Chapter Nine
Jacob
Walking up to the Lukes’ front door with my mother by my side and a sweet potato pie in hand, I shivered from the cool weather and the nervousness I had no business feeling.
I’d been in this house a hundred times over the years, knew the way the porch boards creaked, the exact pitch of the doorbell.
After my father passed away, Mrs. Luke insisted on including my mother and me during their Thanksgiving dinner, so being here over the past five years had become a tradition.
But tonight was different. Tonight, Amariah would be here.
Due to her work schedule, Amariah hadn’t been home for Thanksgiving in about seven years.
She had no idea of this new tradition, or at least, I didn’t think she did.
When I saw her at the store yesterday, I didn’t mention it because it wasn’t my place.
I hoped her parents had prepared her for our attendance.
Most of all, I hoped that the truce we’d called between us could withstand a family dinner.
My mother rang the bell, and Amariah answered.
Her sweater sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, flour smudged on her wrist, evidence that she had been in the kitchen making last-minute meal preparations.
The sight of her fitting into the holiday vibe made it feel like old times, as if Skye Ridge were home again for her.
Unintentionally, my eyes roamed her entire body.
The oversized burnt orange sweater over dark brown leggings and fluffy socks was the sexiest view I’d seen in a long time, and just like that, I forgot the November chill.
“You made it,” she said, her eyes softening as she smiled.
So, she knew we were coming. Nice.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I managed, holding up the dish. “My mom’s famous sweet potato pie.”
Amariah took the pie from my hands as she stood back and ushered us inside from the cold.
I allowed my mother to step in before me, then closed and locked the door behind us.
As we peeled off our coats to hang them on the coat rack, Amariah handed the pie to her mother, who whisked it away into the dining room.
“You all didn’t have to bring anything. We’ve been slaving since last night.” Amariah glanced over her shoulder and then pointed at herself. “Well, I have been slaving. She hands down more orders than a prison warden.”
“I heard that!” Mrs. Luke yelled from a distance.
My mother embraced Amariah tightly. “It’s so good to see you.” She beamed. “And nonsense. I bring that pie every year, and besides, it’d be rude to come empty-handed.”
“It’s so good to see you, too, Mrs. Gold. And far be it for me to stand in the way of tradition. Besides, I would’ve snuck across the street to beg for a slice, so now, I don’t have to beg.”
She and my mother shared a hearty laugh.
The magnetic sound of Amariah’s laughter hit me like it always did, warm and inviting, as if this were our regular routine.
By the time it subsided, Mrs. Luke was back in the living room.
She greeted me and immediately started gabbing it up with my mother as they always did.
Over the years, the two of them had become as close as Amariah and I had been when we were young. That’s when Amariah turned to greet me.
“Jacob.” Her voice was timid, as if testing to see if the truce was still intact.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Mari,” I offered with a warm smile and outstretched arms.
Her eyes danced with a hint of relief as she eased into my embrace.
The feel of her against me hit like a thud to the chest. Sparks tingled my nerve endings like an old car battery being ignited.
The familiarity made me pull her closer and squeeze her a bit tighter.
We hadn’t hugged or even been near each other in years, and the old feelings from our friendship and my unspoken feelings rushed back to me as if it had only been yesterday.
I could hide behind my feelings all I wanted, but I couldn’t deny that I missed this.
I missed us. In whatever form that meant.
“Well, I guess I’m just a bump on a log.” Mr. Luke’s voice broke Amariah and me out of the trance we’d fallen into.
She spun around, tooting her nose at him. “Oh, Daddy, please. Keep on, and I’ll take you back to the hospital for Thanksgiving dinner.”
“So what? They have a mean banana pudding and Salisbury steak.”
“That you can’t eat,” Mrs. Luke chimed in, high-fiving Amariah.
He cut his eyes to his wife and held his chest, feigning shock. “Linda! You’re supposed to be on my side.”
We all laughed at him, and he did as well, which brought on a small coughing spell.
Amariah rushed to give him his water, and he drank small sips to clear his throat.
It was rough seeing Mr. Luke parked in a wheelchair with a double oxygen tank strapped to the side and the oxygen tube under his nose.
It also reminded me of my father when he became thinner.
We’d missed the warning signs of his declining health.
Pancreatic cancer came in like a thief in the night.
It was eight months of watching my father deteriorate little by little until one day he was gone.
It still baffled me to think that five years ago, at the start of the new year, my father was alive, healthy, and happy, and before the next year could arrive, he was resting in eternal peace.
Ever since the diagnosis and up until my father closed his eyes for the final time, Mr. Luke had been there for me.
It was my duty and my honor to be there for him during his difficult time.
I prayed that Amariah and Mrs. Luke had many more years with him and me, too.
“Stop all that fussing, old man.” I walked over to Mr. Luke, bending to give him a quick hug and slapping fives with him.
“I would, but they’re trying to starve me to death over here. When is dinner ready?” Mr. Luke joked, looking around at all of us.
Mrs. Luke turned to her daughter, placing her hands on her hips. “You know, I think you might be right. Skye Ridge Hope Memorial might be missing a patient.”
“I have to say I’m with Adam on this one, Melinda. Point me to the food. I’m starving,” my mother quipped as Mrs. Luke playfully swatted her shoulder.
“Dinner is ready,” Mrs. Luke declared. “Everyone to the dining room.”
Amariah started to wheel her father to go eat, but I stepped in to help. The moment I did, I couldn’t help but take in the room around us. Amariah’s touch was everywhere.
Each corner was adorned with small table stands topped with vases of burnt orange and burgundy flowers.
A floral arch framed the window, and a brown-and-beige banner stretched across it, the words Happy Thanksgiving elegantly etched in brown and gold lettering.
The dining table was dressed to perfection.
An elegant beige-and-gold runner stretched down the center, lined with assorted colors of fall pumpkin ornaments, matching floral arrangements, and sprigs of greenery nestled between the serving dishes.
Each place setting gleamed in gold and burgundy, the napkins fanned gracefully over the plates, and the glasses were already filled with sweet tea and water.
At past dinners with the Lukes, we might’ve used the good China at best, but nothing like this.
This looked like a feast fit for royalty.
My mother was the first to praise the décor, her delight filling the room.
I wasn’t one for fuss or frills, but even I had to admit, it felt right.
The decorations breathed life into the space, adding a cozy kind of holiday spirit.
Just like her work at the store, Amariah had managed to turn something ordinary into something extraordinary.
Maybe she was on to something after all.
Once we all sat down with Mr. Luke at the head of the table, he asked me if I’d do the honor of saying grace.
“Of course,” I agreed, taking my mother’s hand, then holding on to Mr. Luke’s on my left side.
Across the table, Amariah held Mr. Luke’s other hand and then joined hands with her mother.
“If all hearts and minds are clear. Heavenly Father, we thank you for this day. For the blessing of being able to see it and share it with our loved ones. We thank you for time—the time you grant us each day and the time you gift us with those we love. May we cherish these moments of togetherness and never take for granted your sacrifice, nor your grace and mercy. As we partake of this delicious feast, bless the hands that prepared it, and may it add nourishment to our souls rather than pounds to our weight. It is in your son, Jesus’ name we pray. Amen.”
When everyone opened their eyes, mine were fixated on Amariah. Her gaze met mine for a moment, just long enough for a faint blush to warm her beautiful tawny skin before she looked down at the spread of food across the table.
The prayer still echoed in my chest, settling somewhere deep.
Gratitude washed over me. After all these years, it felt like Amariah and I were finally finding our way back.
There were still stones left unturned, sure, but beneath it all was something familiar.
Something that felt like the possibility of having my person back.
I blinked when Mrs. Luke let out a joyous shout of praise. “The way Jacob prayed that prayer, we must be eating manna straight from heaven!” she bellowed, hands raised high.