Chapter 24: Thanksgiving

Eight months after Norma's letter, on the fourth Thursday of November, eight people sat down to dinner in my house.

We had answered her in October, two lines in Timothy's hand, with the date and the hour.

The table was set with bone china at every place.

Nobody had to ask which place was theirs.

Timothy had carved a small name card for each of them out of leftover oak, and set them in a row.

*Joyce. Kristen. The notary. Her nephew. The two cooks from the kitchen. Meredith. Timothy.*

The cooks were a retired couple from the church whom I'd hired for the day.

They had come at five that morning, and they had been on their feet since.

"Sit," I told them, at half past two.

"Ma'am, we're fine in the kitchen."

"You are not. You cooked it. You eat first."

The woman looked at her husband.

"Help eats first," I said. "In this house, that's the rule."

They sat, and I filled their plates myself.

I put the first slice of turkey on the china in front of the woman, and the first scoop of stuffing in front of her husband.

Timothy watched me from the head of the table and almost smiled.

We'd married in June, in the garden, with the pantry door frame carried out on two sawhorses for the guests to sign.

The pencil lines were on it still.

*Timothy + Meredith.*

Under them, in a very small hand, Kristen had added her height at the bottom.

Then Joyce's.

Then the notary's, with a shaky line.

It was the only guest book we wanted.

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