Chapter 10 #2
When they finally sat down at the table, it was crowded with more food than three adults and two children could reasonably eat.
A golden turkey breast that Ethan had somehow managed to cook to perfection, Caleb’s cornbread stuffing fragrant with sage and thyme, Lydia’s mashed potatoes swimming in butter, green beans almondine made from scratch, cranberry sauce and a store-bought pumpkin pie waiting on the counter for dessert.
Someone had found one of Ethan’s old flannel shirts and spread it across the center of the table like a makeshift table runner. Rosie’s paper-bag leaves marched down the middle in a crooked garland that kept trying to blow away every time someone walked past.
They joined hands automatically, Lydia between Rosie and Ethan, and she felt the calluses on Ethan’s palm, the steady warmth of his grip. Across the table, Caleb held Eli’s hand on one side and Rosie’s on the other, looking faintly uncomfortable with the intimacy of it all but not pulling away.
Ethan cleared his throat. “I, uh … don’t usually say grace out loud.”
“We can just say what we’re thankful for,” Eli suggested, his brown eyes bright. “That’s what our teacher said last year in class. We went around the room.”
Rosie nodded vigorously, her curls bouncing. “I’m thankful for not dying.”
The table went very quiet. The only sound was the crackle of the fire in the living room and the soft jazz still playing on the record player.
Lydia’s throat closed up. Her baby girl, six years old, thankful for not dying. The words hung in the air, impossible to ignore, a stark reminder of how close they’d come to losing everything.
Before she could find words, struggling to hold back tears, Ethan cocked his head at Rosie, smiling.
“I’m thankful you didn’t die either, kiddo,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
“And that you’re here. All of you.” His gaze brushed Lydia’s for a second.
Her chest loosened, then tightened again in a different way.
“And that we get to eat way too much food and probably fall asleep on the couch later.”
“One must always be grateful for pie,” Caleb added solemnly, his deep voice carrying a thread of warmth that belied his serious expression. “It is the sacred tradition of our people.”
The tension cracked open into laughter, Rosie’s high and bright, Eli’s slightly deeper now that he was approaching double digits, and Lydia’s own slightly watery but real.
“I’m thankful for Mr. Caleb’s funny voice when he’s being serious,” Rosie announced.
“I’m thankful for Ethan teaching me how to crack eggs without getting shells everywhere,” Eli said.
“I’m thankful for my family,” Lydia heard herself say. Then, meeting Ethan’s eyes: “All of it. The people at this table. Being safe. Being here.”
The words with you hung unspoken in the air. Maybe Ethan heard them anyway, because his hand tightened around hers just briefly before he let go to reach for the serving spoon.
“Then let’s eat before it gets cold,” Caleb said. “I didn’t cry over those onions for nothing.” Another laugh erupted, the absurdity of someone as gruff and masculine as the firefighter crying too ridiculous to consider.
They ate until Lydia’s stomach hurt in the best possible way, until she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this … content.
Tom’s voice still echoed at the edges of her thoughts, a poisonous whisper reminding her that he knew where she was, that he was coming, so she couldn’t quite relax, but she was content in a small, stubborn way that refused to be uprooted.
The kids told jokes between bites. Caleb shared a story about a Thanksgiving when he was a rookie firefighter and they’d been called out to rescue a turkey stuck in a chimney. Ethan contributed a tale from his Army days about Thanksgiving in Kandahar.
Eli laughed so hard, milk came out of his nose.
Rosie tried to build a mashed potato mountain and declare it “Mount Buttonworth.” Caleb gently corrected her daughter’s pronunciation to “Mount Butterworth sounds delicious” without making her feel silly.
Ethan watched them all with a glint of tearful wonder in his eyes, as if he still could not quite believe this was happening in his kitchen.
This was what family was supposed to feel like. Not walking on eggshells, waiting for the storm. Not bracing for impact. It was supposed to feel like warmth and laughter and terrible jokes and way too much food.
Later, after the dishes were mostly done and the kids had migrated to the living room to build a blanket fort between the couch and the coffee table, Caleb took his leave. He stood at the door in his coat, slightly awkward like large men could sometimes be when expressing emotion.
“Thank you for having me,” he said. “I don’t … I haven’t had a Thanksgiving like this in a while.”
“You’re welcome anytime,” Lydia said. This man had saved her children’s lives, had saved her life, and she’d never be able to repay that debt, but she could offer him a seat at their borrowed table, could make sure he knew he wasn’t alone. “Really. Anytime.”
“I’ll come by tomorrow,” Caleb said. “Check on your car, make sure the battery’s holding the charge.” Their rescuer had gone with Ethan first thing to collect her car from the farmhouse, which had been yet another kindness.
“You don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” His gray-green eyes were serious. “Besides, I promised Rosie I’d help her build a snowman if we get any more snow.”
“We’re holding you to that,” Ethan said from behind Lydia, his presence warm at her back.
Caleb’s mouth twitched into an almost-smile. “I figured you would.”
Then he was gone, his truck pulling down the driveway.
The house settled into a soft hush interrupted only by the murmur of a cartoon from the TV and the occasional crackle from the woodstove.
The kids were completely absorbed in their fort construction, their voices drifting from the living room in a constant stream of negotiation about whose idea was better and whether dragons could be Thanksgiving-themed.
Lydia stood at the sink, rinsing cocoa mugs. When had they made cocoa? She couldn’t even remember. She let the warm water run over her hands. Outside the window, the afternoon sun was already setting, painting the snow-dusted yard in shades of amber and rose.
She felt him before she heard him.
Ethan didn’t speak. He just stepped in close enough that his warmth brushed her back, close enough that she could smell cedar and coffee and something that was just him. Then, slow and careful, like he was giving her time to step away if she wanted, he slid his arms around her waist.
Lydia’s hands went still in the dishwater.
She should pull away. Should maintain some distance, some propriety. She was living in his house, dependent on his generosity, and here she was letting him hold her like they were something more.
She didn’t pull away.
Instead, she let herself lean back into him, let her weight settle against the solid wall of his chest. Let her hands go still in the warm water while his arms tightened just slightly around her.
For a long moment they just stood there, not speaking, his chin resting lightly on the crown of her head, his breath feathering through her hair.
The ordinary sounds of the house continued around them. The clink of a plate settling in the dish rack, the soft glow from the window painting gold bars across the floor, the muffled giggles and negotiations from the living room. The woodstove ticked as it cooled. The old refrigerator hummed.
It was all so gentle, so domestic, so perfectly normal that Lydia wanted to cry.