by Jeff Shelby
“Don’t thank me yet,” he said.
“Why not?”
“The day is still young,” he said. “And you know your daughter. If something sets her off, we’ll be back to square one.”
This was true. He knew Laura well.
He winked. “But I think we’re good for now.”
“There won’t be anything to set her off,” I promised.
But I had my doubts.
Because I’d invited two extra people she didn’t know were coming for Thanksgiving. Mikey was a definite and Eric was a wild card, but either way, there’d be at least one more setting at the table, a setting that she wasn’t expecting.
I made a mental note to start pouring wine early. If not for Laura, then for me.
The oven was still pre-heating when I hoisted the roaster holding the massive turkey and shoved it in. Even though it would take an interminably long time to cook, I was beginning to appreciate its size, especially since we now had more mouths to feed.
My phone rang, vibrating against my thigh, and I jumped. My heart rate accelerated and a knot formed in the pit of my stomach. There was one thing I absolutely did not want to do: answer it. Because I’d come to realize that nothing good ever came from answering my phone.
Unfortunately, Connor was still in the kitchen and he was now frowning at me. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”
“Answer what?”
He was still holding the spoon, slowly licking the stuck-on onions off the surface, and he pointed it at my hip. “Your phone?”
“Oh,” I said, trying to sound surprised, as if I’d just noticed it was ringing. I pulled it out slowly, hoping the caller would hang up or it would roll over to voicemail before I got around to answering it.
I glanced at the screen and squinted, making sure I was reading the name right.
It was Gunnar.
“Rainy?” he said, his voice hesitant when I finally picked up. “Say, any chance you’re close to being done with your cooking?”
I glanced at the oven holding my raw turkey. “No. Why?”
He sighed. “Something is wrong with my oven,” he said. “Can’t get it to heat past 250.”
“That doesn’t sound good.” I was still feeling a little cool toward him after our testy exchange the night before.
“It’s not,” he agreed.
“Is it something you can fix? I mean, you helped fix my oven before.”
“Oh, I’m sure I can fix it. Just need to take it apart and have a look.” He paused. “But it’s Thanksgiving and nothing is open, so if I needed parts—which I’m pretty sure I will—I won’t be able to get them. And, well, we won’t have a turkey to eat…”
I blurted out the words before I could even think them through. “Do you want to come and eat with us?”
Silence greeted my suggestion.
“Gunnar? Are you still there?”
He cleared his throat. “Are you sure you have room?”
I rolled my eyes. “There’s plenty of room. You’ve seen my hou—”
And then I realized what he was really asking.
Was I okay with having him and Declan over at the same time?
Irritation welled up inside of me, but I took a breath and forced myself to tamp it down. Now was not the time or place to get upset. It was Thanksgiving, a time for family and friends to celebrate and be thankful, and Gunnar was my friend.
More than a friend.
If he and his daughter needed a place to celebrate, I was happy to offer it.
We could deal with his feelings and attitude toward Declan later.
“We’re planning to eat at four,” I said.
“And you’re sure you have room?”
“I just told you I did.” I paused. “And Gunnar?”
“Yeah.”
“Bring wine.”
“Wine?”
“Yeah.”
I was going to need it.
THIRTY TWO
I had my Thanksgiving miracle.
The turkey was thoroughly cooked by four o’clock.
I’d spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon in the kitchen, scrubbing more potatoes, dicing them, and then moving on to my homemade cranberry sauce. Unlike the sheriff, I made our cranberry dish from scratch, a simple recipe that combined pears, cranberries, water and honey. It was sweet and tart, and the perfect complement to holiday meals.
Laura had appeared in the kitchen shortly after I’d hung up with Gunnar, and Connor had been right. She didn’t say a word about my earlier disappearance and instead dove right in to helping with meal prep by peeling, cooking, and mashing the sweet potatoes for the praline-topped dish she’d always considered a must-have for Thanksgiving.
Connor’s chestnut soup was simply warming on the stove, the duck cracklings ready to sprinkle on top whenever ready, but he kept us company in the kitchen, serving as dishwasher and prep cook when needed, and throwing together some cold cuts for us to munch on as we prepared for the big meal. I ate the meat a little hesitantly at first, worried he might be trying to serve me some of the duck that was still stowed in the cooler, but it looked and tasted like ham and roast beef, so I figured I was safe.
It had been a surprisingly relaxing and fun time, despite the brisk pace of food preparation. We chatted about their jobs and what was going on in DC, and I told them a little more about Latney and all of the characters—I mean, people—who called the town home.
Declan was the first guest to arrive, which I’d expected. In all the time I’d known him, I’d never seen him arrive late to anything. Connor answered the door when the bell rang and a minute later, Declan was in the kitchen, holding a covered casserole dish.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said. He was dressed in a blue sweater that matched his eyes, and his cheeks were red from the cold, just a shade darker than his hair.
I returned the greeting and gave him a quick hug. His nose was cold when it touched my cheek but the rest of him was warm and solid.
“What’s this?” I asked, gesturing toward the dish.
“I couldn’t come empty-handed,” he said, grinning. “I brought colcannon.”
“Colcannon?” I repeated.
“It’s an Irish recipe, one my mom always serves for holiday meals. It’s the one thing I asked her to teach me how to make before I moved out.”
I lifted the lid and the aroma hit me first, a scent that smelled very much like nutmeg. “What is it?” I asked, studying what looked like white and green mashed potatoes.
“It’s a winter vegetable casserole,” Declan explained. “Potatoes, turnips, cabbage and leeks.”
“Is there nutmeg in it?” I asked, sniffing again.
He grinned. “Close. Mace.”
“Mace?” Laura repeated with a horrified look. “Like the stuff you spray at muggers?”
“Not quite,” Declan said, hiding a smile. “I’m not well versed in the…mugger mace. Cooking mace is actually derived from nutmeg.”
“It is?” I asked. I repositioned the lid to keep it from cooling off too quickly.
Declan nodded. “If memory serves, they grind up the shell of the nutmeg. I could be wrong, though. Mom told me that years ago.”
“It is,” Connor said, nodding. He puffed out his chest a little. “I bought some at a little spice store in Dupont Circle. Have yet to use it.”
“Well, however it’s made, it smells delicious,” I told Declan.
The doorbell chimed again and Connor hurried down the hallway to answer it.
I took the casserole from Declan and set it in the oven. I’d turned it into a holding place to keep all of the hot food warm, and it was loaded with the turkey and the sweet potato casserole. I grabbed a towel and shifted things around so I could slide Declan’s dish alongside the rest.
I closed the oven door and turned around and Gunnar and Jill were in the kitchen.
Both were holding things. Jill had another bakery box from Toby’s.
“The apple pi
e,” she said, a little sheepishly. She looked better today. Her hair was pulled back in an exquisite French braid, and she was dressed in a brown peasant shirt that somehow convinced her hazel eyes to match it in color.
“That’s very sweet of you,” I told her.
“Salad,” Gunnar said, holding out the wooden bowl he was carrying. A bed of greens dotted with grape tomatoes and cucumber slices and shredded carrots rested inside of it.
“You didn’t have to bring anything,” I said.
“It was pretty much the only thing I could bring,” he said, his smile making his eyes twinkle. “Since the oven conked out.”
I started to smile back when I saw his expression change. It was as if someone had taken an eraser to his mouth, wiping away the grin and replacing it with a frown.
Because he had noticed Declan, who was sitting at the kitchen table holding a glass of wine someone had obviously poured for him. Probably Laura.
“Declan,” he said coolly.
If Declan noticed his tone, he kept that hidden. “Happy Thanksgiving, Gunnar.”
Gunnar nodded stiffly. “Same to you.”
I drew in a breath, then expelled it. I was not going to get upset. I was not going to get drawn in to any drama, real or imagined.
I was going to have a nice Thanksgiving if it killed me.
Or someone else.
“Everything smells delicious,” Jill said as she glanced around the kitchen.
“It’s just about ready,” I said. “I just need to mash the potatoes and do a few last-minute things here in the kitchen.”
“Can I help?” she asked.
I pointed at one of the cupboards. “You could set the table. We’ll eat in the dining room since there’s more room.”
It would be the first time I’d used it since moving in, and the thought of that thrilled me. My house was huge for a one-woman family, and I’d known moving in that the dining room would probably see the least use of all the rooms in the house. We could have all squeezed in around the kitchen table, but I had good reason to use the formal dining room today and I wasn’t going to waste my chance.
“I’ll help,” Laura said. She opened the silverware drawer and started pulling out forks and knives.
“Did you say that you needed help in the kitchen?” Declan asked. He stood up, leaving his wineglass on the kitchen table, and joined me by the stove. “Show me what to do. I’m not much of a cook, but I take direction well.”
I smiled. “That’s an admirable quality.”
He smiled back. “I aim to please.”
Someone cleared their throat, and we both turned.
Gunnar was trying to keep his expression neutral but it wasn’t working. A vein pulsed in his temple and his jaw was locked tight. “Anything I can do?”
“I think we have it covered in here,” Declan said. “Right, Rainy?”
I’d never thought of Connor as being particularly perceptive, but he read the mood in the room right because he pasted on a bright smile and motioned to Gunnar. “I have about a dozen bottles of wine to open,” he said, guiding Gunnar into the dining room where the buffet top was lined with wine bottles. I didn’t think it was a great idea to open them all immediately, but if that was what it took to get Gunnar out of the room, then so be it.
“He seems a little wound up,” Declan commented. “Everything okay?”
No, everything was not okay.
On any normal day, I would have spilled. Declan was the person who could get me to confess my darkest thoughts, my deepest uncertainties and my wildest fears. But this was different.
This was Thanksgiving.
And this was also about him.
“Everything is fine,” I said. And then, because I needed to believe it, needed for it to be true, I said it again.
“Everything is fine.”
THIRTY THREE
Declan didn’t get the chance to ask again, which was a good thing—because I probably would have broken down and told him.
Because the doorbell rang and the sound of footsteps coming down the hall kept him from trying to pull a confession out of me.
Mikey appeared in the doorway, holding a basket. There was a white towel folded over inside of it, hiding its contents.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said. He’d changed into a white button-down shirt and khakis, and it was the most dressed up I’d ever seen him.
I gave him a quick hug and my eyes widened in surprise when I noticed someone still standing in the hallway, hanging back a little.
“Eric?” I said, craning my neck to see. “Is that you?”
He stepped into the kitchen. “Hey there. Uh, Happy Thanksgiving.”
“I’m so glad you decided to come,” I said, and I genuinely was. I turned to look at Mikey. “Did you guys get here at the same time?”
Mikey grinned. “Funny story,” he said, stroking his chin. “I stopped to get gas on my way over. Light came on and I knew I wouldn’t have enough to make it home. I went in to pay and saw him by the microwave, getting ready to warm up a burrito.”
“A burrito?” I wrinkled my nose. “For Thanksgiving?”
“That’s what I said,” Mikey said, chuckling. “I told him no one should have to eat a gas station burrito for Thanksgiving. I asked if he had somewhere to go and he said no, so I thought I’d bring him along. Because I knew you wouldn’t say no.” An anxious look crossed his face and he brought his face close to mine. “It is okay, right?” he asked in a lowered voice.
“It’s more than alright,” I said. I looked at Eric and smiled. “It’s nice to see you again. And I’m glad you could make it for dinner after all.”
Mikey’s brow furrowed, but I didn’t elaborate. I was sure Eric had his own reasons for not mentioning the invitation he’d received from me, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t spending the holiday alone, and he wasn’t eating a gas station burrito for Thanksgiving.
As far as I was concerned, that was pretty much all that mattered.
I reached out a hand and lifted a corner of the white towel covering Mikey’s basket. “What’s this?”
“Oh,” Mikey said. He stood a little straighter. “A specialty of mine. Pillow rolls.”
“Pillow rolls?” I asked.
He nodded. “Homemade rolls. They’re as light and fluffy as a pillow.”
I peeked at the golden rolls nestled in the basket. They smelled like yeast and butter and my mouth watered a little. I was sure they tasted as good as they looked. After all, Mikey, the wonderkid chef, had made them, and everything he made was divine.
“They sound and smell delicious,” I said, taking the basket from him.
And then I handed it back.
He gave me a puzzled look.
“Just take them directly out to the dining room,” I said. “Jill and Laura are setting the table now. We should be ready to eat shortly.”
His expression cleared and he nodded. He spun on his heel, reversing direction out of the kitchen and heading toward the dining room.
Declan was poking his head in the oven, checking the temperature of things. Connor and Gunnar were still in the dining room, too, presumably opening every bottle of wine they could find.
Which left me, for all intents and purposes, alone with Eric. Well, as alone as I could be with Declan just fifteen feet away, sticking a thermometer into a turkey.
“I’m glad you decided to come,” I said. I didn’t speak in a whisper but my voice was low enough to not call attention to our conversation.
He shifted on his feet, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “I wasn’t gonna come,” he admitted. “Nothing was open in Winslow so I decided to drive Owen’s car into town. Nothing except the gas station was open. I was just about to nuke that burrito when he found me.”
I smiled. “Well, I’m glad Mikey ran into you, and I’m glad he was able to convince you to join him for dinner.”
His eyes darted in my direction before focusing back on the floor.
I felt s
orry for him. It was clear that he was uncomfortable about being here for Thanksgiving, and I didn’t know what to do to put him at ease. Mentally, I tried on his shoes for a minute and went through the list of things he was dealing with. His friend was dead. He was stranded in a strange town. And he was now standing in a stranger’s house—with a bunch of other strangers—getting ready to celebrate Thanksgiving, a holiday normally shared with your closest family and friends.
He had every reason to feel a little out of sorts.
I smiled, a soft, sympathetic one. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”
He shrugged, toeing the floor. He was wearing steel-toed work boots, but I could tell they were more of a fashion statement than an essential piece of his wardrobe. There were no scuffs, no stains on the shiny black exterior.
“Nowhere else to go,” he mumbled.
I nodded and for some weird reason, my throat thickened with tears. I swallowed a couple of times and blinked rapidly.
“Then stay,” I said. “Because there’s nowhere else I’d rather have you be than celebrating with my bunch of misfits.” I grinned.
He nodded. His beard and moustache hid his mouth so it was impossible to see if he was smiling, but the look in his eyes told me all I needed to know.
He was staying.
THIRTY FOUR
The food brigade began fifteen minutes later.
With the mashed potatoes finished and the fresh vegetables steamed and seasoned—Declan had taken care of those—we were ready to start hauling food from the kitchen to the table.
Laura and Jill had done a masterful job setting the table. Laura had managed to unearth a tablecloth I’d forgotten I had, a beautiful gold piece of fabric that was now draped across the table. My white china shone against the gold, and the wineglasses she’d pulled from the china hutch sparkled in the light from the chandelier mounted above. Someone had moved candles from the living room into the dining room, placing them on the buffet and the sideboard in the corner, and these flickered invitingly, creating a homey atmosphere.
“This looks lovely,” I said to the two women hovering by the table.
