My ears have got to be broken,” said Sam. “I can’t have heard right. You’re inviting that clown over when I told you I didn’t want him hanging around here?” He walked around the fridge and positioned himself on the other side of Sarah where she could have a good view of his angry face.
She shut the door and went back to her grocery bags, hauling out sugar and flour. “That look may work on those kids at the station,” she informed him, “but we’ve been together too long for it to scare me.”
He downgraded from angry to exasperated. “Damn it, Sarah. You’re carrying this good deed thing too far.”
“How could I not invite him?” she protested.
“Easy. Keep your mouth shut. I don’t like the guy.”
“Well, I don’t, either,” said Sarah, “but he’s alone. And by gumballs, no one in my neighborhood is going to eat Thanksgiving dinner alone as long as I can stand at a stove.”
Sam heaved a long-suffering sigh and pulled her to him. “Okay, you win.”
She slipped her arms around his neck and offered him a teasing smile. “You know I’m right.”
“You always are,” he said, and kissed her. “But if Steele gets too friendly with you I’m going to stuff him like the turkey he is.”
“He’ll have to catch me first, and I wish him luck with that.” On holidays she was always either busy in the kitchen, surrounded by other women, or taking food and plates to and from the table. Leo would be no problem. “It will be fine,” she assured Sam. “I just wish the kids were going to be here.”
“We’ll have ’em both back at Christmas.” He shook his head. “What an invasion. Your sister and her family . . .”
“Your folks, half the fire department.”
“Ain’t it grand?” he said with a grin.
She grinned back. “Yes, it is.” And they were on the same page again. It never took long, because she was always right. And Sam knew it, which was what made him the world’s best husband.
Jamie arrived early at Sarah’s house on Thanksgiving Day, bearing a plate of truffles and the chocolate mint pie that had always been her mom’s specialty. “Put me to work,” she said. “What do you need done?”
“How about setting the table for me?” suggested Sarah as she popped a tray of herbed biscuits in the oven. “I only got as far as putting on the tablecloth.”
“You got it. How many plates this year?”
“Just ten.”
“Just ten?” Sarah amazed her. “Who are the extras this time, half the fire station?” asked Jamie.
“Odds and ends of Thanksgiving orphans,” said Sarah, “including our neighbor across the street.”
“You mean the lech who keeps coming to the bakery?”
“I think he’d use the term ‘ladies’ man.’ ”
“Ladies’ lech,” Jamie corrected. “So, who else?”
Sarah dumped a cube of butter onto a silver butter dish. “John and Edna. Here, you can take this out to the table when you go.”
Jamie didn’t leave. There was something mildly evasive about Sarah’s behavior. “Okay, it’s not like I was missing when the brainmobile came. Who else have you invited?”
“Just George Armstrong and his son and grandkids.”
George Armstrong. The name didn’t ring a bell at first. But it didn’t have to. Son, two kids, no wife mentioned. This was a setup. And then she remembered. “The cop,” she said, narrowing her eyes.
Sarah stopped mashing potatoes long enough to point the masher at Jamie. “Now, look. I’ve already had to whip your uncle into shape. Am I going to have to do the same with you?”
That shit didn’t work on Jamie. “I already have a mom. Remember?”
“I’m not being your mom. I’m being your aunt—your sweet, loving, taking-you-in-on-Thanksgiving—”
“Matchmaking, meddling aunt,” Jamie finished for her.
“Look,” Sarah said, switching from combat to negotiation, “they were two men alone for Thanksgiving. I’d have invited them anyway. And the girls need a mother figure.”
“Just so it’s you they’re looking at,” Jamie said. She grabbed the butter and marched to the dining room to take Sarah’s Wedgwood plates out of the china hutch. Sarah could say what she wanted, but she wasn’t fooling anyone. She was matchmaking.
Jamie sighed inwardly. There was a time when she’d have enjoyed flirting with a man, especially a hunkalicious one like Josh the cop. In her twenties, flirting had been her specialty. Then she’d met Grant and decided to specialize. He had seemed like the perfect man, good-looking and generous. And the money he spent on her while they were dating—it made her feel like a princess. She’d envisioned a perfect future with kids, backyard barbecues, and family vacations, but it was too late for all that now. The old flirt muscle had dried up from lack of use, just like other parts of her. Sex was overrated anyway. That’s what she heard. Somewhere.
She had just finished setting the table when Sam’s parents arrived. John had the ancient-lizard skin of a longtime smoker. He was as thin as the cigarettes he loved and smelled like an ashtray. Edna still kept her hair dyed crayon yellow and was as skinny as her husband.
“Hey, kid, how’re ya doin’?” he greeted Jamie in his gravelly John Wayne voice, and gave her a one-armed hug. Then, without waiting for an answer, he ambled into the living room where Sam already had the TV on with the football game playing.
Edna handed over a pie to Sarah and asked, “What can I do to help, dear?”
“How about keeping the boys under control?” Sarah said. “We’ll put you to work when it’s time to dish up.”
Edna nodded, pleased with the arrangement, and followed her husband into the living room.
“They’re going to be fighting over that,” Jamie cracked, nodding at the pie when she and Sarah were back in the kitchen. Edna’s baked goods always smelled like cigarette smoke and tasted worse.
“Sam and I will eat a piece,” said Sarah. “And John. He’s got no sense of smell.”
The next to arrive was Leo Steele, who came bearing a can of black olives and a bouquet of fall flowers from Changing Seasons Floral for Sarah. “I never like to show up empty-handed,” he explained. “Want me to put these olives in something?” he added, his gaze sneaking to Sarah’s boobs.
Mr. Disgusto. “I can do that,” said Jamie, pulling the can out of his hands.
“Why don’t you go make yourself at home and watch the game,” said Sarah.
“You’re sure you don’t need any help?” he asked.
“Leo, I had the distinct impression that you don’t cook,” Sarah teased.
“I don’t. But I’m good at doing what I’m told,” he retorted.
“Wow, that makes you quite a catch,” said Jamie sweetly. “How is it you’re single?” Sarah gave her a look that threatened a spanking with a wooden spoon. She just smiled.
“This is my niece, Jamie Moore,” said Sarah.
“Nice to meetcha,” said Leo genially. Obviously, a man not easily offended. Or else too thickheaded to know when he was being offended. “Guess I’ll go check out the game.”
“Try to behave yourself, will you?” Sarah scolded when she and Jamie were back in the kitchen alone.
“I’ll try. In fact, if you want I’ll make up for my rudeness right now and go invite Mr. Steele in here to open these olives. You can show him where the can opener is. I’m sure he’d like to get in your drawers.”
“Keep this up and I’ll tell Josh it was your idea to invite him here,” Sarah countered.
“Okay, okay. I’ll be good,” Jamie promised. “What do you want me to do next?”
“Whip the cream. That should keep you out of trouble for a couple of minutes.”
Jamie was at the sink, whipping cream, when the doorbell rang, announcing the arrival of the last guests. A tingle of excitement threaded its way up her spine. She told herself it was dread.
The low rumble of male voices, accented by the little-girl excitement, drifted in to the kitchen. A moment later, two little girls were entering alongside Sarah, who was saying, “I’ll bet you’re just in time to lick the beaters.”
Mandy the Fairy had taken Sarah’s hand and was skipping beside her while the older girl walked carefully, bearing a casserole dish in front of her as if it were frankincense. “We brought green bean casserole,” she announced.
“You can put it right on the table,” said Sarah, pointing to her old drop-leaf kitchen table.
She’d had that table ever since Jamie could remember. They’d played countless games of cards at it and probably eaten enough pizza to fill Heart Lake. Jamie and her sister, Krysten, had sat there opposite each other, licking beaters laden with everything from chocolate frosting to whipped cream. She stopped her whipping and pulled out the beaters. “You’re just in time,” she said, and handed one to each girl. “Make yourselves at home. That’s what I did when I was a kid.”
“Yum,” said Mandy, taking hers with eyes as big as her smile.
“Are you Mrs. Goodwin’s daughter?” asked Lissa.
“Almost,” said Jamie. “I’m her niece.”
“Our mommy’s an angel,” said Mandy, taking a big lick of whipped cream.
It was a good thing Jamie wasn’t holding the beaters anymore, she’d have dropped them. Dead? His wife was dead? She’d assumed he was divorced, screwed up.
Like he wouldn’t be screwed up from having lost his wife? The poor guy. The poor girls. Jamie felt a sudden nearly overwhelming desire to grab them both and hug them.
“Grandpa says maybe someday we’ll get a new mommy,” Mandy continued.
“Maybe you will,” Jamie agreed. They were sweet girls. They deserved another mommy. She could see Emma as their new mom, teaching them to quilt, dunking them in hydrogen peroxide when that demon cat of hers scratched them. But she couldn’t see Emma with Josh. Odd.
“Girls,” said Sarah, “would you like to help us put the food on the table?”
“Sure,” said Lissa as if she’d just been offered a special prize.
Maybe for a little girl who was being raised by men—rather like being raised by wolves—the company of women was a prize. It was easy to take family for granted. You never realized what you had till you lost it.
Sarah became a kitchen general, marshaling her troops. Edna and the girls were put to work hustling steaming bowls of mashed potatoes, savory stuffing, rutabagas, peas, and Sarah’s biscuits out to the big mahogany dining table while Jamie served in the kitchen as her right-hand woman, dishing up from the stove and pulling things from the fridge. The array of dishes seemed endless: candied yams, cranberry sauce, fruit salad, pickles and olives, and, of course, the green bean casserole Lissa had so carefully carried in. Last of all came the turkey, big enough to feed a whole boatload of Pilgrims.
The guests gathered at the table and Sarah continued directing operations. “John, Edna, how about taking your usual places over there. And Leo next to them. Then George. Josh, you can sit next to Sam. Jamie, how about sitting by me. And let’s put the girls between you and Josh.”
So she and Josh could get some kind of subliminal message about what a great family they’d all make, of course. Boy, Sarah never missed a trick. But it was her party, so Jamie didn’t argue. Some of the manners her mom had worked so hard to drill into her had stuck.
She couldn’t help smirking when Leo pretended to have misunderstood and took George’s seat, placing himself next to Sarah. Just punishment for her meddling.
But she put on her polite hostess smile and sat down. Jamie sneaked a peek in Sam’s direction to see how he liked the new seating arrangement. He looked like he’d just guzzled vinegar.
“Sam, would you say grace?” Sarah asked.
“Sure,” he said grudgingly, and bowed his head with a frown. “Dear God, we thank you for all the good things you give us, for this feast, and for our family. For those who don’t have family, we pray that you’d help them find some.”
The sooner the better? Jamie thought as everyone said, “Amen.” If that last sentence were meant to be some sort of message to Leo, it was way too subtle. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mandy looking up at her. She turned to smile at the child and found her sister also looking her way with an eager-to-please smile.
Josh caught it all. He quickly looked away and reached for the mashed potatoes as Sam set to work carving the turkey.
“Dad, dark meat for you,” Sam said as his father passed his plate. “And white for Mom. What’ll you have, George?”
“If nobody wants it, I’ll take one of those legs,” said George.
“How about you, Leo?” asked Sam.
“I like the breast,” said Leo.
He got the other leg.
Sarah frowned at Sam, who said, “Sorry, the breast is all taken.”
Leo shrugged. “No big deal. I like legs, too. These green beans are my favorite,” he said to Sarah, dishing himself up a hearty serving.
“Don’t get too excited,” Sam told him. “Sarah didn’t make them.”
“My daddy made that,” Mandy said proudly. “We helped.”
“It’s good,” Jamie said to her, and was rewarded with a worshipful smile.
“So, you can cook, huh?” Sam said to Josh. “You’re pretty self-sufficient.”
“Between the two of us, Dad and I do okay,” said Josh.
“That’s all well and good, but there are some things a man needs a woman for,” Leo said.
Sam frowned and Sarah blushed. She grabbed the bowl of biscuits and handed them to Jamie. “How about passing these around?”
Jamie bit back a smile. Poor Sarah. This was not going to go down in history as the most successful dinner party she’d ever had.
After the main course and kitchen cleanup, everyone settled in the living room to play charades. The grown-ups kept it easy, throwing in plenty of books, songs, and movies the girls would know. George earned applause for acting out Kung Fu Panda, and Jamie helped Mandy act out The Cat in the Hat. A few grown-up songs got thrown into the mix though, and Jamie drew Bryan Adams’s “When You Love Someone.” What a joke. But she gamely acted it out anyway.
After the last charade had been guessed Sarah sprawled in her chair and said, “I’m pooped. Jamie, how about taking care of the pie orders for me?” Edna opened her mouth to offer to help, but Sarah was too fast for her. “Josh, it’s tradition for the men to help with dessert.”
“Since when?” protested Sam.
“Since now,” Sarah informed him.
“Absolutely,” Jamie told her.
In the kitchen, Josh asked, “Is she always this subtle?”
“Always. It’s a family trait.”
“I’ve noticed.” He shot her a smile. “You still pissed at me for stopping you?”
“You never gave me a ticket. Nothing to be pissed about,” said Jamie with a shrug. Just because she wasn’t falling all over herself to snag him, he thought she was pissed? There was a bit of ego for you. She concentrated on lining all the pies up on the kitchen table. “Lissa, you can get the whipped cream out of the fridge. It’s in that big yellow bowl.”
“What can I do?” asked Mandy.
“As soon as I start putting the pie on plates you can carry them out to people.” She handed a small tablet and pen to Lissa, who had now returned with the whipped cream. “Now, you can go out and take orders, see who wants what. We have apple, pecan, pumpkin, and chocolate mint.”
Lissa nodded and scurried off.
“What should I do, boss?” asked Josh.
Go away. This man was stirring up hormones that had been hibernating for way too long. “You know, you really don’t have to be out here.”
“I know,” he said. “I want to.”
“Then I guess you can help me cut the pies.” She found another pie cutter and handed it to him and he positioned himself next to her. Her head came up to his shoulder. What would it be like to lean her head against that strong chest?
What would a man this big be like in a towering rage? That last thought drenched the fire growing within her immediately. Of course he’d have a temper. All men had tempers.
“So, I guess I was just imagining that you were pissed when I stopped to help you change that flat tire the other day.”
“You were ruining my good deed.”
He nodded slowly. “Ah. So it’s not that you don’t like cops.”
“I didn’t say that. I was married to one.”
“Not good?” he guessed.
“There’s an understatement.”
“We’re not all pigs.”
“Daddy is a pig,” put in Mandy. “He eats a lot.”
Josh rumpled her hair. “Is that so?”
Mandy nodded and smiled up at him adoringly. So maybe not all cops were created equal.
Or maybe this one simply hadn’t cracked yet. Jamie couldn’t help but remember the story of the Tacoma police chief who killed his wife and then shot himself. That could have been her if she’d stayed with Grant. An image crashed into her mind—Grant showing her his service revolver and telling her, “Just remember, baby, accidents happen.” How did you ever know when the pressure would get to a man, when too much of the violence and the dark side of human nature would finally make him crack and turn him into something as dark as what he dealt with? It was a crap shoot.
Gambling was for fools.
“Are you cold?” asked Josh. “You’re shivering.”
She forced herself to come back to the moment at hand, cutting into the pecan pie. “No. I’m fine.” Just fine, just as she was.
So when the day finally ended and they were all leaving and Josh said to her, “So, I’ll see you around?” she made sure he got the message loud and clear.
“It’s possible. It’s a small town.”
The shutters fell on his open smile. Good. He’d gotten the message.
Emma returned home from her family Thanksgiving feast with a special treat for the man in her life: turkey. Not the entire contents from the foil-wrapped packet Mom had sent home with her, but a nice-sized chunk.
“Pye, Mommy has something for you,” she sang as she walked in the door.
Pyewacket immediately appeared, trotting down the hall, tail held high.
“Were you a good boy while I was gone?” she asked.
He rubbed against her legs like a normal cat, like a cat who loved his mommy. Like a cat who smelled turkey.
Baby steps, she told herself. Right now he loves me for my turkey. Someday he’ll love me for myself. She set the foil packet on the table, opened it, and pulled off a piece of turkey from the pile sitting atop the mound of stuffing. “You’re going to love this.” She proffered the treat.
Pyewacket advanced and took it in one delicate bite. Then he squatted down and proceeded to enjoy the feast.
She put out a hand and petted her boy. He didn’t hiss or scratch her. He simply took his turkey and left.
She stood and sighed. “Someday you’re going to love me,” she called after him. But when?
Winning the love of an orphaned black cat was the least of her problems, she reminded herself. If she didn’t turn her business around pretty soon Pye would be homeless again and so would she. Well, okay. She wouldn’t be homeless. She’d be living with her parents and looking for a job. And her baby would be at the animal shelter on kitty death row since Mom was allergic to cats. No one would adopt him because the little guy was about as far from lovable as a cat could get.
What was she going to do?
Be thankful, she told herself. You got a free meal today and have leftovers for tomorrow. It’s more than half the world’s population gets.
She could hear Mrs. Nitz’s TV blaring through the duplex wall. What was Mrs. Nitz doing home? Didn’t she have any place to go on Thanksgiving?
Emma looked at the foil-wrapped bundle of leftovers sitting on her table. Nobody made stuffing like Mom. It would taste so good tomorrow.
It would taste even better today, and Mrs. Nitz probably loved stuffing. Who didn’t? Emma slipped back out and went to bang on her neighbor’s door. She’d already had her feast, and, after his stuck-up behavior, a certain cat sure didn’t deserve any more treats.