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Bridget had never left Vermont, never been to college, never let herself fall in love again … but she had to admit that Jonas was the only man she had ever loved.
She couldn’t change that. But as far as the rest, it was time to do something—anything—different. The holidays were as good a time as any. She didn’t have to be mean, didn’t have to pitch a fit. She just had to make it clear that she was going to jump the highest fence she’d ever jumped and do things her own way. Not her mother’s way.
“Bridget?”
She picked up the receiver again. “I’m here. Sorry, I dropped the phone.”
“That’s okay, I was talking to Schulzy. So, should we try celebrating the holidays together? Let’s start with Thanksgiving. I’m up for a little good old-fashioned certifiable insanity with all the fixings, how about you?”
“Sure,” she said.
“I just don’t see how you can do this on your own, Bridget.”
Bridget counted to ten, reminding herself that arguing with her mother was an exercise in futility. She settled for a rhetorical question instead. “Mom, how hard can it be to cook a turkey?”
“You’ll find out,” her mother said darkly.
Maybe so, but Bridget was still happy to be on her own at Thanksgiving for the first time ever. Her lips curved in a serene smile. Just knowing that her parents were flying to Florida tomorrow for an extended vacation was a liberating feeling. She hadn’t even had to argue with them.
An old friend of the Harrisons offered them a week at her time-share apartment in Orlando, and Margaret had persuaded Bridget’s dad to go. Bill Harrison was a stickler for routine when it came to family holidays, but after an early November ice storm that had done more damage than anticipated and kept everyone indoors to brood about the weather, he’d given in, eager to just sit in the sunshine somewhere and let his wife shop in the tourist traps to her heart’s content.
Bridget had put in her two cents, reassuring him that she and Molly would be fine, and it was high time she learned how to cook the traditional feast from scratch. Nonetheless, fearing the worst, her mother had gone out and bought jars of gravy, cans of cranberry sauce and candied yams, and frozen side dishes of creamed onions, stuffing, green beans almondine, and five pies. Right now she was unpacking a giant frozen turkey that was much too big for two or three people and would take up most of the space in the refrigerator. Margaret had warned Bridget that it would take at least two days to defrost and she would be long gone by then. But she’d had to buy it just in case, she’d said.
Just in case the fresh, free-range bird Bridget planned to roast wasn’t good enough.
Bridget kept that thought to herself. All of this unexpected bounty was going to be donated to the church’s food pantry for their Thanksgiving, and kept in the church’s basement freezer until then—she was just waiting until her mother left town. She really did want to make everything from scratch. Mrs. Dutton, who usually celebrated the holiday with her sister’s family, had volunteered to hold down the fort at the shop the day before, so Bridget could get a head start with the preparations on Wednesday. She would do the actual cooking on Thursday, with Molly at her side. It was going to be just the two of them … and Jonas.
She hadn’t told her mother she was inviting him, sidestepping her mother’s inevitable disapproval. Margaret wouldn’t think it was the neighborly thing to do. Bridget wasn’t as brave as she wanted to be when it came to him. Some day. Not now.
“Bridget,” her mother was saying. “Can you help me with the turkey?” She’d managed to wrestle it out of the plastic shopping bag but she was barely hanging onto it. The turkey looked heavy enough, if dropped, to go right through the kitchen floor or break Margaret’s toe at the very least. Bridget rushed over to grab it and set it back on the table.
“Wait a sec,” she said. “I haven’t cleared a shelf in the refrigerator yet.” Make that two shelves. “I’ll do it right now.” She opened the refrigerator door and Margaret tsk-tsked.
“Look at all those takeout containers,” her mother said.
“They’re mostly empty,” Bridget pointed out.
“Then I’m glad I shopped for you. I don’t want you to starve while I’m gone.”
Bridget ignored that comment and made quick work of reorganizing the refrigerator, tossing the takeout and neatly stacking the rest. Her mother held the door open while the mega-bird was transferred from the table to the shelf with the most room. Where it will stay until I rush it over to the church under cover of darkness, Bridget thought with a secret smile.
The rest of the food was put away and she walked her mother to the front door, only half-listening to her last-minute instructions and not replying.
“Are you coming over for breakfast tomorrow, honey? We’re leaving for the airport around two. I want to see you before we go. I’ll miss you, you know.”
The wistful tone in her mother’s voice got Bridget’s attention. “Sure, Mom. I’d love to.” She was surprised to see that Margaret’s eyes were a little misty. “Hey, we’ll miss you too. And thanks for all the food. It was really nice of you to buy it and bring it over. We’re going to have a great Thanksgiving.”
Margaret permitted herself a tiny frown, as if she wasn’t too sure about that. “Dad and I will be celebrating in a restaurant, I’m afraid.”
Bridget patted her on the back. “No dishes to wash. No out-of-town relatives coming in. No leftovers. No aggravation. You’ll like that.”
Her mother sighed. “I’m not so sure. It just won’t feel like a family holiday without the aggravation.”
Bridget laughed. “Oh yes it will. Don’t worry. You’re going to enjoy yourself and so will we.”
A few hours later, she’d dropped off the frozen turkey—wrestling it back into a plastic bag hadn’t been easy—and all the rest at the church.
“Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Mildred Barnes, the tiny old lady who ran the program, was delighted to see so much food arrive, bustling around the basement kitchen in an apron and directing her volunteer staff. Even though Thanksgiving was two days off, their preparations were underway.
