Page 62 of Coming Home

He was in this. Whatever this was, he was in it. Noah’s assurances offered a promise for more. For the dream of the shared meals from last week, watching him cook in her kitchen, going to bed together, hands clasped as they walked into restaurants, Noah holding her when she was sad or happy, and so much more could be their lives.

“I thought you said Noah was here.” Clayton’s voice crept upstairs, bursting their bubble.

“They’re washing their hands before setting the table,” Mom shouted from the living room.

“Why are they upstairs?”

“The downstairs bathroom is out of order.”

“What? It’s not?—”

“Keep your pants on,” Noah yelled down the stairs, cutting Clayton off. “I had to wash my hands again, because Lizzie found me and demanded more pets.” He glanced down at the dog, who tilted a pouting face up at him, having not received the aforementioned additional pets. “I’ll sneak you a piece of turkey if you play along,” he whispered to her.

After washing their hands and sharing one last kiss, they headed back down.

Clayton stole Noah for some secret groom/best man conversation. Nat and Elle set the table.

Each year for Mom’s birthday, Dad did a Thanksgiving-themed dinner. It was Mom’s favorite holiday. Plus, he liked the idea of a day dedicated to things he was thankful for being the theme for celebrating his wife.

Grandma Owens’ antique lace tablecloth was draped over the table laden with the mini feast. Savory scents mingled with the floral aroma of the chrysanthemums now located on the sideboard. Light flickered from two long white candles flanking the platter of freshly carved turkey.

Their seats weren’t assigned but each family dinner they sat in the same spots. Noah, Maura, and Scott sat on one side of the eight-person table, with Nat, Elle, and Clayton on the other side. Her parents sat at the opposite ends of the oval-shaped table.

Noah sat, his jaw clicking. His eyes flipped to the cooked meat at the center of the table and then to Nat, who stood holding a giant bowl of butternut squash. Instead of placing it at her side, she switched it with the bowl of cornbread and sausage dressing.

It wouldn’t make much of a difference, but the idea of Noah being assaulted by the smell of cooked meat was too much to bear. She rearranged the table, moving anything not containing meat to where Noah sat and moving the meat dishes away from him.

“Nat, what are you doing?” Dad asked, forehead puckered in puzzlement.

“I like this configuration better. It separates it into food groups. Veggies. Meats. Carbs.” She motioned around the table.

Elle beamed. “Love it! I’ll be avoiding that section.” She pointed to the carbs located near Dad’s end of the table. “I have a wedding dress to fit in to.”

Nat felt a brief brush against her leg from beneath the table where she stood.

Noah looked up with a thankful smile.

“This smells amazing!” Mom gushed, strolling into the dining room, followed by Noah’s parents and Clayton.

Nat stepped away from Noah and took her regular seat directly across from him. Dinner was delicious. As always, Dad threw it down in the kitchen.

“So, Nat, are you keeping your dad on his toes at the clinic?” Scott asked, spooning up a bite of mashed potatoes.

“She sure is.” Dad smiled.

Nat shrugged. “More like I’m riding his coattails.” It came out snarkier than she intended.

“Hardly. That electronic charting system and tablet process you had us implement in July has saved us so much time.” He placed his warm palm atop her hand. “She’s helped us innovate.”

“Good. You’ll be able to join us in retirement soon. Then we can plan that European cruise the four of us have talked about going on for years.” Scott pointed at Dad with his spoon.

“I don’t know about retirement yet. Not at least for another year or so,” Mom said, then sipped her red wine.

“Why not?” His face scrunched. “You have Natalie to run the clinic. Plus, you’ve got the business side running like a well-oiled machine. I’m sure if Natalie needs guidance in that area, Noah can give her some tips.”

“We just want to give Natalie time to settle in before we run off.” Dad chuckled, patting Nat’s hand.

The gesture was less sweet and more like twelve-year-old Nat being told she still needed a babysitter. She cast her gaze down to her plate, picking up her fork, and spearing a piece of squash.

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