Thankful Thomas's Arc

Chapter 4 of 5

Thomas left the warm table and climbed the dark slope. The voices grew louder. At his cottage door stood a crowd of guests, knocking on cold wood. He waved his arms and called out. "The feast is down by the water! Come, follow me!" Dorothy pushed through the front of the group. She wore her pink sweater against the chill, her gray ponytail loose in the wind. Thirty years of Thanksgivings had taught her to read his face. "Thomas, we've been knocking for ages," she said. Then she saw the mud on his knees and the flush in his cheeks. Her frown softened. "You built something down there, didn't you." "A table," he said, breathing hard. "Big enough for everyone. But the food will go cold if we stand here talking." Dorothy turned to the guests at once. "You heard him. Down the hill, all of you." The crowd shifted and began to move. Quincey slipped to his side, her law folder tucked under one arm even now. His granddaughter never went anywhere without it. "Grandpa, half these folks can't see the path in the dark," she said. "Someone could fall." She was right. The slope was steep and the light was gone. Thomas thought fast. "Lanterns," he said. "By the cottage door. Grab them." Quincey set her folder on the step and lit two lanterns while Dorothy lit a third. They passed the lights down the line. The guests linked hands and stepped careful down the grass. Ezekiel Goodwin, the traveling preacher Thomas had invited off the road, took the lead lantern. He held it high and steady, his worn Bible pressed to his chest with his free arm. "Follow the light, friends," he called. "The Lord provides a path." The crowd reached the pavilion. Guests gasped when they saw the long table full of steaming dishes. The warming pans still glowed at each end. The turkey sat golden in the center. No wind had cooled it. Thomas watched their faces and felt his chest fill. Dorothy squeezed his arm. "You did all this," she said. Quincey grinned beside her. Ezekiel set his lantern down and raised both hands. "Let us give thanks," he said. Every head bowed. The guests took their seats along the salvaged planks. Plates filled. Laughter rose over the water. Thomas stood at the head of the table and looked out at every face he loved. The food was hot. The people were here. He had brought them together at last. He lifted the cover off the maple cream cake he had saved for the end. Cream and golden syrup caught the lantern light. "Save room," he said, and the table cheered. Thomas sat down heavy, thankful and full. Then Dorothy leaned close. "Thomas," she whispered. "There aren't enough chairs. Some folks are still standing." He counted the guests, then the seats. She was right. Half a dozen people had no place to sit.