“And he’d tell me I’m being an idiot about this?”
“Undoubtably.” She smiles, as if remembering something specific. “He’d tell you to get your head out of your ass and not let her go.”
“What are you thinking of?”
“Turns out he had a bit of a chat with Chester a while back.”
Laughter tumbles out of me. “Of course.”
“You need to go to New York, Jack.”
My heart breaks into a sprint at the mere thought. Seeing Poppy again, even for a moment, would be worth it, despite the risk that it could all come crashing down around me. “It might be too late.”
“I guess you’ll just have to make her a better offer.” Kiara’s voice is light, contemplative. “I plan on being averysilent partner, which means you’ll need someone else to butt heads with, or you’ll turn into a monster.”
“Well, when you put it like that.”
“I’m just saying, I’m not going to argue about the menu with you. But we both know someone who will.”
Chapter 52
The Thanksgiving Special
Poppy
I steal downstairs before anyone else on Thanksgiving morning, Gator trotting beside me.
I’m not a professional chef, and I don’t want to be, but there’s a special satisfaction that comes in setting up my workstation for the flurry of cooking I’m about to attempt. I feed Gator and make a cup of coffee. I arrange my stack of printed recipes on the island, and thumb through Julia Child’sThe Way to Cookfor the gravy recipe that Jack showed me one afternoon in the restaurant’s office. I see our kitchen with new eyes, now: the beautiful appliances, the marble countertops, the neat rows of equipment organized in each cabinet. The refrigerator is bursting with the supplies that Julia and I got a few days ago, including a huge turkey.
I weave my hair into a braid. I wash my hands and don an apron I pilfered from Fable. It was in the black hole of clothes stacked in the corner of the room Jack and I shared. I didn’t feel bad about taking it. I made off with one of his sweaters and two of his T-shirts, too.
“Last night was the last time I’m going to wear his shirt to bed,” I proclaim to Gator.
His eyes regard me dubiously; I’ve been saying this for days, after all. He stretches, then goes to perch on the arm of his favorite chair.He’s settled into life in Rye rather well, even though he’s sharing his space with a bossy little dog.
“Some assistant you are.” He meows lazily, settling in for a nap. I put my hand on my hip. “You’re right. I can handle it all myself.”
I decided a week ago that I wanted to cook Thanksgiving dinner for the family. Salt-brined turkey with homemade gravy. Mom’s famous sausage stuffing. Mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, and creamed onions with sherry. Green beans amandine and fresh biscuits. Homemade cranberry sauce, too, with dried cherries and ginger. The last one is a recipe Jack gave me; one year he worked at a hotel restaurant that did a huge Thanksgiving spread, and the cranberry sauce was everyone’s favorite. Caroline brought over two pies last night—pumpkin and coconut cream—and she even let me take a shot at her sweet potato pie recipe.
I have my work cut out for me.
Yesterday, I puzzled out the timing. The turkey and fresh gravy will take ages, but it’ll be worth it. The stuffing will take a long time as well, but I can do the potatoes in advance, and blanche the green beans later so they’ll be ready for a quick sauté in butter and toasted almond slivers just before plating. The biscuits will make a bit of a mess, but the dough doesn’t need resting time. After watching Jack create elaborate, sometimes to-the-second schedules in Fable’s kitchen, I feel fairly confident I’ll be able to pull today off without many surprises.
“Should we watch the parade?” Although Gator won’t suddenly start answering me, it feels better to talk aloud. Less lonely.
I bite my lip, staving off both a wave of heartache and—curiously—homesickness.
I miss Fable’s kitchen. I miss waking up to salt air and palm trees. Most of all I miss Jack, and how it felt to be in his arms. I sneak a look at my phone, but I don’t have any new messages. To send ahappy thanksgiving!!text that goes unanswered would be humiliating. I consider texting Kiara, but having her leave me on read would be nearly as bad.
I turn on the television, even though the parade hasn’t even started yet, and take out the stuffing ingredients.
One very good thing about cooking a complicated meal: There isn’t much time to wallow.
An hour later, the turkey is in the oven, the giblets are browning on the stove along with celery, carrots, and onion, and I’m on my second cup of coffee. I’ve just started the cranberry sauce when Julia walks into the kitchen. Caroline strolls behind her, hiding a yawn.
“Oh, wow.” Julia takes in the scene, which, although chaotic, has a certain sort of haphazard order to it. “This is amazing, Pops. How can we help?”
“You’ve been busy,” Caroline agrees. She checks her phone. “It’s barely nine.”
