Some part of her would have believed a perfect turkey might reopen the door to Leo.
I thought instead about Martha’s kitchen.
My list.
The returned key.
Then I typed:
No, thank you.
Three words.
I sent it.
Then walked next door.
Martha answered wearing a sweatshirt that said RETIRED: ASK SOMEONE ELSE.
“What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
“My children are with their in-laws.”
“So?”
“So I bought a small chicken and planned to watch old movies while judging everyone else’s cooking online.”
“Want company?”
She grinned.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Thanksgiving morning was one of the calmest holidays I had experienced in years.
I slept until eight.
Watched part of the parade in pajamas.
Made pecan pie.
At noon, I showered and wore a burgundy sweater I had nearly donated because Sarah once said it made me look “too serious.”
At one-thirty, I carried the pie and wine across the yard.
Martha had set good china for two.
“You did all this?”
“I respect poultry.”
We laughed.
