Chapter 7 - THANKSGIVING MORNING
At 6:30 Thanksgiving morning, I slept.
That alone would have horrified Cynthia.
I woke at eight.
Made coffee.
Turned on music.
And cooked exactly what I had originally planned to cook for twelve people.
One turkey.
Mashed potatoes.
Dressing.
Green beans.
Cranberry sauce.
Pumpkin pie.
That was it.
At 9:15, the doorbell rang.
Anne stood there holding two casserole dishes.
Behind her was one of her daughters with rolls and a pie.
“You’re early,” I said.
“On purpose.”
Anne lowered her voice.
“Richard doesn’t know I’m here.”
I let them inside.
Then Anne touched my arm.
“Are you okay?”
That question almost broke me.
Not because I was fragile.
Because nobody in Graham’s family had asked it once.
“I will be.”
She nodded.
“I heard about the museum.”
My stomach tightened.
“How?”
“Richard told me last night.”
Of course.
“What did he say?”
“Not much.”
Her face had changed.
“He looked sick.”
Good.
I hated that thought as soon as I had it.
Anne continued.
“He said Graham told him you’d approved everything.”
“I didn’t.”
“I know.”
She looked toward the kitchen.
“Elise, Richard is going to speak to you today.”
“About the museum?”
“And Graham.”
Before I could ask more, another car pulled up.
Then another.
By noon, my driveway looked like a wedding venue.
But something amazing happened.
People brought food.
A lot of food.
Cousin Melissa brought sweet potatoes.
Graham’s brother arrived with mac and cheese.
My mother brought two pies and one expression that told me she was ready to commit a felony if required.
Even Cynthia arrived carrying Brussels sprouts.
She looked offended by them.
“I hope you’re happy,” she whispered.
“Extremely.”
“You embarrassed Graham.”
“He’s thirty-four.”
“Thirty-five.”
“Then he’ll survive.”
At 1:20, Graham arrived.
Alone.
He walked into the kitchen and stopped.
Platters covered every counter.
People laughed.
Anne was pouring wine.
Richard stood near the fireplace talking with my mother.
Graham looked at me.
“You turned it into a potluck.”
“Yes.”
“I told you—”
“And everyone lived.”
He stepped closer.
“We need to talk.”
“No.”
“Elise.”
“Guests are here.”
His jaw tightened.
That phrase looked familiar to him.
For years, “guests are here” had meant I swallowed whatever I was feeling.
Not today.
At two, everyone sat.
Thirty-two people.
Food passed hand to hand.
Nobody died because I hadn’t prepared thirteen dishes.
Nobody cared.
Then Cynthia tapped her glass.
“I’d like to say something.”
Oh, no.
She stood.
“First, I want to thank my wonderful son Graham for bringing everyone together.”
My fork stopped.
She smiled at him.
“And Elise, of course, for making his vision happen.”
I looked at Graham.
He looked at his plate.
Then Cynthia continued.
“Family means supporting one another’s dreams.”
My mother slowly put down her wine.
I knew that look.
Before she could speak, Richard stood.
“Actually, Cynthia, if you don’t mind, I’d like to say something too.”
The table went quiet.
Graham looked up.
Richard’s face was unreadable.
He raised his glass.
“To honesty.”
Nobody moved.
May you like
Then Richard looked directly at my husband.
“Because apparently we’re overdue for some.”
