrified of running out of white meat. “And I hate when there aren’t any leftovers. That’s what Thanksgiving is all about—turkey sandwiches and turkey hash.”
“And turkey chili,” Sophie’s younger daughter, Una, added as the women bustled around the kitchen after the meal, cleaning up and putting the food away. The men were in the family room, watching football. Every last one of them, Sophie noticed. She knew it wasn’t the modern way, but it was still the Potter way, unlikely to change in her lifetime.
She was in charge of putting out the desserts while Evelyn’s daughter, Amelia, washed pots and pans, and the others ran about, drying and putting things away.
“Those pies look delicious, Grandma,” Amelia said. “Did you bake all three?”
Sophie proudly lifted her head. “Yes, I did. I baked twelve pies all told. A friend and I did it together,” she added. “We gave most to the church for their Thanksgiving baskets.”
Her daughters exchanged a look. “That’s wonderful, Mom,” Evelyn said in her most diplomatic tone. “But at your age—twelve pies?
You must have been exhausted. Leave it to the young people now. Give someone else at church a chance to do good deeds.”
The others laughed, and Sophie did, too. But her silent alarm sounded. She could smell where this conversation was going.
“It was no trouble. I enjoyed it. And I wasn’t tired at all. I made the cranberry relish, the string beans, and the butternut squash soup the day after,” she reminded them.
It was true, too. Though James had helped her in the kitchen yesterday.
The coffee was almost ready, and the pleasant aroma filled the air. “The pies look delicious,” Evelyn said finally. “We’ve got some rice pudding, cranberry-orange cake, and brownies for the little ones.” She placed those dishes on the table, too.
“So many good cooks in this family. Aren’t we lucky,” Sophie said.
“It’s not luck, Mom. You get the credit for that.” Una stepped over and put her arm around Sophie’s shoulders. “You taught us everything we know.”
Sophie smiled at the compliment. “I taught you the basics. But you two outdo me now with your fancy recipes. Like those turnips cooked with curry. Very tasty,” Sophie added, praising their adventurous efforts.
Evelyn laughed. “We’re not trying to outdo you, Mom. But it’s nice to try a few new dishes. We don’t have to eat the same thing every year.”
“I’ve already started working on the Christmas menu. I have a few surprises up my sleeve, too,” Una said gleefully.
Sophie pinned her younger daughter with a stare. “That sounds like fun, dear. You bring whatever you like. I’m not like Evelyn. You don’t have to clear every covered dish with Homeland Security.”
Sophie was trying hard to make light of the subject. But the way Una glanced at Evelyn was making her nervous.
“Well, Mom . . . Evelyn and I want to talk to you about Christmas. We thought that since she had Thanksgiving, I’d have the family for Christmas. It seems only fair. We know that you love having us all over,” she quickly added, “but honestly, we both feel . . . and Bart, too . . . that it’s too much for you now. Way too much work and stress.”
Thomas Kinkade's Cape Light Page 5
