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“C’mon over, big boy. You can peel the chestnuts too.”
He leaned down and growled in her ear, then nipped the lobe. Bridget giggled.
The next morning, Molly came home to find the two of them in the kitchen, busy with preparations for the feast. Bridget was humming as she stirred dry bread cubes into the sautéed chopped onions and celery, adding a handful of fresh sage leaves and a big dash of salt.
Jonas, wearing an apron, came over to investigate. “How about adding some browned sausage to that?”
“I was thinking of oysters, actually.”
“Sausage.”
“Oysters.”
“Sausage.”
“Oysters.”
Molly looked at them wide-eyed. “Are you actually having an argument over something that dumb?”
Bridget shook her head, hiding a smile. “No.”
“I’m calling Dr. Phil,” Molly teased. “You two need a relationship rescue.”
Hmm. Interesting. Her daughter didn’t seem to think twice about referring to what was going on between Jonas and herself as a relationship. Very interesting, Bridget thought.
“How do feel about peeling sweet potatoes, Molly?” Jonas pointed to a toppling pyramid of them.
“Okay. Show me how.”
Jonas took a peeler and demonstrated. “Peel away from yourself.”
“Yes, Dr. Concannon.”
He smoothed out a paper bag for the peels to land on. “You wouldn’t believe how many people end up in the ER with cut hands on Thanksgiving.”
“I don’t ever want to go there again. Okay.” Molly picked up a potato and brandished it at both of them. “This is the first potato I’ve ever peeled. Mom, don’t you want to take a picture?”
Bridget continued stirring. “You have a point. I captured your first steps and your first day at school. We might as well record this for posterity. Jonas”—she pointed with the spoon in the general direction of the living room—“the camera’s on the mantel. Would you mind?”
Jonas strode over and got the digital camera, standing far back enough to get them both in the shot. “Smile, you two. Say oysters.”
“Oysters!” they both yelled.
“Does this mean I win?” Bridget asked. “Can I put them in the stuffing?”
“No. It means you look surprised in the picture,” Jonas said. “You can’t say oysters without looking surprised.”
Molly tried it a few more times, looking at herself in the shiny surface of the toaster. “Hey, he’s right. It makes your eyebrows go way up.”
“You two are crazy,” Bridget said, laughing. She turned the heat off under the large sauté pan. “Okay, I don’t want this cubed bread to get too soft. I’m going to leave it here until it’s time to stuff the turkey. There’s nothing in it that can spoil.”
Jonas sat down by Molly, another peeler in his hand. He was fast, finishing three potatoes while she did one. Competitive to a fault, Molly went faster, scraping short strips onto the paper bag. Bridget watched fondly as she noticed Jonas slowing down just enough to let Molly get ahead, but not so slowly that her daughter would notice that he was letting her catch up.
The two of them finished the last two potatoes with a flurry of swift strokes. Jonas held up his to show the little strip of peel still on it and Molly held up hers, perfectly smooth and orange. “And the winnah is … Molly O’Shea!” he said in a track announcer’s booming voice.
Molly beamed. “Take another picture.”
Bridget did the honors this time, capturing both of them in the silly, wonderful pose. She felt a pang. Why had she waited so long to bring Molly and Jonas together? The question was essentially unanswerable. She had, that was all. The other times the three of them had been together, it had just sort of happened, or Jonas had invited them both—but she had never taken the initiative.
