Page 44 of All We Thought We Knew
Maybe there was a tiny bit of my mother’s goodness in me, after all.
“Let’s have the big dinner,” I said, surprising the two men as well as myself. “For Mama.”
Dad pressed his lips together and nodded.
“After we get the horses settled, I’m happy to help,” Nash said. His lips curved in a lopsided smile. “I can’t promise it’ll be edible, but I’m willing to try.”
I shrugged. “I’m not making any promises either.”
“Well, I will,” Dad said, a rare glint in his eyes. “I promise to eat whatever you two come up with.”
Even I had to chuckle at that.
My dark mood lifted, although the heavy clouds outside did not. After the men bundled in coats and gloves and left the house, I sat at the table with my own cup of coffee, amazed at what had just taken place. I’d come downstairs, depressed, and dreading the day, yet a surge of unexpected excitement and anticipation rushed through me now. Not about cooking a huge meal, but because I knew it would please my mother. And, if I were honest, my father, too.
That truly was a Thanksgiving miracle.
With a completely different mindset, I began preparations for the meal. Tom Turkey was in the oven, filled with Mama’s famous sage stuffing, by the time Nash returned to the house. A blast of cold air came in with him. Earlier, he’d asked if Jake could stay in the kitchen with me, voicing concern for the dog’s arthritic bones in the cold weather. Now, Jake slowly stood and ambled over to Nash, his tail wagging.
Nash bent to pet the dog. “I appreciate you letting him stay inside. It’s brutal out there.”
I sat at the table, peeling a mound of potatoes. “He slept the whole time. I didn’t even remember he was here until just now.”
Nash moved to the sink where a stack of dirty pots and pans filled the basin. “I’ll take care of these,” he said. He ran water and added soap, but when I glanced his way again, I noticed the cuff of his flannel shirt was getting wet.
I frowned.
Should I volunteer to roll up his sleeve? I didn’t want to offend him. From what I’d noticed since arriving back in Tullahoma, Nash was stubbornly independent. He wouldn’t let having one arm prevent him from accomplishing whatever he set his mind on.
But a wet sleeve would be uncomfortable, especially when he went back outside.
I stood and walked over to him. “Let me roll up your sleeve so it won’t get soaked.”
Surprise registered in his eyes before he removed his hand from the soapy water, patted it on a dish towel, then extended it toward me.
“Thanks.”
I nodded and set about folding the damp material until it reached the bend in his arm. I couldn’t help but notice how muscled his forearm felt beneath my fingers, with his biceps bulging above. Because he had to do everything with this one arm, it needed to be strong. I’d become so used to seeing him go about his work without slowing down, it was easy to forget he’d lost an arm in the war.
With the task taken care of, I returned to the table without looking at him. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it, but the nervous quiver in my belly after being so near him had me confused. I’d never been attracted to Nash. Never. He was simply Mark’s friend. I’d lost touch with Rusty Shaw after graduation, which hadn’t left me heartbroken in the least. And even though I’d beenwith Clay the past six months, he’d made it clear marriage wasn’t something he was interested in.
We worked in silence. When the dishes were washed and put away, he asked, “What’s next?” He glanced at the stove. “The turkey already smells good. Should I baste it?”
I’d completely forgotten about the basting.
“Shoot!” I huffed. “Mama just told me a story last night about the first time she cooked the Thanksgiving meal. She didn’t know she was supposed to baste the turkey and it turned out awful.”
Nash grinned. “We don’t want that to happen.”
He dug around in a drawer of cooking utensils and pulled out a strange looking tubelike item with a bulb on one end. I couldn’t remember ever seeing the thing before. I watched as he slid his hand into an oven mitt, opened the oven door, and proceeded to squeeze turkey juices over the top of the big, browning bird.
“How do you even know how to do that?” I asked, impressed.
“I used to watch my mom every year.” He closed the oven and removed the mitt. “We never had much, but every Thanksgiving, Mom would splurge and get a turkey. My sister and I always wanted to be present when she opened the oven to baste it. I can still remember how good it smelled.”
Regret came with his words.
I couldn’t remember ever watching Mama do such a thing. Where had I been all those Thanksgivings while she was in the kitchen, cooking for hours on end?
