Chapter Seven
Honey
The turkey stared at me, pink and naked on the kitchen counter, its lifeless eyes accusing.
I'd spent the hours since returning from the Gobble Wobble trying to ignore it while I prepared my tofurkey—a task that had seemed simple enough in theory.
Mix some tofu, add seasonings, shape it into something vaguely bird-like. How hard could it be?
Turns out, extremely.
"It looks like a science experiment gone wrong," I muttered, poking at the pale blob. The tofurkey recipe I'd found online had promised a golden, crispy exterior over a moist, flavorful interior. Mine resembled a sad, deflated volleyball with the consistency of wet cement.
Across the kitchen, Heath wasn't faring much better. He'd been distracted ever since the race, checking his phone constantly and peering out windows as if expecting Buck to materialize at any moment. As a result, he'd forgotten to turn on the oven until an hour late.
"How's it going over there?" I called, trying to sound cheerful.
Heath looked up from where he was frantically basting the real turkey. "It's... coming along." His forced optimism couldn't hide the worry in his eyes. "Yours?"
I glanced down at my misshapen lump. "Let's just say I won't be winning any vegetarian cooking competitions."
The kitchen was a disaster zone. Flour dusted every surface, gravy splattered the backsplash, and the sink overflowed with dirty dishes.
The Vickerys would arrive in half an hour for our late Thanksgiving dinner, along with Knox and Bitsy who'd disappeared after the race for some "Instagram-worthy fall content" at the pecan grove.
After our heart-to-heart at the Gobble Wobble, the ice between Heath and me had begun to thaw.
The wall between us had cracked, if not completely fallen.
During the drive back, after he'd finally told me about the blackmail attempt, we'd barely had time to process what it meant before arriving home to start Thanksgiving preparations.
"Heath," I ventured, abandoning my tofurkey massacre to approach him. "About what happened at the race—"
"We'll handle it," he said firmly, though the tightness around his eyes betrayed his concern. "Let's just focus on dinner first."
"But what if—"
"Honey." He set down the baster and turned to face me. "Whatever happens, we’ll face it together. I promise."
The sincerity in his eyes made my heart skip. Before I could respond, the oven timer beeped. Heath swore softly as he pulled out the roast, poking it with a thermometer.
"Not done," he confirmed grimly. "Nowhere near."
I peered over his shoulder at the half-raw bird, pink flesh visible beneath its unevenly browned skin. "How much longer?"
"At least another hour. Maybe two." He checked his watch and grimaced. "Everyone will be here in thirty minutes."
"Well," I said, trying to sound optimistic, "looks like it's tofurkey or nothing."
Heath's pained expression would have been comical under other circumstances. "They'll never forgive us."
"Then we'll blame it on me," I offered. "The vegetarian who sabotaged Thanksgiving. They already think I'm a crazy liberal—which is true—but this will just confirm their suspicions."
A reluctant smile tugged at Heath's lips. "Noble, but I think they'll blame me regardless."
"Team effort?" I suggested, nudging his shoulder with mine.
"Team effort," he agreed, his smile reaching his eyes this time.
We hurried to salvage what we could—arranging sides of mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, rolls, and a questionable-looking sweet potato dish that had formed a strange crust. My tofurkey took center stage on a platter, surrounded by roasted vegetables in a desperate attempt to make it look appetizing.
It sat there, a pale beige mound with herb freckles, exuding a scent that hovered uncomfortably between gym socks and health food store.
"Don't forget the cranberry sauce," Heath said, pulling cans from the pantry.
"Wait," I grabbed one, examining the label. "There's a debate about this?"
"Homemade versus canned," Heath explained. "It's practically a religious war in some families."
"Which side are you on?"
"Canned," he admitted, sheepishly holding up the cylinder. "I like the ridges."
"Heath McGraw," I laughed, "heritage breed champion, defender of genetic diversity, likes mass-produced, jellied cranberry sauce?"
"Everyone's got their vices," he shrugged, a hint of the old playfulness returning to his eyes.
The doorbell rang, shattering our moment of levity.
"Showtime," Heath muttered, straightening his shoulders.
The Vickerys swept in first, Dottie bearing a dish of what looked like green Jell-O with floating vegetables—a nightmare straight from a 1950s cookbook.
"We brought my special Thanksgiving salad," she announced, placing it on the table. "It's been a family tradition for generations."
"It looks... interesting," I offered, eyeing the suspended carrot chunks with trepidation.
Knox and Bitsy arrived moments later, their coordinated autumn outfits replaced by equally coordinated Thanksgiving attire—Bitsy in a burnt orange dress with a turkey brooch, Knox in matching slacks and vest.
"Something smells amazing!" Bitsy gushed, sniffing the air theatrically.
"I hope you're hungry," I said, silently praying they wouldn't notice the absence of the classic savory aromas.
As everyone settled around the table, Dottie's eyes narrowed at the centerpiece. "What is that... thing?"
"Tofurkey," I explained with forced cheerfulness. "It's a vegetarian alternative."
"But where's the meat?" Earl asked, looking around as if expecting it to appear.
Heath cleared his throat. "We had a slight... timing issue. The turkey needs another hour or two."
Dottie gasped, fingering her pearl necklace nervously. "What kind of Thanksgiving has no turkey?" Her voice rose with each word, scandalized.
"A progressive one?" I suggested weakly.
"Don't worry," I added hastily, seeing Earl's face darken to an alarming shade of crimson. "The soy version tastes just like the real thing. You won't even notice the difference."
The skeptical glances around the table suggested no one believed me—including myself.
"Well," Earl said after an uncomfortable pause, "let's say grace and make the best of it."
We all bowed our heads as Earl began a lengthy thanksgiving prayer, thanking the Lord for everything from the food to the heritage of America to the blessings of capitalism. As he wound down, I couldn't resist adding my own contribution.
"And thank you to the noble spirits of the plants that nourish us today," I said solemnly.
Knox snorted into his napkin while Bitsy giggled nervously. Heath's foot found mine under the table, a gentle pressure that felt like solidarity.
"Amen," Dottie said loudly, clearly trying to gloss over my addition.
The serving began, with each person taking a reluctant slice of tofurkey. Heath added a generous helping of cranberry sauce to his plate—which prompted an immediate reaction from Dottie.
"You don't make your own cranberry sauce?" she asked, eyebrows arched high. "My mother always said you can judge a household by its cranberry sauce."
"The canned stuff is a tradition in the McGraw house," Heath defended, though I noticed his ears reddening.
"Homemade is far superior," Earl declared. "No comparison."
"I don't know," Knox chimed in, surprising me by backing his brother. "Something satisfying about the jelly—goes down smoother."
As the great cranberry debate raged on, I took my first bite of tofurkey and immediately regretted it.
The texture was somewhere between rubber and wet cardboard, with a flavor that reminded me of licking a vitamin bottle.
Hints of sage couldn't mask the underlying bitterness that lingered on my tongue like punishment.
I choked it down, reaching quickly for my water glass.
Around the table, similar reactions played out. Bitsy managed two bites before discreetly spitting into her napkin. Earl's face contorted as he manfully powered through a small piece. Knox didn't even try to hide his disgust, pushing his plate away entirely.
"It's... unique," Dottie offered with Southern politeness that couldn't mask her horror.
"It's awful," I admitted, pushing my own plate away. "I'm so sorry."
A moment of silence fell over the table before Heath burst out laughing. Not a polite chuckle, but a full-bodied laugh that came from deep in his chest. The tension broke, and soon everyone joined in—even Earl, whose booming guffaw rattled the water glasses.
"Well," Heath gasped, wiping tears from his eyes, "at least we have cranberry sauce."
"And Dottie's special Jell-O," I added, eyeing the wobbling green mass dubiously.
"It's a family recipe," Dottie sniffed, though a smile played at her lips.
The doorbell rang again, cutting through our laughter. Heath's expression instantly darkened, and I knew without asking who stood on the other side.
"I'll get it," I said, rising before Heath could. As I moved toward the door, I felt his eyes on me, concern radiating from him in waves.
Buck Jessup stood on the porch, dressed in black jeans and a western shirt with pearl snap buttons.
"Well, ain't this cozy," he drawled, pushing past me into the house without waiting for an invitation. "Hope I'm not interrupting your little family dinner."
"Actually, you are," I replied coldly. "What do you want, Buck?"
His smile didn't reach his eyes. "Just being neighborly. Thought I'd stop by and check on Heath. Make sure he's made the right decision about our... business matter."
Heath appeared in the hallway behind me, his jaw clenched so tight I could almost hear his teeth grinding. "This isn't a good time."
"Oh, I think it's the perfect time," Buck countered, moving toward the dining room. "With everyone gathered 'round. Especially the Vickerys."