Thankful Thomas's Arc

Chapter 15 of 15

Thomas stared at the pile of turkey pieces on the counter. His arms ached from the hatchet work, and his eyes burned from the long night. He had thawed the bird, but now he had to cook a full feast and host a crowd by himself before midday. His hands shook as he reached for a pot. He could not do all of this alone. Not this time. A knock came at the cottage door. Dorothy opened it before he could move. His wife stepped in, still smoothing her pink sweater from the cold walk. Behind her came Quincey, their granddaughter, her dark hair pulled back, a notepad already in her hand. "Grandpa, you look half dead," Quincey said. She set the pad down and rolled up her sleeves. Dorothy touched his cheek. "You've been up all night," she said. "Sit for one minute. We're here now." Thomas felt the weight lift just a little. He pointed to the turkey pieces and told them his problem. The food was raw. The guests were coming. And he had no hands left in him. Quincey took charge like she was running a case. "We split the work," she said. She assigned the oven to Dorothy for the roasting pans. She took the sides and the greens for herself. Thomas would tend the brick oven in the yard for the pies. "You cook what you do best," Quincey told him. "We cover the rest." But three cooks could not greet guests who arrived early. Someone had to meet them at the door and keep them smiling while the kitchen ran. As if on cue, boots thumped on the step. Marcus Tillbury leaned through the doorway, cheeks red, a grin splitting his bearded face. He was Dorothy's charming brother, the uncle who could talk for an hour and never bore a soul. "I heard there was a feast in trouble," he said. "Lucky for you, I came to tell stories, not to cook." Thomas laughed for the first time all morning. He put Marcus at the front to greet arrivals and spin his tales. Then the kitchen became a machine. Dorothy slid pans into the oven. Quincey stirred the greens and squash. Thomas carried his pumpkin pie out to the brick oven, its crust crimped, its filling smooth and spiced. The smell drifted across the yard. By midday, every dish was hot and ready. The turkey pieces roasted golden in their pans. The sides steamed in bowls. Marcus's laughter rolled in from the door where the first guests gathered. Thomas stood in his kitchen, tired but no longer alone. Then Quincey frowned at the full counters. "Grandpa," she said, "how do we carry all this down the dark slope to the pavilion before it goes cold?" Thomas looked at the loaded pans and the long path ahead. The food was done. Now he had to move a whole feast downhill, and fast.