forward and tackled Eric Stull, grabbing him about the waist and bringing him to the wet sloppy ground.
Behind us, police car sirens wailed to a stop. Doors opened and officers piled out with a speed that was a great comfort at this moment in my life.
“Hello, Mrs. Kennedy.” Deputy Wheeler helped me to my feet. “Nice tackle. To be honest, I didn’t know you had it in you.”
I watched as two of her fellow officers handcuffed a struggling Eric. “That’s what I used to think,” I said.
She looked at me curiously, but I just smiled.
And, after a moment, she smiled back.
Epilogue
“Mom?”Ared-faced Jenna looked up from the pot of potatoes over which she was toiling. “Are these mashed enough?”
“Let me see.” I gave the gravy one more stir and turned the heat to low. A strand of hair had escaped my ponytail and I pushed it back behind my ear as I crossed the kitchen for inspection duties. Inside the pot the potatoes were a lumpy mess. “Perfect,” I said, and gave her a floury hug. “Best mashed potatoes ever.”
“Are you sure?” Jenna looked dubious. “They’re a little chunky.”
“Shows they’re not out of a box,” I said. “Three more mashes and you’re done.”
“Mom?” Oliver looked up from the plate of raw vegetables he was assembling at the kitchen table. “Does this look okay?”
I trotted back to the gravy, stirred it, and went to my son. The carrots were arrayed in a half circle, celery in a jumble at the opposite side of the plate, a few pieces of broccoli in the center, and two radishes on either side of the broccoli.
“It’s a face,” Oliver said. “See?” He held up two radishes. “These are the eyes, the carrots are the mouth. Like this.” He grinned horribly, lips drawn wide and high.
“Very nice. Jenna, let’s get those potatoes in something nicer.” I handed her a china bowl and, after giving the gravy one last stir, poured it into the stainless steel gravy boat.
“Okeydoke, kids. I think we’re about ready. Jenna, you have the potatoes. Oliver, you have the vegetables, and I have the gravy. Is there anything we’re forgetting?” I put on a haunted look. “It seems as if there is, but I can’t remember.”
Oliver bounced in his chair. “The turkey, Mom. The turkey!”
“And the stuffing.” Jenna pointed at the oven, where I’d put the carved-up turkey and stuffing to keep warm.
I smiled at my children. “Silly old me. What would I do without the two of you?”
Oliver slid off the chair and came to my side. “You’d be bored.”
“Yeah,” Jenna said, drawing near. “And who would wake you up on Saturday mornings?”
I laughed and pulled them into a tight hug. “That settles that. I guess it’s a good thing I have you.” For without them, I wouldn’t be whole. I wouldn’t be Mom, I’d just be Beth, and that wasn’t a reality worthy of contemplation.
“Okay,” I said, giving them a last squeaking squeeze. “Let’s get this food on the table.”
The three of us made a small parade as we trekked out of the kitchen, Oliver in front, Jenna next, and me last, each of us carrying food-laden plates. When we reached the dining room, loud applause broke out.
“It looks wonderful!” Yvonne exclaimed.
“Beth, this is great.” Rachel Helmstetter’s smile was the first real one I’d seen on her in weeks.
“Mrs. Kennedy?” Blake asked. “Who gets the wishbone in your house?”
In a droning tone, Jenna and Oliver simultaneously said, “Whoever washes the most dishes.”
“And there are a lot of them,” Lois said, spreading her hands. “Just look at all this food!”
Last week she’d repeated her annual complaint that her very extended family Thanksgiving dinner, held in a rented hall, just wasn’t what Thanksgiving should be. She’d accepted my invitation gladly and asked if she could bring a guest. Now, she looked across the table to him. “I’m told we can’t get up from the table until it’s gone.”
Paoze’s eyes went wide. “We are going to be here all night!”
“No way,” Jenna said. “I like turkey. Lots and lots.”
“You can have my turkey if you want,” Zach said. “My favorite is the stuffing.”
“Forsooth, verily,” Marina said, winking at me. “This is a feast for the eyes as well as the mouth. You did good, Beth. The DH will be seriously bummed that he was too sick to come over.”
Rachel leaned to one side and her daughter whispered in her ear. “I’m not sure,” Rachel said. “How about if I ask?” She looked at me. “Mia and I are interested in your centerpiece. Is it a tradition in your family?”
“You could say that.” Smiling smugly, I admired my own handiwork. Last night I’d cooked the Emmerling rutabaga casserole. This morning I’d spooned it all into a clear glass bowl, alternating a layer of rutabaga with a layer of colored sand from one of the kids’ long-ago art projects. Rutabaga, orange sand. Rutabaga, brown sand. Rutabaga, maroon sand. I’d topped the whole thing with a few dried hydrangea heads I’d clipped from the front yard, and bingo bango bongo, I had a Thanksgiving centerpiece. If any of my missing family members quizzed me on my menu, I’d be able to honestly say that, yes, rutabagas had been on the table.
“Shall we pray?” I asked. Everyone bowed their heads, and I took the hands of Jenna and Oliver, seated at my right and left.
“Dear Father,” I said. “Thank You for this special day, a day to remember Your goodness. We thank You for the pleasure of coming together for this meal and we thank You for all the gifts of love we’ve had. We pray that You’ll help us to carry on and live as You would have us. This we ask in Your name. Amen.”
Rachel wiped away a tear. “Amen.”
“Amen,” breathed Yvonne.
“Amen,” said Lois quietly.
Marina thumped her fist on the table. “So be it, let’s eat!”
Trust my best friend to lighten a mood. “Turkey, anyone?” I started the platter on its way. “There’s more of everything, so feel free to load up.”
Around went Oliver’s vegetables and Jenna’s potatoes and the gravy and the cranberries and the green bean casserole and the Jell-O salad and the onion wraps and the stuffing and sweet potato casserole and the dinner rolls and the fruit salad.
Around went my life and love to these friends old and new, all of us wounded by recent events, all of us putting things back together again, all of us moving ahead, onward and upward.
“Aren’t we doing the Thanksgiving thanks?” Blake asked his mother.
“Oh, honey . . .” Rachel looked flustered.
“What’s that?” Jenna asked.
“At our house,” Blake said, “each of us gives thanks for something before we eat.”
“That’s a nice idea.” I smiled at him, at Rachel, at everyone in the room, at the whole world. My heart was full and happy and I had so much to be thankful for. Amelia and Chelsea were safe and sound, Yvonne’s reputation was restored, business was coming back to the bookstore, Richard had called and said he had two job interviews next week, Jenna and Oliver were healthy and happy, and Evan was taking me to a Minnesota Wild hockey game next weekend. “I’m thankful for such wonderful children.”
“Oh, Mom,” Jenna said, rolling her eyes. “I’m thankful for Mr. Kettunen’s insurance company. My hockey team gets new jerseys next week.”
“I’m thankful for Spot,” Oliver said. “He sleeps with me now and he’s really warm.”
“For my new kitten.” Mia’s smile was a mile wide. “She purrs!”
“For piano lessons,” Blake said. “It’s fun playing with my mom.”
“For kind people,” Paoze said.
“For a loving family that’s on the other side of town.” Lois grinned.
