by Karen Booth
Chris opened the fridge. “I need a snack.”
“Dinner will be ready in an hour.” I dropped half a stick of butter into a saucepan to start a roux for the gravy.
Sam elbowed her way in next to Chris. “I’m hungry too.”
“Too bad your mum would never let us tuck into the pumpkin pie.”
Sam giggled. “Tell me about it. What about chips and salsa?”
“Sold.” Chris grabbed the jar of salsa and a bowl while Sam made a beeline to the pantry, returning quickly with the tortilla chips.
“Seriously, you two?”
The bag crinkled when Chris dug in. “Don’t worry. I promise to properly stuff myself with turkey and mashed potatoes.”
Potato peels flew into the trash as I worked. “Whatever. You two do whatever you want.”
“She’s mad.” Sam scooped into the salsa with a chip.
“Don’t be mad, Claire. It’s Thanksgiving.”
“Exactly.” I cubed the potatoes, dropping them into simmering, salted water.
“Do you want a soda?” Sam asked Chris.
“I’m thinking another beer.” He opened the refrigerator. “There’s so much blooming food in here. It’s impossible to get at anything.”
“That’s sort of the point with Thanksgiving, right?” I asked.
Chris straightened, victorious with beer in hand. “Remember, I didn’t grow up with this tradition. In fact, one could argue that I should stage a protest since much of Thanksgiving is based on the Pilgrims being thankful for their freedom from so-called British oppression.”
“You’re ridiculous. You’ve lived in the United States for over twenty years.” I scanned the cooking schedule I’d written up that morning. With a tiny 50s-era stove, the orchestration of Thanksgiving dinner was a high-wire act. I looked forward to preparing this meal in a brand new kitchen next year, but I didn’t have to admit that today. “Plus, if ever there was a holiday for you, it’s Thanksgiving.”
Sam crumpled the chip bag, stuffing it into the trash. “She’s got you there, Chris.”
“I do appreciate the celebration of eating.” Chris cupped my shoulder. “What can I do?”
Sam took that as her cue to escape. “I’m going to text Bryce and see if he can come over later.”
The next forty-five minutes were a blur—checking the temperature on the turkey, finding the counter space to let it rest, then a careful sequence of shuffling various dishes in and out of the oven. It involved yards of aluminum foil.
“I was going to tease you about your schedule, but now I can see it’s the only way to do it,” Chris said.
I blew my hair from my face, stirring the gravy. Steam rose from every pot on the stove. Taking a shower had been pointless. “Not every Type-A thing I do is a waste of time. There is a method to my madness.”
Chris began rubbing my shoulders. “Are you okay, darling? You seem stressed.” He kissed the spot on my neck right below my ear, which only sent my blood pressure through the roof.
“I’m fine. I just wish Sam was happier and I wish my dad was awake and I wish everything wasn’t so complicated.”
Chris turned me in his arms and held on to me tightly. I settled my head on his shoulder. “It’s okay. Dinner will be great. We’re together. It’s all that matters.”
I nodded. “I know. I know.” Maybe the pregnancy hormones were getting the best of me today. “This is hard for me. I feel like I have a million different feelings going through my head. I’m excited about the new house and I’m sad about leaving this one.”
“We’re moving. It’s stressful. That’s why you need to let us help you.”
“Sam doesn’t want to help and my dad is asleep half of the time.” There was a sudden flutter in my belly. It came again. “The baby,” I whispered.
“Is everything okay?” Chris reared his head back, eyes full of worry.
“Yes, fine. The baby’s moving.”
Pure excitement rolled across his face as he placed both of his hands on my stomach. His eyes met mine, his moment of jubilation faded. “I don’t feel anything.”
I adjusted his hands, closer together and lower. “There? Do you feel that?”
He concentrated then shook his head. “No. Nothing.”
The timer beeped. “The rolls.” I turned to see the gravy bubbling away like crazy. “Oh, shit.” I lurched for the knob on the stove and turned down the heat. “I’m sorry, honey. Maybe you’ll be able to feel the baby tonight.”
“That’d be amazing. Until then, let me help you.”
In what seemed like a miracle, Chris and I, with a small amount of help from Sam, managed to have dinner served only fifteen minutes late.
My dad, groggy and yawning, took his place at the table. “It smells fantastic in here, Ladybug. Your mom would’ve been proud. You know how much she loved Thanksgiving. It was her favorite holiday.”
Sam set a basket of rolls down on the table and took her seat. I brought a casserole dish filled my mom’s scratch-made toasted bread stuffing and Chris followed with the platter of turkey.
“Her favorite holiday?” Sam asked. “Did she just really like turkey?”
We all began dishing mashed potatoes, green beans, turkey, and Brussels sprouts onto our plates, passing each dish on to the next person. The smell was indeed heavenly.
“Your grandmother loved Thanksgiving because it was about being together as a family. No gifts. Just sharing a meal. She loved having everyone gathered.”
I watched as Sam listened. A tear collected in the corner of my eye. These moments sneaked up on me, the times when I was reminded how tragic it was that my mother and Samantha had never spent any time on earth together. They would have loved each other to pieces.
Chris raised his glass. “I’d like to propose a toast to Claire, who has made a wonderful meal.” He dropped his chin and smiled. “To Samantha, who was a big help, and to Richard, who has educated me on the finer points of football.” He leaned closer and touched my belly. “And lastly, to the nipper, who will be joining us for this festive occasion next year. I can’t wait.”
“Here, here.” My dad wore a grin a mile wide, more openly enthusiastic about his new grandchild with each passing day. He’d even made passing mention of moving from Asheville to Chapel Hill, as Chris had predicted. “This is so good, Jellybean. You’ve outdone yourself.”
“Thanks, Dad. I appreciate that.”
Sam sighed. “It’s good, Mom. Really good.”
Chris patted my knee under the table. “It’s a lovely meal, darling.”
I smoothed out the napkin in my lap, admiring those ugly old candlesticks. My mom was there in my head, telling me I’d done a good job and reminding me that I shouldn’t let my dad eat too much bread. She added one more thing before she faded into the darkness and I answered her silently. I know, Mom. I miss you too.
* * *
“I thought everyone went Christmas shopping on the morning after Thanksgiving.” Chris bounced up and down on the sidewalk in front of the house, wearing his new, electric blue running shoes.
“They do, which is precisely why we are not shopping.” I tugged on a thick stocking cap. “Ready?”
I jogged to the end of the driveway, Chris following me. It was cold enough to see our breath, so I’d put on a lightweight fleece pullover, long running pants, gloves, and my hat. Chris had insisted he’d be fine in shorts and a sweatshirt. I worried he might freeze his butt off, but I loved looking at his super-long legs and there wasn’t much to do when a grown man had made up his mind.
“This will be good,” Chris said. A block into it, he was already breathing a little heavy. “I need to get more exercise. Swimming at the YMCA is miserable. That pool is too bloody cold. It’ll be so good once we’re in the house and we can put in the pool.”
“Yes, it will.” We started down one of the steeper hills on our run and I picked up speed.
“This isn’t too bad. I sort of like running.” He fell behind for
a moment, then caught up and patted me on the butt. “Especially when I get to run with my very hot soon-to-be wife.”
I smiled. “Goof.” We got to the bottom of the hill and took a corner, dodging a couple walking their dogs. “I brought some leftovers over to Rosie this morning.”
“Before I got to take a crack at everything?”
“There’s plenty of food left. Believe me.” The adrenaline began to course through my veins, the moment when I start to feel like I could run forever. “I hate that my dad made a stink about inviting her over for dinner last night. She’s all by herself.”
“It’s sad. Such a sweet lady.”
“He has it stuck in his head that Thanksgiving is for family only, which is silly.” I realized what I’d said as soon as it came out of my mouth.
“Uh, isn’t that what you said to Sam about Bryce?”
Fuck. “Yes. It is.”
“So what gives?”
It wasn’t that I hadn’t thought about this topic, I’d spent tons of time mulling it over, especially after the rift with Sam. It was more that I hadn’t come to any real conclusions. “It’s a couple of things, I guess. His mom is one of the women from school who tried to be friendly with me after the magazine photos of you and me in St. Barts came out.”
“Oh. I see.”
“I know I shouldn’t hold that against her. She’s been nothing but nice. I guess she just rubs me the wrong way with her perfect car and perfect house and perfect husband.”
“Ah, see, I’ve only met Bryce’s dad. I thought he was perfect, too. Perfectly dull.”
I laughed quietly. “True.”
“You know, it may not have occurred to you, but perhaps she envies you.”
“I doubt it.”
“Why not? You have a brilliant career and an amazing daughter, when she has a house full of boys. And I may not be some big prize, but at least I’m not Mr. Perfectly Dull.”
I grabbed his arm as we took a left on to a busier street. “Oh, stop. Of course you’re a prize.”
He laughed. “You don’t hold your opinion of his mother against Bryce, do you?”
Damn. Do I do that? “It’s just that Sam is always going on and on about how awesome she is. She makes cookies and loves having Sam around and I don’t know.” I shook my head at every stupid thing I said. Funny how the things in your head that make perfect sense have an entirely different ring when they’re out in the open. “This is just jealousy, isn’t it?”
“Sounds a bit like that, yes.”
“I know I’m being selfish about Sam’s time right now. I know I am. But I can’t help it. And with all of the crazy stuff going on, it feels like I barely see her.”
“And it’s worse when she’s over at Bryce’s house all the time.”
“Exactly.”
“You know, there’s a solution to all of this. You need to roll out the red carpet for Bryce. Make him feel as welcome and wanted as his mom has done for Sam.”
Huh. “I’ve never been the milk and cookies mom, but I suppose I could be.”
“I love cookies. This could benefit everyone.”
It was my turn to laugh. We jogged in place at a corner, waiting for cars then crossed the street and headed up one of my favorite hills, the “butt-blaster”. “I need to stop fighting and try a new approach.”
“I probably need to do the same where your father and Rosie are concerned.”
“I don’t get why he’s so weird about it.” I took off my gloves and stuffed them in the kangaroo pocket of my jacket.
“We actually spoke about it the other day at the studio.”
“What did he say?”
Chris was quiet for a moment, and I wondered if he was having a hard time keeping up with me on the hill. “First off, your dad is a very sweet man.” He swallowed and nodded, but kept up. “He’s got a heart as big as an ocean.”
“I know.”
“Honestly, I don’t think he’s over your mother. He’s still in love with her, very much.”
After last night’s dinner, my mom was so present in my mind. Even that morning, although she wasn’t talking, I could feel her all around me. Perhaps it was the holidays making me feel that way. Perhaps it was the momentous life changes ahead—new house, wedding, baby.
I sighed as we crested the hill. My cheeks were getting chapped from the cold. “It’s sad, but I think you might be right.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to find someone. Maybe he likes being alone. After all, he has you and Sam. I suppose he has me as well now. That might be all he ever wants.”
“So we need to abandon plan Rosie.”
“I think so.”
I slowed my pace on a straightaway, to let Chris catch his breath. “I’m really glad that you and Dad have forged a friendship. He always wanted a son.”
“As much as he sometimes makes me want to beat my head against a wall, I’m happy about it too. He’s a stodgy old bastard, but I love him.”
How things change. Mere months ago, they hated each other. “If you can find a way to wedge that into a conversation and not make it too uncomfortable, you should tell him. I’m sure he’d love to hear it.”
Chris laughed then began to cough.
“You okay, Penman?” I slowed down, turning to jog backwards.
“Yes.” He cleared his throat and brushed his floppy hair from his face. His cheeks were bright red, eyes bright and electric green. His eyebrows pinched together as he shooed me ahead. “I’m fine.”
“If you say so.” I turned to run forward. “I know you’re not quite in top shape anymore.”
“I think I can keep up with a pregnant woman.” He dashed several yards ahead of me, looking back over his shoulder.
“Oh, really? Is that a challenge?” I sped up.
“Maybe—”
That was all I needed. I sprinted ahead, leaving him in the dust.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Even with movers, that was entirely too much work. I don’t plan to move for a good eight hours.” I kicked off my shoes and collapsed onto the mattress. “Maybe longer.”
“But the bed isn’t made yet.” Claire dug her hands into her hair, scanning the piles of boxes in the room. “Of course, no telling where the sheets are.”
“Sorry darling, the appeal of being horizontal was too much.” I patted the empty spot on the bed next to me. “Come on. Give in. You know you want to.”
She fell into a heap next to me. “Just think if we’d tried to do all of it ourselves.”
“My body can’t fathom such a thing right now.” I closed my eyes. My legs and arms felt as if they weighed five hundred pounds. Each. Sleeping on the bare mattress sounded like a perfectly reasonable activity. “I hate to say this, but I’m too old for this.”
“You and me both, Penman. You and me both.”
I cracked open one eye to see the sun setting over the lake—streaks of pink and orange amid a gray December sky. This house would be magnificent once renovations were done and the new furniture found its place among the few pieces we’d moved from Claire’s house. Otherwise, much of the stuff we’d taken had been books and records, clothing and kitchen gear, linens and mementos.
I turned to my side, facing Claire. This had been a hard day for her—physically and mentally. She looked completely worn out. “Are you feeling okay about everything? Now that it’s done.” I took her hand and toyed around with her fingers.
“I am. I think it would be different if we’d had to say goodbye to my house completely.” She showed me a sweet smile as a few strands of her hair fell across her face.
So bloody beautiful. “I’m glad. I really am. I know this was a big change.”
“It was, but you were right. We had to do it. And I’m excited we get to build a household together. Start fresh and make things the way we want them.”
“I’m wondering how long it’ll take to convince your dad to sell his house in Asheville and move into your house.”
“We
have to make him think it’s his idea. The baby will be enough to get him to move, but Rosie next door will be an issue. You know he’ll make a stink about that.”
“Either that or he won’t make a stink, he’ll merely refuse and we’ll have to pretend that isn’t the reason.”
We both rolled to our backs, now holding hands, peaceful, silent, motionless.
“Chris. We need to change clothes and brush our teeth and make the bed. I can’t sleep like this.”
“Sure you can. Close your eyes and the next thing you know, it’ll be tomorrow morning.”
She groaned and got up, then tugged on my arm. “Come on. Out.”
“Usually, you’re trying to get me in to bed.”
“Very funny.”
I blew out a breath. If she wasn’t so damn adorable and pregnant, I might have staged a protest.
“Plus, you don’t get to sleep on that side of the bed anymore anyway. We have to switch.” She flipped on the annoyingly bright overhead light and began examining the labels on the boxes.
I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. “What? Why?”
“Because. You’re the man. You have to sleep closer to the door.” She turned a box on top of a tall stack. “I think the new sheets are in here.”
“Back up one minute.” I got up and removed the box from the stack, tossing it onto the bed and pulling my car keys from my pocket to break the tape. “Why do I have to sleep closer to the door? I’m used to my side. I like my side. This is throwing off my entire sense of right and wrong.”
Claire pulled sheets and towels out of the box. “What if someone breaks into the house? You should be the first thing they encounter.”
“So this is how you plan to get rid of me.”
“Oh, stop.” She swatted me across the arm. “Help me make the bed.”
“Yes, dear.” I slid the box onto the floor.
She handed me one corner of what looked like an extra-thick sheet.
“What is this?”
“The mattress pad?”
“Oh. Huh.”
“Chris. Do you seriously not know what a mattress pad is?”
