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Natalie opened the oven door and peeked in.
“Is this one of those ‘watched pot’ things?” asked Nick from the door. “You basted it only ten minutes ago. Or is it those?” He pointed to the bowl where—underwater to keep them fresh—a large potato, peeled and eighthed, reposed with two carrots and a parsnip. “Only I thought you said they go in later.”
Natalie shut the door and turned, leaning against the oven door. “Not that much later,” she replied, and then hurriedly straightened away from the heat at her back. “Oh, when we were kids the turkey’d be in the oven for hours, with homemade cranberry sauce, sweet potato pudding, and a big pumpkin pie for dessert. Richie kept up the tradition—big family do—well, I suppose it’s more Sara kept it up, but it comes to the same thing. I remember….” She sighed. “I always came home with Tupperware full of food for a week.”
Nick looked amused. “I think you’ve got enough in that oven for several days.”
Natalie gave the warm stovetop a pat. “At least two meals, plus sandwiches for work. Actually,” she added ruefully, “I did debate getting a small chicken—I do like a nice drumstick—but I don’t have Mom’s recipes for croquettes, curry, and leftover pie. And she didn’t raise me to throw out good food. If I bought a whole bird today, I’d feel compelled to have to deal with the carcass afterwards; and I don’t fancy simmering a huge pot for hours to make stock.” She laughed. “I’m not saying chicken soup doesn’t have its points; but I never had the knack.” She moved briskly past Nick, who turned as she went through the swing door to the dining room. “Anyway, I don’t have the time. Sandwiches I can brown-bag to work. Soup not so much.”
“One of those thermoses?” Nick suggested uncertainly
“Can’t be bothered washing it after,” Natalie called back. “Always hard getting into the bottom properly.” She headed for the sideboard, pulled out the cutlery drawer, and began to set the table with Nana’s best silver. Then she swung round, forks in hand. “You are staying?” she demanded. “I don’t fancy Thanksgiving on my own.”
“Yes, all right,” said Nick. “But there’s no point in setting me knives and forks, if this is some backhanded way of getting me to try your roast, whatever size it is. You know me and solid food. If ‘giving thanks’ is on the table, I’ll not thank you if I have to make a sudden bolt for the sink.”
“It’s an idea,” said Natalie, eyes narrowed. “But no, I’ll have mercy on you. This time.”
Later, she delicately carved her own portion, spooned out the sides, and filled her glass. If the liquid in Nick’s glass across the table did not quite look like red wine, neither of them mentioned it.
“So … Thanksgiving,” said Nick, after he’d sipped his way through about a third of his meal, watching Natalie womanfully work her way round her plate. “If what I see on TV is true, isn’t there some sort of ritual where all the dinner guests, one by one, tell each other what they’re thankful for?”
“Oh, I’m thankful I didn’t burn anything,” said Natalie lightly. Then, a little more seriously, “I’m thankful I didn’t have to cover for someone again this year, but have the day off to spend with you.” She hesitated, and then said softly, “I’m thankful you wanted to spend it with me.” She smiled sweetly at him—and then laughed, just a little. With a wicked twinkle, she added, “And I’m thankful you haven’t yet made a move to the stereo to turn on the Nightcrawler.” She picked up her glass, lifted it as if in toast, and then drank.
“I’m thankful for you,” said Nick simply.
“Me?” Natalie sputtered, and put her glass down.
“You offer hope.”
“Hope?! I’ve done nothing,” she expostulated, “nothing but try this and try that … and fail, and fail again.”
“And try again,” Nick said gently. “While there’s life, and all that.” He looked at his own glass, picked it up to swirl the red liquid inside, and then put it back down again.
For a long moment Natalie looked at him. Then he raised his eyes. “Of course I’m thankful.”
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