Chapter 21
Chapter
Twenty-One
CLARA
Sweet potatoes.
Mini marshmallows.
Turkey and gravy.
Mashed potatoes and green bean casserole.
So much to do… still.
Our first Thanksgiving without him.
Not our first Thanksgiving with Virgil, though.
I n years past, he was always invited. Our neighbor. Bryson’s friend. The lone man on the mountain. Someone I worried about. Someone I hoped would find somebody someday.
Never thought he'd find us.
I lean against the sink, peeling sweet potatoes.
By four o'clock, the cabin smells like sage stuffing, roasted turkey, cinnamon, and browned butter.
The kids have been circling the kitchen for nearly an hour.
"When's dinner?" Luke asks.
"For the tenth time," Helen says dramatically, "it'll be ready when it's ready."
"That's not a time."
"It's a cooking time."
Luke narrows his eyes suspiciously. "That doesn't even make sense."
"It does to grown-ups."
Their bickering follows me around the kitchen as naturally as breathing.
Outside, the first hints of winter gather over the mountains. Low clouds cling to the peaks, turning the sky silver.
A truck door slams. My heart leaps before I can stop it.
Virgil.
I freeze, dish towel in hand.
God help me.
The man doesn't even have to knock anymore, and I still know exactly when he's arrived. The front door opens.
"Something smells burned,” he says in grumpy tones. But there’s a broad smile on his face that completely betrays him.
I roll my eyes immediately. "Happy Thanksgiving to you, too."
Luke launches himself across the room. "Vir-gull!"
Virgil catches him one-handed without breaking stride. "Buddy." The simple greeting makes something ache inside me.
Helen follows at a much more dignified pace. At least until Virgil ruffles her hair.
Then she scowls. "Stop doing that."
"No."
"Why?"
"Builds character."
She huffs.
Virgil grins some more.
The sight still catches me off guard. I don't think I'll ever get used to it. The man spent years looking permanently annoyed. Now he smiles more than he realizes. Most of the time because of my children. The realization settles heavily in my chest.
“And how’s the bear wrangler?” the towering redhead asks, folding his arms over his chest and fixing his gaze on me.
“Bear wrangler?”
“You earned it.”
“Maybe I did.”
Before I can dwell on it, Roscoe and Ginger arrive with another veteran in tow, Beau.
The dark-haired, bearded Marine finds a quiet corner where he observes without speaking.
That was Virgil once.
Not even a year ago.
The contrast to today amazes me. Luke hanging off one arm as he twirls him around until the little boy belly laughs. Helen begging to braid his beard, which earns her a grumpy refusal, though God help him, he thinks about it for a moment.
Next, Hadleigh and Hudson arrive. Then Abe, who takes up a spot by Beau.
The cabin fills quickly. Conversation. Laughter. Boots by the door. Steam rising from dishes.
For the first time since July, the place feels alive again. It’s both welcome and terrifying. Sometimes it feels like every step toward healing is a step away from Bryson. As though smiling means leaving him behind.
But I can’t deny my children things either. Like holidays and happy families and neighbors who prove far more festive than they’ll ever admit.
I carry the mashed potatoes to the table and stop short. My breath catches. The seating arrangement happened accidentally. At least I think it did.
Luke sits at one end. Helen beside him. Ginger. Roscoe. Me. The rest of the crew. And Virgil… in Bryson's chair.
Nobody says anything. Nobody even looks at it. Yet I can feel it. The weight of it. The history. The absence.
Virgil notices, too. I know because his shoulders go rigid. For one terrible second, I think he's going to stand. Move away from it and leave it empty.
He frowns. Then he looks at me, long and hard, a question in his eyes. I nod, and a shadow of sadness crosses his face. Then he settles back into it, slowly and carefully. Like he's asking permission from a ghost.
Something in my chest cracks. I don’t know if it’s good or bad. I just know things are changed.
Dinner begins. The kids chatter endlessly. Roscoe and Hudson tell terrible jokes. Ginger and Hadleigh pretend not to laugh at them. Beau and Abe stay quiet.
Virgil raves about my stuffing, devouring three helpings. It reminds me of that first terrible night when he showed up with chili, and Helen and Luke shoveled it down.
His gaze locks on mine, brown eyes warm and alive. Filled with something bittersweet, too. Don’t know if we’re sharing the same memory, but it feels shockingly intimate. Like we might be.
The normalcy of his look, the meal, all of it feels almost frightening. Like happiness sneaking through a cracked door.
Halfway through dinner, Luke lifts his glass. "I have something."
Everyone pauses.
"Oh no," Helen mutters.
Luke ignores her. "I'm thankful for Mama."
Clara swallows. "And Helen."
His sister immediately looks embarrassed. "And Ginger."
Ginger smiles. "And Roscoe."
The blond mountain man nods solemnly. The gratitude circles the table.
“And Vir-gull." The cabin goes quiet. My eyes lift, meeting Virgil's. Luke keeps talking, “Because he fixes stuff.”
A few people laugh. “But mostly because he stayed.”
Silence follows. Absolute silence.
Virgil's jaw tightens. Roscoe suddenly becomes fascinated with his potatoes. Ginger wipes at her eyes.
And me? I can't breathe because Luke doesn't understand what he just said. Not fully. But I do.
The little boy beams around the table. Completely oblivious. Then he grabs another dinner roll.
The moment passes. Conversation resumes. But not really. Not for me.
Because every few minutes my eyes drift toward the man sitting in Bryson's chair.
Toward the mountain man who keeps showing up, keeps fixing things, keeps staying. And for the first time since the flood, I allow myself to wonder what might happen if he never left.