Chapter 11
Theo
Alex and I are in my kitchen by late morning, the counters covered with everything we need for Thanksgiving dinner. The turkey is prepped and ready for the oven, the potatoes waiting to be peeled, and the good china stacked by the sink.
We drove into Seattle before dawn to volunteer at the downtown shelter, same as we do every year.
We decided early on that if we were going to make our living feeding people who could afford thirty-dollar entrees, we should also spend time feeding people who actually needed it.
So every Thanksgiving, we close the restaurant for a few days to give staff a paid break, and Alex and I make the rounds at the local community kitchen and the Seattle shelter instead.
It’s become one of my favorite traditions.
Now we’re home, prepping for the family dinner, moving around each other with the kind of efficiency that comes from running a restaurant together for years.
Alex has been talking nonstop about a place he visited in the Napa Valley last week—Solstice Estates—a hilltop property with old stone buildings and private terraces.
Alex is always chasing the next idea, always leaning toward what’s coming instead of what already works. Sometimes I wonder how long Dark River will hold him. He loves the restaurant, loves what we’ve built, but there’s a quiet restlessness in him when he talks about places like that.
“It’s not just a winery,” he says, dicing onions with the same effortless speed that still impresses me.
“It’s more like a hub. They work with small vineyards and winemakers who would never survive on their own, help them with distribution, marketing, branding, the whole business side.
Everything’s intentional. Elevated, but not pretentious.
” He glances up at me, eyes bright. “I want to see if we can get access to a few of their producers. Not as some mass thing, just special bottles. Build a menu around stories people don’t usually get to taste. ”
I’m nodding along, but my mind keeps drifting to places I’ve been trying not to let it go. I haven’t seen Emma in over a week, and the distance hasn’t helped the way I thought it would.
“Taste this.” Alex holds out a wooden spoon with stuffing on it. “Tell me if it needs more sage.”
I take the bite and let the flavors settle. Bread, butter, herbs, celery, onion. “Yeah, it needs more. And maybe a little more butter.”
He tastes it himself, head tilted the way it always is when he’s analyzing a dish. “Damn. You might be right.”
“Occasionally I have decent instincts in a kitchen,” I say, grinning. “Shocking, I know.”
He snorts and flicks a piece of celery at me, which I dodge. We work in comfortable silence after that, the kitchen filling with the smell of turkey roasting and herbs and butter and all the things that make a house smell like Thanksgiving.
Chloe stayed at Calvin and Maren’s last night since the early morning drive to Seattle is a bit much for a seven-year-old.
She comes with me to the Dark River Community Kitchen every year because I want her to understand that sharing what we have is part of who we are, but the Seattle trip is just for me and Alex.
The windows are starting to fog up from the heat.
I’ve got my sleeves rolled up, hands covered in flour from rolling out dough for the rolls.
The front door swings open and I hear the familiar chaos of arrival—Maren’s voice, Calvin’s lower response, the scramble of dog claws on hardwood.
Seconds later, Chloe bounces into the kitchen like she’s spring-loaded.
“Daddy!” She crashes into my legs. “We made pie! Aunt Maren let me do the lattice top and it only broke a little bit!”
“Only a little bit? Well that’s basically professional,” I tell her, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. She smells like sugar and dog and the lavender soap Maren keeps in her bathroom.
Laila bounds in after her, golden fur flying, tail wagging so hard her whole back end swings with it. She makes the rounds, nose to Alex’s hand, then mine, then back to Chloe, who’s digging through her backpack for something.
“Daddy, look, I drew us all at the festival,” she says, holding up a crayon drawing of three figures. My stomach drops. It’s me, her, and Emma.
“Wow sweetie, that’s a great drawing,” I say, keeping my voice steady.
“Yeah,” she says, looking down at it. “I really miss her.”
I crouch down next to her so we’re at the same level. “Yeah? You just saw her last week at school. It’s just a normal holiday break.”
She shrugs, tracing her finger over the red-haired figure. “I know. But I miss her anyway. She’s so nice and she makes everything so fun.” She looks up at me then, those big eyes so much like mine. “When are we gonna hang out with her again? That was so much fun. Can we do that again soon?”
I don’t have an answer for that question. I ruffle her hair gently, trying to keep my voice light. “We’ll see, kiddo.”
Maren appears in the doorway, saving me from having to say anything else. She’s carrying a pie with a golden lattice crust and deep purple blackberry filling peeking through. “The lattice is rustic,” she winks, catching my eye with a smile. “We’re calling it intentional.”
“It looks perfect,” I say. She makes it with the blackberries that grow at her and Calvin’s house, the home we grew up in, and it always takes me back to summers with the whole family, before Mom and Dad passed.
Chloe perks up at the sight of Laila pawing at the back door, and she shoves the drawing into her into my hand before bolting towards the door. They both disappear outside, Chloe’s laughter floating back through the open door as Laila barks with joy.
I look down at the drawing. Three stick figures holding hands, all of them smiling. I fold it carefully and slip it into my back pocket before anyone notices.
Calvin follows Maren in with a baking dish, the smell of garlic and parmesan wafting up from under the foil. “Scalloped potatoes,” he says, setting it on the counter. “Mom’s recipe. I found it in one of her old cookbooks last month.”
I have to swallow before I can speak. Mom’s scalloped potatoes were legendary, with their layers of thinly sliced potatoes swimming in cream and cheese, the top perfectly golden and crispy. She made them every Thanksgiving and Christmas without fail.
“You cracked the code?” Alex asks, already lifting the foil to peek.
“Took me three tries,” Calvin admits. “The first batch wasn’t right, and neither was the second. But I think I finally got it.”
Alex takes a small taste from the edge, chewing thoughtfully, and Calvin watches him with the kind of anxious anticipation I recognize from every chef who’s ever put a dish in front of a critic.
A slow smile spreads across Alex’s face. “Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Yeah, that’s it. That’s exactly how I remember it.”
Calvin’s shoulders drop with relief, and Maren reaches over to squeeze his arm.
There’s a moment where we’re all just standing there in my warm kitchen, holding pieces of Mom’s memory in our hands.
Everyone in this room loved her fiercely, and days like this are when I feel her and dad’s absence the most, and also, somehow, when I feel their presence is the strongest. In the food we make.
In the traditions we keep. In the way we keep showing up for each other, year after year.
Then Chloe bursts back in with Laila at her heels, both of them breathless and grinning, grass stuck to Chloe’s knees and Laila’s tongue lolling out the side of her mouth. The moment breaks and we all laugh at the sight of them, two wild creatures who’ve clearly been having the time of their lives.
“Daddy,” Chloe says, sidling up to me with the look she gets when she’s about to negotiate. “Can I have a little bit of the pumpkin cheesecake in the fridge? Just a tiny bit?”
“Dinner’s in less than two hours, bug. You can have it after that. You’ll survive.”
“I might not,” she says gravely. “I might perish.”
“Perish?” I raise an eyebrow at Calvin. “What have you been teaching her?”
He holds up his hands. “We’ve been reading A Little Princess. She’s picked up some vocabulary.”
“I’m very literary now,” Chloe announces, over-enunciating each syllable with the confidence of someone who learned the word yesterday and has been waiting for a chance to use it.
The front door opens and heavy footsteps sound down the hall. I turn and Dominic appears in the kitchen doorway.
“Hey,” I say. “Good to see you. You’re not as late as I thought you were going to be.”
“Yeah, I had to make a stop on the way and thought traffic would be worse.” His voice is casual, but there’s a slight smug look to him that throws me off. Something’s up.
“Well, I’m glad to see you too,” Alex says, glancing up from the stove. “But you better not have shown up empty-handed to Thanksgiving dinner.”
The smug smile grows. “Oh, I didn’t show up empty-handed.”
And that’s when Jack and Lark step into view from the hallway behind him, both of them grinning like they’ve just pulled off the heist of the century.
My jaw drops. We all thought they were doing Thanksgiving with Lark’s family in California this year.
“UNCLE JACK! UNCLE JACK!” Chloe squeals. “YOU’RE HERE! YOU’RE ACTUALLY HERE!”
“Monster!” Jack calls out, his affectionate nickname for her since she was a baby, and drops into a crouch just in time to catch her as she launches herself at him. He scoops her up, spinning her.
Maren makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sob and crosses the kitchen in about three steps to tackle Lark in a hug that nearly knocks them both into the doorframe.
They’re both laughing, holding onto each other tight, talking over each other in that way they have where neither of them finishes a sentence but they both seem to understand perfectly what the other is saying.