Every few minutes, Demarien checked the turkey like an anxious parent.
“You’ve opened that oven fourteen times,” his dad said.
“Temperature management.”
“You’re emotionally supporting the bird.”
Demarien pointed the baster at him. “Don’t start with me, young man.”
Joe grinned and kept peeling. “I’ve missed seeing you cook, son.”
The rhythm of it settled around them — knives against cutting boards, cabinet doors opening and shutting, the hiss of something hitting hot butter. It reminded Demarien of being ten years old, sitting on the counter, stealing black olives while Dahlia, Abuela, and his dad cooked all day. They always had holiday dinners at Dahlia’s, but Joe did his best to help. The store was rarely closed, so those holiday cooking marathons were some of Demarien’s favorites.
Joe reached for a bowl on the top shelf and winced almost imperceptibly.
Demarien caught it anyway. “Your shoulder bothering you?”
“I’m old. Everything bothers me.”
“You should sit down and watch television. Let me handle all this. You didn’t need to come over this early.”
“And miss my annual six a.m. argument with the stuffing?”
Demarien snorted. “Who’s winning?”
Joe glanced at the massive bowl beside him. “Current stalemate.”
Demarien dried his hands and moved beside him. “Here. Sit down for five minutes.”
“I don’t need—”
“You’re hurting.”
Joe opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. That alone told Demarien the shoulder must really hurt. His father settled into one of the kitchen chairs with a theatrical sigh.
“Look at this,” Joe muttered. “Exiled by my own son.”
“You’re impossible.” Demarien laughed and kissed the top of his dad’s head. He poured him a cup of coffee, then went back to work.
“I’m experienced.”
“We’ll say that if it makes you feel better.” Demarien continued basting the turkey while Joe watched with narrowed eyes.
“Not too much,” he warned.
“I know how to baste a turkey. You’re the one who stabs it wrong.”
Joe looked confused. “There’s a wrong way to stab a turkey?”
“There absolutely is.”
His dad laughed again, shaking his head. “You know, I bet normal people just eat sandwiches on holidays.”
“Normal people are cowards.”
The rain picked up outside. Somewhere upstairs, a floor creaked as the others started waking up one by one. A few of Boone and Patrick’s buddies were the unofficial first guests of the inn, coming to visit for the holiday. Plus, Puck and Felix’splaces weren’t habitable yet, so the old house was full of people. Demarien loved it.
Joe watched him quietly for a moment while he worked.
