Chapter 52 The Thanksgiving Special
The Thanksgiving Special
Poppy
I steal downstairs before anyone else on Thanksgiving morning, Gator trotting beside me.
I’m not a professional chef, and I don’t want to be, but there’s a special satisfaction that comes in setting up my workstation
for the flurry of cooking I’m about to attempt. I feed Gator and make a cup of coffee. I arrange my stack of printed recipes
on the island, and thumb through Julia Child’s The Way to Cook for the gravy recipe that Jack showed me one afternoon in the restaurant’s office. I see our kitchen with new eyes, now:
the beautiful appliances, the marble countertops, the neat rows of equipment organized in each cabinet. The refrigerator is
bursting with the supplies that Julia and I got a few days ago, including a huge turkey.
I weave my hair into a braid. I wash my hands and don an apron I pilfered from Fable. It was in the black hole of clothes
stacked in the corner of the room Jack and I shared. I didn’t feel bad about taking it. I made off with one of his sweaters
and two of his T-shirts, too.
“Last night was the last time I’m going to wear his shirt to bed,” I proclaim to Gator.
His eyes regard me dubiously; I’ve been saying this for days, after all. He stretches, then goes to perch on the arm of his favorite chair. He’s settled into life in Rye rather well, even though he’s sharing his space with a bossy little dog.
“Some assistant you are.” He meows lazily, settling in for a nap. I put my hand on my hip. “You’re right. I can handle it
all myself.”
I decided a week ago that I wanted to cook Thanksgiving dinner for the family. Salt-brined turkey with homemade gravy. Mom’s
famous sausage stuffing. Mashed potatoes, sweet potato casserole, and creamed onions with sherry. Green beans amandine and
fresh biscuits. Homemade cranberry sauce, too, with dried cherries and ginger. The last one is a recipe Jack gave me; one
year he worked at a hotel restaurant that did a huge Thanksgiving spread, and the cranberry sauce was everyone’s favorite.
Caroline brought over two pies last night—pumpkin and coconut cream—and she even let me take a shot at her sweet potato pie
recipe.
I have my work cut out for me.
Yesterday, I puzzled out the timing. The turkey and fresh gravy will take ages, but it’ll be worth it. The stuffing will take
a long time as well, but I can do the potatoes in advance, and blanche the green beans later so they’ll be ready for a quick
sauté in butter and toasted almond slivers just before plating. The biscuits will make a bit of a mess, but the dough doesn’t
need resting time. After watching Jack create elaborate, sometimes to-the-second schedules in Fable’s kitchen, I feel fairly
confident I’ll be able to pull today off without many surprises.
“Should we watch the parade?” Although Gator won’t suddenly start answering me, it feels better to talk aloud. Less lonely.
I bite my lip, staving off both a wave of heartache and—curiously—homesickness.
I miss Fable’s kitchen. I miss waking up to salt air and palm trees. Most of all I miss Jack, and how it felt to be in his
arms. I sneak a look at my phone, but I don’t have any new messages. To send a happy thanksgiving!! text that goes unanswered would be humiliating. I consider texting Kiara, but having her leave me on read would be nearly
as bad.
I turn on the television, even though the parade hasn’t even started yet, and take out the stuffing ingredients.
One very good thing about cooking a complicated meal: There isn’t much time to wallow.
An hour later, the turkey is in the oven, the giblets are browning on the stove along with celery, carrots, and onion, and
I’m on my second cup of coffee. I’ve just started the cranberry sauce when Julia walks into the kitchen. Caroline strolls
behind her, hiding a yawn.
“Oh, wow.” Julia takes in the scene, which, although chaotic, has a certain sort of haphazard order to it. “This is amazing,
Pops. How can we help?”
“You’ve been busy,” Caroline agrees. She checks her phone. “It’s barely nine.”
I put down the knife I was using to cut the ginger, staring at my sister. “You’re going to help?”
“Of course. We all cook on this holiday.”
“I can handle it.”
“I know you can.” She hugs me, resting her head on my shoulder. “I’m not doubting that for a second.”
“But aren’t you—I thought you didn’t like the San Diego idea.”
“I still think Diamond Bay is the spot for you.” She hums as she pulls away, accepting the cup of coffee and kiss that Caroline
gives her. “But of course I support you.” She sips her coffee, looking at me over the rim of the mug. “Speaking of Florida,
have you . . . ?”
“No.” I busy myself with a gulp of coffee. “It’s over.”
“Okay, okay.”
I clear my throat. “If you want to help, you can start by peeling the sweet potatoes.”
Julia and Caroline are good assistants, it turns out. Mom, too, when she walks downstairs in a robe and slippers, Miso trotting
after her. Finally Dad comes in, and if he’s taken aback by the organized chaos, he doesn’t show it.
He rolls up his sleeves and layers biscuit dough, in fact.
My chest won’t stop aching, this sharp little pang that threatens tears whenever I look up from what I’m doing and see the scene before me. I’ve never felt that I was such a part of my family until today. I fit right in, instead of being an afterthought.
Jack should be here. He deserves a family like this just as much as anyone else. I hope he’s having Thanksgiving dinner in
the first place; I trust that Kiara is making him do something with her.
Dad’s phone starts to ring. He gestures that he’s going to take the call, heading into the next room. I wipe my hands on a
dishcloth and take over on the biscuit dough. I knead it again, likely a little too hard, but the memory that spills into
my mind makes the paper cut of hurt in my chest turn into a knife wound. It’s all too easy to think about what happened when
Jack and I baked the pop tarts together; all too easy to call up half a dozen other moments that made me fall in love with
him. I miss him in an expansive, bruising way, as if my heart’s an overfilled glass and the surface tension just broke.
Even though this is my meal, my creation, his fingerprints are all over it. I’m going to taste him with every bite. A tear
blurs my vision. I blink it away impatiently. It’s not fair that chefs use food as a Cupid’s arrow.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a man leaning against the doorway, ankles crossed, arms over his chest.
“Don’t knead it too much,” he says with a voice like velvet. “Biscuit dough likes to be relaxed.”
No. It’s not Jack. I haven’t resorted to imagining him bossing me around in my kitchen; I’m not that pathetic.
He comes closer. I squeeze my eyes shut.
That salt-and-pine scent. His unmistakable presence, identifiable without vision. I open one eye cautiously.
I’m alone in the kitchen.
Alone except for Jack.
I straighten warily. I must have been so wrapped up in my thoughts, I didn’t realize when my family slipped away. Jack quirks
up one side of his mouth, as if amused by my reaction. The kitchen island stands between us, a solid barrier.
“Did you come to settle in before starting the Green Street job?”
“No.”
“Then to interview with Dad for something else.”
“No.”
“Then—whatever, it doesn’t matter. I’m busy.”
He comes around the island slowly. “Poppy. Look at me.”
Fat, hot tears well in my eyes. “I don’t want to.”
“Please, sweetheart. I’ve missed you glaring at me.”
I laugh wetly, despite myself, and wipe my cheeks with a rough hand. His eyes are wide and endless green, but otherwise, he
looks terrible. His face looks thinner, and his beard desperately needs a trim. The dark hollows under his eyes tug at my
heart.
He looks as terrible as I feel.
“I need to get back to prep,” I whisper. “I’m on a schedule.”
“Five minutes.” His hand twitches, as if he wants to reach out, maybe touch my face or tug my braid or any of the tiny things
I once took for granted when it came to his affection. “Just give me five minutes.”
I cross my arms over the apron, backing against the opposite counter. Jack doesn’t follow me. He just waits, only the slight
tap of his foot betraying his restlessness. After a moment I realize I’m matching it, beat for beat, only with my fingernails
against my arm. I notice that there’s a package under his arm. Pink wrapping paper with a white bow.
“What’s that?”
“Do I get my five minutes?”
I nod. Another tear rolls down my cheek. I dispatch it swiftly as he holds out the package.
“I’m sorry it didn’t come in time for opening night,” he says.
I unwrap it slowly. A chef’s jacket, just my size . . . dyed a lush pink. My initials are embroidered on each sleeve, P.W., with P. Winfield spelled out below the collar. Just like Jack’s chef’s whites. The fabric is thick and sturdy, the sort of thing that would
be perfect to wear in Fable’s kitchen.
Slowly, I hug it to my chest.
“I’m so sorry, Poppy,” he whispers.
“I trusted you.” I can barely get the words out, my throat feels so raw. I’ve thought about this for weeks, and it’s what stings the most, at the end of all of this. I trusted him, put my full faith in him, and he never put his faith in us. “I wanted a future with you, I wanted your—”
“I know,” he says, interrupting gently. “Let me explain.”
“Five minutes,” I remind him.
He smiles slightly as he settles against the kitchen island. The four or so feet between us feels irrepressibly long. Still,
I stay on my side, drinking in every detail. He clears his throat, running the hand covered in those tiny, pointed knife tattoos
through his unruly dark locks. I clutch the jacket even tighter, as if it’ll provide me some measure of protection against
this moment.
“I figured that my parents didn’t want me because there was something wrong with me.” He laughs, short and bitter, gaze dropping
to the floor. “You know? My father didn’t care to stick around after my mother told him she was pregnant. My mother held me
once before handing me to the social worker. I wasn’t worth keeping.”
“Jack—”
“I need you to hear this,” he says quietly. “Please, Poppy.”
I press my lips together, heart breaking all over again for that little boy, starting his life without a family.
“I assumed it was my fault. I thought, what did I do? What was so wrong with me that my parents didn’t want to keep me? And
then I knew why, foster placement after foster placement. No one wanted me. I wasn’t . . . worthy of what other kids had.
If no one wanted me when I was a kid, then definitely no one would want me when I was a teenager on the verge of aging out.”
His voice wavers, but only for a moment.
“And then Sal and Kiara happened, and I didn’t trust it. I blew it all up. Eventually you came along, and I didn’t trust it.
I was too afraid of what you were offering. When it came to your dad, the deal I made with him—I told myself it was okay because
I’d never fall for you, but especially because I never imagined you’d fall for me too. But I did. You did.”
He talks in a rush, his eyes vibrant with emotion. He takes one step in my direction, and then another. There’s still a barrier
between us, however fragile.
“I’m sorry I lied to you. Pushed you to feel a certain way about your family.
If there’s anyone who deserves better than that, it’s you.
” He’s close enough now we could touch, if either of us leaned in a little more.
“I love you, Poppy. I—god, I love you so much it terrifies me. You make me want to be a better man. A happy man.” He shakes his head. “I’m not good at this.”
My heart is beating so fast, it might sprint right out of my chest. Despite what I knew he felt for me in his soul, I didn’t
know if I’d ever hear those words from his lips.
“Keep going,” I say breathlessly.
“I regretted not going after you the second you left. It nearly killed me.” His voice cracks, pain crossing over his face.
“I want a future with you. A life. You’re my person, and I want to be your person, and I’m sorry I didn’t say that when I
had the chance. I want everything you can give me, and more.”
He leans in, hand curving around my jaw, carefully tilting up my face. His breath mingles with mine, lips a mere inch from
touching.
“As long as you’ll give it back,” I murmur.
He crushes his mouth to mine. I loop my arms around his neck, jacket falling to the floor as I rise onto my toes to deepen
the angle. His hand unravels my braid, sinking into my hair greedily; he bites my lip, tongue stroking mine when my mouth
opens. His hard, angular body presses me against the countertop. I taste a little salt, either from my tears or his.
The kitchen timer dings.
We break apart, laughing, and then our foreheads are touching, hands roaming freely. The ferocity in his expression sends
a shiver of delight down my spine.
“Say you’ll have me, Poppy,” he says, once he’s recovered enough to talk. “Put on the jacket, let me be your sous chef, and
I’ll spend my life believing in you like you believe in me.”
“I love you too. So, so much. Yes, Jack. Yes.” I pepper his beard with kisses.
I can’t stop touching him, reminding myself that this is real and not my imagination.
Dozens of questions about the future whistle through my mind, but I ignore them all—for now—in favor of kissing him again.
I can’t wait to get him alone later. I want to hear about his plans for Fable.
I want to offer my own ideas, and bicker with him about all of it, and fall in love with him a little more each time I taste his food.
“You’re mine. I’m yours. Heard?”
He lifts me off the ground and spins me in a circle, and I whisper my answer into his ear like a vow.