Page 17 of Lakehouse Mistletoe
She pushed the button on the oven and got busy with setting another place setting at the table. She pulled another table from the wall and quickly made a place card for Oliver. After she was finished, the oven beeped letting her know it was ready for her last few casseroles and buns.
Helen spent the last forty-five minutes getting glasses ready for drinks, candles ready to be lit, and choosing Christmas music to be played while they ate. She would occasionally look at her list to see if she had forgotten something.
By the time the rolls were ready, she was carrying the dishes into the dining room. Oliver spotted her struggling with the large platter with the turkey on it and hopped up from his chair to help.
“Let me take this,” he said, taking the platter from her and placing it on the table.
“Thank you.” She glanced around the table with a sense of pride.
Chapter 12
“This is the best Thanksgiving meal I have had in a while.” Mr. Huntsforth shoved a forkful of mashed potatoes in his mouth.
“It’s very good, Helen,” Mr. Wimbly added. “Reminds me of my late wife’s turkey. You’ve got a real talent.”
Helen set her fork down and smiled at the compliments. “Thank you both. That has made my day.”
Oliver nodded in agreement and swallowed. “I think if you make Thanksgiving meals this good you are going to be booked every holiday.”
Helen chuckled. “That would be good for business and my job security here.”
Mr. Sykes swallowed a mouthful of food and narrowed his eyes at her. “Tell us again where you moved from.”
Helen shifted her weight in her seat. She didn’t like the way Mr. Sykes was looking at her. It made her feel like he was trying to find some dirty little secret.
“She moved from Arkansas but is originally from Tennessee,” Oliver answered for her. “I knew immediately from her accent she was from Tennessee. I have this weird thing where I can tell where people are from based on their accents.”
Mr. Huntsforth set his fork down and reached for his glass. “Really? What about me? Where am I from?”
Oliver looked at the man and shrugged. “Oh, that’s easy. You’re from Georgia.” He forked some turkey into his mouth.
Mr. Huntsforth’s eyes went wide. “I never told you that. I told you I live in Tennessee. But you’re right. I was born and raised in Georgia.”
Mr. Wimbly looked pleased. “Remarkable, Oliver. Are you right all the time?”
Oliver grinned. “Of course not. I’ve gotten one wrong, and that was two years ago.”
Mr. Huntsforth pointed his fork in Mr. Sykes’s direction. “Do him. Where do you think he’s from?”
Helen’s stomach dropped at the look on Mr. Sykes’s face. The man looked enraged. But it seemed none of the men were picking up on his body cues.
She cleared her throat. “Is anyone ready for pumpkin pie? I also have pecan pie and chocolate pie. I also have coffee or cider.”
Mr. Wimbly’s eyes glistened. “Ah, cider for me, dear. Now, Oliver, where do you think Mr. Sykes is from?”
Oliver swallowed and took a sip of his drink. He sat back in the chair and studied Mr. Sykes for a beat. “He’s obviously from up North, judging from his accent. At first, I would have said Brooklyn, New York. But now I’m leaning more toward Atlantic City, New Jersey.”
Everyone turned to look at Mr. Sykes. His eyes widened for a brief second in surprise, obviously shocked at Oliver’s answer. Then they narrowed like daggers.
“It seems you’ve been watching too many mafia movies, Mr. King. I’m from … Maine.”
Helen got to her feet. “I’ll bring out dessert.”
Mr. Sykes stood up and tossed his napkin on the table. “I’ll help.”
She shook her head. “Oh, there’s no need. I’ve got it. Besides, there are rules about guests being in the kitchen.”
Oliver stood. “Well, Mr. Sykes. I guess you got me. And please call me Oliver.” He smiled. “Now who wants coffee or cider?”
