Chapter 15 Natalie
Natalie
Thanksgiving Day didn’t go so great, but I’m determined that our (delayed) day of thanks will go better.
Only, I’m so tired that I don’t wake up to my alarm.
When I do wake up, I’m late making breakfast for the guests in the main house.
I rush over, filling in for Mrs. Murphy and her daughter still, and then I practically run back home.
I wake the kids the second I’m back—they slept in, too.
“We’re late!” I shout. The kids and I rush around like lunatics, but I manage to get them off to school without being late. That’s important, since they missed yesterday to help me.
But by the time they’re off, I’m way behind schedule.
I pull out the still-a-little-frozen turkey, fight with it to remove the innards, prep the stuffing inside, which isn’t really stuffing.
I learned from my mother to roast the turkey without stuff inside.
That causes problems with inconsistent cooking.
I fill it instead with lemon, rosemary, and oil.
Once it’s perfectly prepped and ready, I’m way behind schedule, so I do a little searching.
The internet’s a wonderful thing. It turns out, you can roast a turkey much faster at a high heat, and sometimes that works even better than the slow-roasting I usually do.
In Ireland, that means I set the oven at two hundred fifty degrees, Celsius.
Once I get that set, I leap into making rolls.
You can’t exactly rush rolls rising, or you risk having a bubbly, mushy mess.
Once I have the dough made, I take a little break.
Thanks to my preparation yesterday, I just need to bake most of the other stuff, but it’s already prepped.
Green bean casserole, check. Sweet potato casserole, check.
Mashed potatoes? I’ll just reheat them right before.
I’m so proud of myself for being prepared that I get a little distracted answering some emails from guests and prospective guests.
Then I start fiddling around with some website changes I’d been meaning to make.
When Cillian knocks, I rush to the door.
“Hey, there. I forgot you were coming over.”
“I tried calling,” he says. “But I guess you didn’t see?”
“Whoops,” I say. “I slept in, and then everything else snowballed.”
“No problem,” he says. “But I’m here to help.
I know yesterday was hard, so let me be your manual labor today.
” He’s tall, and broad, and we have the house to ourselves for once.
I should ask him to bring things over from the main house, but instead, I grab his collar and drag him up against the counter.
The next few minutes, I’m even more distracted than I was when I was checking emails. . .at least, until I hear some kind of beeping, and I realize the kitchen’s full of smoke.
I swear under my breath.
“Oh, no.” He grabs my shoulders and points me at the oven.
The smoke’s billowing out of the top and bottom, and. . . “The turkey’s on fire!” I shout. I grab a cup of water, and I fill it up. I’m about to pop the oven open and throw it when Cillian grabs my wrist.
“Don’t do that. It’s probably from the grease at a high temperature.”
“What do we do, then?” I ask.
He’s holding his phone. “We turn off the oven, and we wait. If it can’t get air, it’ll go out.”
Or it’ll burn the house down. “I think we should—”
He shakes his head. “Trust me. Let it go out on its own, or you could wind up with an explosion.”
I sigh, and then we both watch in horror as my one and only turkey roasts into black. Even if I had another, we really have no time to cook one, now.
And that’s how Cillian discovers that when I get really upset and overwhelmed, I cry.
“It’s fine.” Cillian looks beside himself as he pats my back. “I’ll go buy another turkey.”
I want to stop, but I find myself crying more. “It’s one p.m. There’s no time.” Great, now I’m hiccupping.
“Surely there are leftovers from yesterday’s feast?” He looks at me with trepidation, like I might bite. “Could we heat those up?”
“I left them out with breakfast so the guests could make sandwiches for lunch. It’s a big thing in the USA.” I frown. “I think there was a little left, maybe.” I throw my hands up in the air. “Gah, I ruined our own Thanksgiving.”
The fire alarm chooses that moment to start bleating at the top of its lungs. I suppose it doesn’t really have lungs, but it doesn’t need them. It’s loud enough to wake the dead already.
Cillian waves a towel at it until it finally, blessedly, stops.
“Alright, then here are our options.” Apparently Cillian’s quite the pragmatist. “We need meat for how many? Your kids, five, you and me, seven, Sam and. . .” His eyebrows rise.
“Yes, Richard’s coming.”
“That should be. . .awkward.” He laughs. “And Vanessa and her three, plus Trish.” He tilts his head. “Jack and his kids?”
I nod.
“Seventeen, then?”
“And Mason.” I cringe.
Cillian’s eyebrows shoot heavenward.
“I sort of made him a deal yesterday when he let the kids skip school that he could come today.” Now I’m really cringing. “I’m sorry—I was desperate right after Mrs. Murphy told me.”
He sighs. “Well, it should make an interesting memory, for sure. What about the pig? Is Amelia’s pig coming? Does it need a place setting?” At least he’s smiling.
“It’s Blaine’s pig,” I say. “And no, Pudge is definitely not coming. One pig is enough for any Thanksgiving meal.” Now I’m smiling, too.
I hope it’s not even coming to our house.
The last time Blaine brought Pudge over from her dad’s, she made a huge mess in the pantry.
“I’ll text Mason to make sure he knows not to bring her.
There’s too much other stuff happening.”
“And who will text me, to make sure I know your ex is coming?” Cillian asks, but again, at least he’s smiling.
I slide my phone into my pocket and cross the room. “I really am sorry.” I kiss him, but I definitely can’t get distracted, not again.
“That’s a little better.” But he’s still frowning. “But I’m still a little upset.”
I kiss him again, but then I pull away. “I have to make sure that fire goes out,” I remind him. “I can’t play anymore right now.”
His eyes are bright again, and I know he’s gotten over it. “Fine, so here’s what I was going to say. First, we dispose of that.” He points at the blackened turkey hulk, which is finally not burning, just smoking. “Then I start calling places to see who might have turkey.”
It’s not that popular in Ireland, so I’m not holding my breath. “And then?”
“I had another idea.” Cillian taps my nose.
“You know, I did some reading up on Thanksgiving. I know your family has very particular things in mind, but the first Thanksgiving in America was a celebration of how the natives helped the immigrants, and they ate things that both cultures were unaccustomed to, right?”
I nod.
“So how about I provide Irish stew for seventeen, and you provide the rest?”
“Seventeen?” My brow furrows. “But it’s eighteen.”
“Mason can eat the sides.” But he’s smiling when he grabs the smoking carcass with potholders and hauls it out the door. “The stew’s for everyone else.”
I actually love the idea of Irish stew as a main course, since my turkey went up in smoke.
After grabbing the modest container with the end of the turkey from last night at the main house, along with the other sides I prepared early, I set to work getting the other things ready for our feast. By the time the kids come home, the pies are cooling, the rolls are being basted with butter, and the casseroles are in the now-clean-again oven.
“Oh, this smells amazing.” Vanessa’s leading Trina inside, a smile on her face. “This is going to be the very best Thanksgiving ever.” Her smile slips just a little. “Since Jason died, anyway.”
“We’ve had some great ones,” Trish says. “Even without him. I like to think he’s here, in spirit at least, happy that we’re still blessed and doing well.”
“I do too,” Vanessa says. “He loved Thanksgiving so much.”
“Especially the turkey,” Trish says. “He could eat half a turkey himself.”
Oh, boy. “I do have a confession,” I finally admit.
“What?” Vanessa looks unduly alarmed as she looks around the room. “Is everyone okay? What’s going on?”
I laugh. “No one’s harmed, but I burned the turkey.”
“Oh, no,” Trish says. “But are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Other than a burned spot on the top of my oven, there were no casualties except the turkey itself.”
Vanessa’s eyes widen. “Thank goodness that didn’t happen yesterday.” We both start laughing at the same time.
“Right?” I shake my head. “The turkeys yesterday were perfect.”
“So what happened?” Trish asks.
I fill them in as Sam arrives, leaving out the kissing part.
Sam strides in, still wearing riding boots, but she somehow always manages to look like she’s never even been near a horse—no dirt, no horse hair, nothing.
Pristine. I have no idea how she does that.
My boots are always crusted with mud, my white breeches stained with grass and horse spittle, and my shirt always gets covered with gunk the second I walk near the barn.
“Then what are we eating?” Sam asks. “There’s no turkey? Really?”
I point at the Tupperware that contains just enough turkey for four or five people. “We have that, but it’s maybe got enough for a bite each. But. . . Cillian had an idea.”
Before I can explain, he pulls up outside, his Audi gleaming in the rare Irish sunlight.
“He’s here.” I point. “He brought Irish stew, so we’ll have a traditional Thanksgiving with a twist. As Irish immigrants, we’re adding an Irish dish.”
“I hope he brought a lot,” Sam mutters.
“What?” Vanessa and I both turn.
“Well.” She looks at her hands, which is not at all like her. “I might have mentioned Thanksgiving to Richard.”
“Oh, no, I know he’s coming.” I pretend I’m not nervous at all. “It’s fine.”