Lucy slapped her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming. Lord knows she wanted to scream and wave her arms and stamp her feet, but that would only attract attention, which was the last thing she wanted to do. She was alone in the kitchen. She was the only one who knew what had happened. She was going to keep it that way.
“Mom?”
It was Sara, staring openmouthed at the turkey on the floor.
“Don’t say a word to anyone, or I’ll kill you.”
Lucy wrapped a dishtowel around the bird and wrestled it onto the platter.
“You can’t serve that. It was on the floor.” Sara was shaking her head.
“Oh, yes, I can,” growled Lucy. “Now go back to the TV room and act as if nothing is the matter.”
“But, Mom,” protested Sara.
“Go! Now! And remember: One word and you die!”
After Sara disappeared into the family room, Lucy began mopping up the grease that had spilled from the pan and covered the floor. As she wrung out the mop she wanted to cry, watching her beautiful golden turkey juice swirling into the soapy water. Finally, the floor was clean and she turned her attention back to the dinner.
So far she had mashed potatoes (lumpy) and turkey (dusty). No matter, there would be plenty of other food. She slipped the brown rice casserole into the microwave. Then she popped a pan of sweet potatoes into the oven to warm beside the mashed potatoes. She dumped a couple of packages of frozen baby peas into the steamer and set it on a back burner behind the double boiler filled with creamed onions.
There was no question of making gravy; the juice was gone. She found a couple of cans of pork gravy in the cupboard and emptied them into a saucepan, adding a little soy sauce to darken the pale glop. She gave the spoon a lick, grimaced, and splashed in some cooking sherry. Maybe it would help.
“How much longer?” It was Bill. There was a note of desperation in his voice.
“It was your idea to invite them,” she said, glaring at him. “You can’t imagine what I’ve been going through in here.”
Bill wasn’t moved. “You think it’s been a picnic out there?”
Lucy laughed. “Just a few more minutes.”
* * *
Finally, everyone was seated at the table. Zoe recited a simple grace and Bill began carving the turkey.
As she surveyed the table, Lucy crossed her fingers and took a deep breath. The turkey didn’t seem any the worse for its fall to the floor. She didn’t think anyone would notice (and she had wiped it off with paper towels). As for the rest of the meal, well, she couldn’t guarantee it would taste good but it sure looked good.
Bill stood and raised a glass. “To the cook!”
“Hear, hear!” chorused St. John.
Lucy tossed back her glass of wine and held it out for a refill.
* * *
“What did I tell you?” Toby asked Matt. “Doesn’t my mom make great gravy?”
“I’ve never had anything like it,” said Matt. His mother would have been proud of his tact.
“It’s certainly unusual,” said Clarice, furrowing her perfectly plucked brows.
“More stuffing, anyone?” asked Lucy.
“Yes,” said Miss Tilley, taking the bowl of potatoes. “How about you?” She had turned her beady eyes on Jessica. “No wonder you’re so thin. You’re only eating celery. Here, have some mashed potatoes. Put some meat on your bones!”
Jessica’s eyes widened in horror as Miss Tilley waved the bowl of potatoes in front of her. Looking somewhat green, she rose and fled from the table.
“I’ll see if there’s anything I can do,” said Matt, following her.
“And you?” Miss Tilley had turned her basilisk gaze on Amy. “At least you’re not all skin and hones, but what is that muddy stuff you’re eating?”
“It’s delicious. It’s brown rice and carrots.”
“You can’t live on that! You need protein.” Miss Tilley plunked a drumstick on Amy’s plate. “Try this.”
Amy studied the burnt offering for a moment, then shook her head. “Excuse me,” she said, leaving the table.
“What’s the matter with her?”
“She’s a vegan, for Pete’s sake.” Toby pushed his chair away from the table and left the room.
“They don’t eat turkey in Las Vegas?” Miss Tilley didn’t understand.
“No. It’s vee-gan. They don’t eat animal products,” explained Clarice.
Miss Tilley stared at the drumstick. “Oh, dear.”
“You certainly have a knack for clearing a room,” said Lucy. “At the rate you were going, I was beginning to wonder if anybody would be left for dessert.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said St. John. “Pumpkin pie is my favorite.”
“Mine, too,” said Miss Tilley, eyeing him with new appreciation. “I had my doubts about you, Sinjin, but you’re all right!”
CHAPTER 12
All in all, Lucy thought Thanksgiving dinner had gone pretty well.
“There were a few tense moments, but it never actually came to blows,” she told Bill the next morning as they sat at the kitchen table, taking advantage of the fact that the kids were all sleeping in to enjoy a second cup of coffee by themselves.
“Not even one fatality,” said Bill, grinning.
His joke reminded her of Curt Nolan’s death and she guiltily remembered her promise to Miss Tilley.
“I have to go in to work,” she said, staring out the window at the fog-filled yard.
“What about the kids?”
“Zoe’s going to spend the day with Sadie, and Elizabeth and Sara are going to the food pantry to sort out the stuff from the canned goods drive.” She paused. “As for the others, I don’t know and I don’t care.”
Bill put his hand over hers. It felt warm and good. “I know you’re upset about Toby.”
“Don’t I have the right to be upset?” demanded Lucy. “King Lear was right—an ungrateful child is sharper than a serpent’s tooth. I can’t believe he’s acting like this.”
“I can,” said Bill. “Don’t you remember what it was
