Judging by the contented and appreciative smiles of the other women at the table, who sit back as their husbands clean up, I’d have to say yes.
Luc’s mother turns to Mattie, who’s now sitting at the kids' table by herself.“Niña,why don’t you come join us at the big table?”
Mattie rises, gives a longing look toward the kitchen, but comes and sits across from me, next to Nezzie.
“What did you girls think of your first Mexican Thanksgiving, ah?” she asks us.
“O-Oh,” Mattie stammers, blushing anew. “Everything wasreallygood.”
“So good,” I add. “Thank you so much for having us.”
Nezzie beams, clearly pleased. “You’re welcome anytime.”
Mattie smiles. “You’re a really good cook. It’s been a while since we’ve had a home-cooked meal like that—” My sister clamps her mouth shut, realizing what she’s said. She looks to me. “I mean…”
“It’s okay, Matt,” I say gently and turn to Nezzie. “She’s right. My cooking doesn’t even come close.”
And because it feels wrong not to, I look back at Mattie and add, “To yours or to our mother’s.”
As soon as I mention Mom, the rest of the table goes quiet. If I wasn’t sure before, I am now. Luc’s family knows about mine. They’ve all been so nice. I hope it hasn’t been out of pity. But I suppose, under the circumstances, their knowing makes things easier. No one’s asked why we’re not spending the holiday with our family, and while I’m grateful for that, not talking about them doesn’t seem right either.
As though she recognizes this, Nezzie’s face softens. “What did your mother make for Thanksgiving?”
Mattie answers first. “Really good roast turkey with gravy and cornbread dressing and rice.” She looks down in her lap. I can see she’s smiling at the memory of it. Of course, when she looks up to me, her eyes are shining.
Mine are too.
“And this butternut squash and kale recipe I think she got from Martha Stewart ages ago,” I add, dreamily summoning the memory. “It had heavy cream and parmesan and roasted garlic in it.”
“Ooh,” Felicité sighs. “I might have to make that next year.”
My eyes go wide. “Oh, but your butternut squash dish wasdivine,”I say, hoping I haven’t offended her.
She arches a brow in a way that reminds me of Luc. “Yeah, but yours soundsdevilish,and I’m tempted.”
We all laugh.
“You know,” Natalia says, putting her elbows on the table and leaning forward. “I bet you could find that recipe online—if it really was a Martha Stewart one.”
“Found it,” Rosa announces, phone in hand.
“You found it?” I ask, a little breathless. I hadn’t even tried looking for it. I just figured it was one of the many recipes Mom used to make that was gone for good.
“Roasted garlic...butternut squash...kale…nutmeg... heavy cream…”
“Thatsoundslike it.”
She passes me her phone. “Well, does it look like it?”
I check out the picture of a casserole dish filled with golden slices of butternut topped with breadcrumbs.
“That has to be it.”
“May I see,” Felicité asks. I hand her the phone, and she reads the recipe. “That doesn’t look too hard. Maybe you and I could make this for Christmas.”
“Wait, me?” I ask stunned.
Luc’s cousin smiles. “Why not?”
