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“Great. Good thing it’s a small bird. It’ll be done in time. I figure we can eat by three. Does that work for you?”
Bridget grinned. “Of course it does. Especially since you’re now doing all the work.”
At exactly three o’clock, the three of them sat down for dinner. Molly had insisted that Bridget get out of her kitchen-grungewear and put on something presentable.
She’d gone through her mother’s closet and found a dark green dress in a matte jersey fabric that she insisted was perfect. Bridget had tried it on and she’d had to agree, wondering why she’d forgotten about it. The low, scooped neck was flattering, especially with her antique chain necklace strung with tiny enameled flowers.
“You look so pretty, Mom,” Molly looked at her mother from across the dining room table and nodded her approval.
“Thanks, honey.”
Jonas studied her for a moment. “Yes. You do. Although I kind of miss the flour on your hands and the streak of cooking oil on your cheek.”
Bridget laughed as she unrolled her napkin and flicked it at him. “Tough luck. Now you’re the messy one.”
Jonas’s shirt revealed his efforts to get the meal on the table. “S’okay. Gravy goes with everything.”
He had carried that out of the kitchen last, holding up the Victorian gravy boat like a ceremonial chalice. A flea market find, the thing had four little feet and a huge handle, as if it had been designed by a committee.
Bridget would have just as soon used something plain and serviceable, but Molly insisted that the gravy boat come down from the high shelf it had been relegated to. She thought it was very grand.
She looked at her daughter, then at Jonas, and smiled. “Okay, who would like to say grace?”
Jonas shook his head. “I’m no good at that. Molly, how about you?”
Molly clasped her hands and bent her head. “Thank-youGodforeverythingweareabouttoreceiveincluding-sweetpotatoeswithbrownsugarandmarshmallows. Amen.”
Jonas cracked up. He had put in the last two ingredients at Molly’s request, despite Bridget’s protests that it would make the traditional side dish too sweet, especially since there were three different kinds of dessert.
Molly and Jonas were getting along well. Her daughter had set the table under his watchful eye, not arguing with him the way she often did with Bridget.
Oh well. Jonas was someone new to her daughter, and she wasn’t inclined to talk back to him. Yet.
Bridget smiled at both of them, smoothing her hair. Much as she’d wanted to make the whole meal herself, letting Jonas take over had given her an hour to relax and have some mother-daughter time before dinner was ready.
Jonas, his hands clasped by his chin and his elbows on the table, smiled back. He’d eased her out of the kitchen and kept her from getting overwhelmed as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a man to help the way he had.
Hardworking as her father was, he would never have set foot into her mother’s domain—their family traditions meant much more formal affairs, with a lot of fussing over the snowy purity of the tablecloth and possible spots on the crystal stemware and family silver, things it had been Bridget’s job to polish. Margaret Harrison’s Thanksgivings had been picture-perfect in every detail—and rather tense.
There was a lot to be said for a more relaxed celebration. She and Molly had dusted; stuffed a big pile of unread mail, magazines, and catalogs into a basket by the side of the sofa; vacuumed; and let it go at that. She had only dressed up at Molly’s insistence. The little girl had settled for a bright pink sweatshirt adorned with a silk rose pin—the odd combination somehow worked, Bridget thought. And Jonas looked even more masculine and sexy than usual with his sleeves rolled halfway up his biceps and his thick hair a little messy and damp from the kitchen’s heat.
Molly tapped her fork lightly against her glass. “Mom, look at me. I’m about to do the second part of the blessing.”
“What—oh!” Bridget blushed and nodded her head at her daughter. “Sorry. I didn’t know there was going to be a second part.”
Molly cleared her throat and clasped her hands together on the edge of the table. “For family and friends and food. And anybody who doesn’t have them, we ask that they will.”
“Amen,” Jonas and Bridget said simultaneously.
Later, dishes done and the Harrisons called in Florida and wished a happy Thanksgiving, the three of them sprawled on the living room furniture to digest a little, deciding to eat dessert later. Bridget and Molly had the sofa, and Jonas, the large armchair. He was dozing, much to Molly’s amusement.
“Shh,” Bridget whispered when the little girl giggled too loudly.
“But he’s snoring.”
“Just a little. He’s entitled. He worked hard, doing all that cooking.”
“So did you, Mom.”
