Thankful Thomas's Arc

Chapter 8 of 14

The stuffing fed them. But Dorothy kept looking up the dark slope, and Thomas knew why. In the cold cottage sat the maple cream cake, uncut. He had planned a sweet finish for the night. Now he worried it would taste wrong. The cream had sat out too long in the chill. He climbed up, lifted the lid, and pressed the cake with a finger. It had gone sour at the edge. He could not serve it. His guests would leave the table with no warm, sweet end to the feast. He stood in the small kitchen and thought. He had apples in a bushel by the door. He had flour, butter, and sugar on the shelf. He had no time to fuss. He needed something simple, baked hot, and ready fast. Thomas sliced apples into a pan. He cut cold butter into flour and sugar with his hands until it crumbled. He heaped the crumble over the apples. Then he reached for sweetness to bind it. He found no syrup. In the cupboard a clear jar glowed amber. Honey. Thick and golden. He spooned it over the fruit until it ran down between the slices. He slid the pan into the oven, still warm from the charcoal hours before. He waited by the oven door. The smell filled the cottage first—apples, butter, warm honey. The top turned gold and cracked. Juice bubbled up at the edges. When he pulled it out, the topping crumbled under his thumb, and tender apple showed through in soft layers. It was not fancy. It was hot, and it was sweet, and it was done. Thomas took a lantern in one hand and the warm pan in the other. He went down the slope slow and careful. When he stepped into the pavilion, the smell went out ahead of him. Heads turned. Spoons went still. He set the crumble on the planks beside the empty stuffing pot. "One more thing," he said. "Something sweet, before you go." Dorothy came to his side. She looked at the pan, then at him, and she smiled the way she had smiled all night. Quincey cut the first squares and passed them down the table. Guests pressed warm crumble onto their plates. A woman closed her eyes at the first bite. Honey shone on her fork. Thomas watched them eat the sweet finish he had wanted to give. No plate stayed empty. The feast had a warm end after all. He wiped his hands and let his shoulders drop. For the first time all night, he felt done. Then Dorothy touched his arm. She nodded toward the far end of the table, where the night's last guests sat. They had eaten, and now they rose, pulling on coats. They would walk home soon, back up the dark slope, and Thomas had sent no one off with thanks or leftovers to carry.