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But I’m tired of country club holidays; the only conversations I can have there are small talk because the only familiar faces there are people I’ve met at previous Thanksgivings. We could do this for the rest of our lives, all the same people, and we still wouldn’t progress past surface chatter.
I shift the platter I brought, take a deep breath, and knock.
The door flies open to reveal a grinning Evie. “Hey, Mr. Henry. My sea monkeys are swimming all over everywhere. Will you come see them soon?”
“Um, sure, if it’s okay with your mom.”
“It will be,” she says with a confidence I’m learning is specific to seven-year-olds. “Anyway, glad you’re here,” she continues. “I wanted to come get you, but Mom said give you some peace, for gosh’s sake.”
I fight to keep my smile at friendly instead of a full grin; I don’t want her to think I’m laughing at her.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”
“It’s fine. Mama!” she calls and runs off.
Paige appears around a doorway and looks confused to find me standing by myself in an open door with a plate of food and some wine tucked under my arm. Probably not as confused as I am though. I’ve seen Paige in every variation of jeans, Dickies, and overalls with T-shirts and flannel imaginable, and that one memorable morning, in her pajamas. Her short pajamas. But this is not that Paige.
She’s in a soft-looking sweater and tight pants and boots. And she’s wearing makeup. Not a ton, but her eyes are brighter, and her lips look slightly different. I hate to use the word moist, but yes. That. And a little pinker?
Paige is at minimum pretty on her worst day, and this isnother worst day.
“Hey, Henry. Come on in. You’ve met everyone but Tabitha and her husband. I’ll introduce you.”
She leads me toward the back of the house and the kitchen. It’s bustling with women. Mrs. Winters relieves me of my offerings.
“That’s an appetizer if you’re ready for those,” I say as she slides the plate from my hands.
“Perfect.” She sets it on the counter and peels back the foil.
“Cranberry brie bites,” I say, feeling self-conscious. I’m not sure why. Is brie pretentious at a meal hosted by a family who owns a hardware store? Will it look like I tried too hard?
The only woman I haven’t met yet swoops in to pluck one up and sample it, and my eyes widen as I realize I have failed to put together an important fact: the Tabitha that Paige has casually mentioned is Tabitha Winters, major celebrity chef.
“So good,” she pronounces.
My cheeks heat far past the temperature I cooked these at. “It’s your recipe.”
She pauses, chews a couple more times, and shakes her head. “No. Similar but not exact. You added something. Thyme?”
I nod.
They could have hosted the quarterback of their favorite NFL team, whoever is at the top of the music charts, and the most famous supermodel in the world at the same time and not have left me as starstruck as meeting this woman does.
“You’rethatTabitha Winters,” I say. Stupidly. Because clearly she and everyone else in the house are aware of this. “I didn’t put that together somehow.”
“Uh-oh,” Grace says. “You’ve found a fan. Poor guy.”
“In real life, I’m Tabitha Reed now. My husband, Sawyer, is watching the game with my dad in the den if you want to join them.”
“Tabitha, this is my neighbor, Henry Hill,” Paige tells her. “And now I know why he’s such a good cook. He’s been stealing your best recipes.”
I shake my head. “Only following them, not stealing.”
“Stealing and improving,” she says. “You’ll have to tell me about other tweaks you’ve made. Come and meet Sawyer. Cooking my recipes is how he won me back.”
“Won you back?” I ask.
“We’ll tell you the story over cranberry brie bites.”
