Page 15 of Lakehouse Mistletoe
There was no going back to that life.
She deleted the message and stuck her phone back in her apron pocket.
Taking a sip of coffee, she focused on the Thanksgiving dinner and how she was going to make it perfect.
Chapter 11
Helen glanced at the time on the microwave. She had an hour before Thanksgiving dinner. Once she got the casseroles in the oven and baked the rolls, she could serve dinner.
Thankfully she’d already pushed the small tables together in the dining room. The pretty orange and red tablecloth was in place with matching napkins, and each table setting had each guest’s name written in pretty script on place cards. She’d even found small turkeys to sit in front of each of the white and gold China plates.
She’d chosen a simple tablescape of candles, small orange pumpkins, and red and yellow artificial autumn flowers.
Helen smiled to herself. It was perfect.
Grabbing the sweet potato casserole, she opened the oven door. The kitchen lights gave a warning flicker and then another. Suddenly the room went dark. The oven went silent.
“Oh, no.” She froze and then prayed the electricity would come right back on.
Her guests, gathered in the living room, seemed unaware of the situation.
She waited for the generator to kick in, but it never did.
Setting the casserole down on the counter, she dug through the drawers and cabinets until she found some candles and lit them.
She carried a silver candelabra into the living room where everyone sat.
The room was illuminated by the fireplace and, from the looks of the faces, they didn’t seem to think anything was wrong.
“Ah, Helen. I was just about to come see if you need any help in the kitchen.” Mr. Wimbly smiled and stood as she walked into the room. The older gentleman smoothed down his graying hair.
She shook her head. “Absolutely not. You just sit back down with Mr. Huntsforth and enjoy your conversation.” She glanced at the TV. “I’m guessing you are missing your football game. I’m sorry about the electricity going out.” She set the candelabra down on the coffee table and walked over to the fireplace to warm her hands.
“I’m glad the electricity is gone out. At least I won’t have to watch the humiliation of my team lose,” Mr. Huntsforth said jovially.
“That’s what you get for backing the wrong team,” Mr. Wimbly joked.
She relaxed a little and put on a smile for them. “Everything is almost ready. In the meantime, there are some board games and a deck of cards in the drawer of the bookcase.” She glanced toward the stairs. “Has Mr. Sykes been down yet?”
Mr. Wimbly shook his head. “I haven’t seen him since breakfast. Even then he wasn’t much of a talker.”
Helen nodded and excused herself.
Mr. Wimbly was right. Mr. Sykes was unusually quiet. Something about him made her uneasy.
It was the first time she’d been uneasy around a guest.
Mr. Wimbly was a widower. His wife had died three years ago of cancer, and every year they had visited North Carolina. His kids had moved overseas, and this was the first year he was going to be alone. So, he decided to book a room at the B&B in her honor and spend Thanksgiving there. He said at least he wouldn’t be alone.
Mr. Huntsforth was recently divorced. His wife had run off with his best friend. He was passing through on his way to Maine to see some old college friends. All things considered, he seemed to be doing well. And he didn’t mind telling people about his life. He said he didn’t realize how much better off he was without her.
She snorted. She wished she felt like Mr. Huntsforth.
Helen took her flashlight, turned it on, and headed back to the kitchen.
Her chest tightened. Everything was still plunged in darkness. She wanted to make this meal perfect, to prove that she could do this. Now her plans were going off the rails.
She inhaled deeply, muttering to herself, “Think, Helen.” She snorted and shook her head. “I’ll just call Rebecca.”
