THIRTY

Jim sliced a shiny knife into the breast of the bird.

“This turkey is magnificent!”

“It’s fresh killed, from a real turkey farm on the way to Burlington. I drove all the way there on Monday to get it. Sugar, pass me the dressing, please.”

Jim had never had sweet potato casserole or green bean casserole, and he called dressing “stuffing” because, he said, before people knew about turkey and salmonella it used to be cooked inside the bird. Like stuffed into that big hole when the bird was still raw. They talked about polite things while we ate, and after we finished with the turkey and dressing and potatoes and casseroles and cranberries and all the rest, Mama brought in a pecan pie and held it out like a prize.

“I had the pecans shipped special from Georgia.”

It wasn’t one hundred percent a lie. She’d taken the grocery store pie and topped it with pecans that came in a package with Georgia written across the front, then added butter and brown sugar and baked it long enough for everything to glaze together. She went off to get coffee, but I kept my mouth shut, waiting, like a tiger, to be poked. For the plan I’d come up with to work, it had to be Mr. Jim who did the poking.

He didn’t make the tiger wait very long.

“So, Maggie, do you think you’ll move back to Georgia right away? Or perhaps take some time to travel a bit first?”

I slipped the triangular pie server underneath the crust and lifted a piece heavy with pecans onto a dessert plate. “Excuse me?”

Mama hustled back to the table with a tray of china cups and saucers. “We haven’t decided exactly where we’ll go yet, but I think we’ve definitely ruled out Kentucky.”

“Kentucky would be good if you were a horse person, I suppose. Do you like horses?”

I laid my fork down and made sure my eyes grew big and wide. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jim chuckled and took a cup of coffee from Mama. “You don’t know what I mean about the horses?”

“No, I mean about Georgia. We’re not moving back to Georgia, we’re staying here.”

Jim held his cup halfway to his mouth. Mama spilled coffee on the white tablecloth.

“My daddy left me this farm—didn’t Mama tell you? I didn’t get to know him growing up, and now he’s dead, so it’s really good we get to live here because I can learn things about him, and since my stepfather turned out to be gay and all, Mama doesn’t want to go back to Atlanta anyway. So we’re staying put right here.”

I dug my fork into the pecan pie. Mama’s face was frozen.

“Sweetheart, if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were being impertinent.”

“Did I say something wrong? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. He just thought we were moving back to Georgia next year and I was explaining to him why we’re staying here on the farm.”

Her head swayed the tiniest bit, like she was balancing to keep it from exploding off her shoulders. First her eyes bulged, then they narrowed into tiny slits, and her fingers curled tight around her fork.

“I am sure you know perfectly well we are not staying here,” she said. She glanced quickly at Mr. Jim. He looked like he wanted to be anyplace but at our dinner table. “We will continue this discussion after our guest has left. Jim, would you like cream for your coffee?”

“No, thank you, Dee, I’m a black coffee guy.”

“Yes, of course you are.”

“You told me specifically that we were not moving back to Georgia, that there wasn’t anything there for us anymore, remember?”

“Of course I remember, but there was no discussion about staying here on this farm. Ever.” She turned to Mr. Jim. “I’m so sorry, Jim, she doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

“I do know what I’m saying,” I said firmly. “And I want to stay here.”

“We are not going to discuss this silly notion in front of company. Now eat your dessert. I always did like that rule about how children should be seen and not heard.”

“We should discuss it in front of Jim, because that’s why he’s here, right? So you can make me like him, so I won’t care when he comes with cash on day three hundred and sixty-five. Isn’t that what you told me?”

Mama’s face tightened so much I thought her skin might pop.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, ladies, let’s not get into a fight,” Jim said. “I am interested in this farm, Maggie—who wouldn’t be, it’s magnificent. But we don’t have to talk about this here and now. We have seven months to make a decision.”

He reached out to pat my hand like I was a puppy. I jerked away.

“It won’t be for sale in seven months, either.”

Mama shot up from her chair, gripping the side of the table so hard her knuckles turned white. “You. Are. Excused!” She flung her arm in the direction of the stairs.

“Fine!” I yelled. “But this farm was my daddy’s and it’s the only thing I have of him, so don’t even think for one second that I’m changing my mind!”

I fled the room and pounded up the stairs, making sure every footstep was heard all over the entire state. Tossing my denim skirt on the floor, I yanked on a pair of jeans and fumbled through tears and shaking hands to zip them up. My stomach felt like a piece of wire was twisted around it. I grabbed two sweatshirts, layered one on top of the other, and tiptoed down the back stairs and out into the cold.

The sun sank quickly. The temperature dropped so fast I could see my own breath by the time I got to the Parkers’. I leaned against Deacon’s truck in the driveway and shivered in the dark. A single candle flickered from each of the second-floor windows, one in the kitchen, two in the living room, and one in Sue and Kori’s bedroom. Laughter and voices drifted down, mingling with the smell of pumpkin pie and fresh snow. The middle of my chest squeezed so tight it was hard to breathe. Kendra was right; I was an outsider. I didn’t belong to this family, and I’d never felt it as much as I did right then.

A face appeared in one of the windows. Sonnet pulled a sheer curtain aside and watched me watching her, then let the curtain fall again and moved away. I wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. As much as I couldn’t stand the thought of going home, if I stood out in the cold much longer, my tears would freeze as soon as they hit my cheeks.

I’d just turned toward the road when Sue came around from the side of the house. I heard her feet crunch on the driveway, and saw her walking toward me with her arms spread wide. Uncontrollable sobs exploded from my chest.

“Hey, Maggie, you all right, hon?”

She pulled me into a hug and planted my face on her shoulder.

“Oh, boy, oh boy. Good old holidays. Always inspiration for drama.”

Hiccup. Hiccup.

I looked up. “Mama and I had such a big fight at dinner.”

“Of course you did.” She brushed wet hair out of my face and smiled. “We’ve already had two fights with Haily, and Kendra and Lucy got into it in a big way. You’ll be able to tell by the gravy splattered on the ceiling. Holidays are tough, hon.”

I nodded and sniffled, but I didn’t want to let go of her. She jiggled my shoulder.

“Hey, what kind of pie do you like? We spent most of yesterday and this morning baking. Pumpkin, cherry, pecan, mincemeat, blueberry—I think that’s it. Nope, we have buttermilk pie, too. We love pie. Let’s go get some, okay?”

Minutes later I was warm and toasty in the living room above the country store, eating pie smothered in whipped cream with Biz snuggled up to my side, watching Deacon and the others play charades. At the end of one game, James leaned over and inspected the top of Biz’s head.

“Hey, look at that! Your hair’s coming in bright red, just like mine!”

Biz stiffened and there was a beat of silence before she reached up and touched the new threads sticking straight toward the ceiling.

“No, it’s not!”

Everyone laughed together, and my whole world tilted. I wanted to reach out and touch all the smiling faces around me. I wanted to say that I loved them, every one of them, and I wished I could make that moment last forever. But, of course, I didn’t say anything. I pulled Biz closer and leaned my cheek against the yellow fuzz that announced she was getting better. Someone handed me another piece of pie, and a new game started up.