Chapter Sixteen
The parking lot is nearly full when I pull in, giving me a hint that the grocery store is going to be just as chaotic as I thought it might. Cooking Thanksgiving dinner isn’t a completely new thing for me, but I don’t think I’ve quite reached the level of Jedi Gravy Master like some of the women around here.
Up until a couple of years ago, I spent every Thanksgiving with Bellamy. Sometimes we would go to her parents’ house, but more often than not, we just stayed home. She would come to my house and we would cook and spend the day together watching the parade, and then binge cooking shows until after we ate. Then came digging out at least one Christmas decoration and watching a holiday movie to kick off the season.
Since Sam and I have been together, Thanksgiving has taken on more meaning. And I put more effort into an actual feast. Bellamy and I usually settled for the fastest, mostly nostalgic food. Over the last few years, I’ve been gradually moving more toward the Thanksgiving meal of yore and attempting more dishes from scratch.
This year, I’m taking the plunge. Everything possible will be from scratch and served in actual matching tableware. The only exception is the sacred cranberry sauce. Sam would never recover if I tried to give him anything but a tube of jellied red goo, complete with the ridges from the can.
That’s the real reason I’m here more than a week ahead of time. I want the chance to be prepared and start cooking ahead of time, so I’m not totally overwhelmed on Thanksgiving itself. Maybe I’ll take a little inspiration from Xavier and lay out all the ingredients on the table so I can talk to them. Maybe if I’m one with the green beans this whole thing will go smoothly.
Exhaustive list pulled up on my phone and the store’s weekly circular clutched in one hand, I grab a cart and head inside. My grandmother taught me the fine art of grocery shopping according to section of the store when I was much younger. Fortunately, the grocery store in Sherwood hasn’t undergone a whole lot of changes and modernization since then.
I make my way to the main grocery aisles in the center of the store to grab non-perishables first. I’m halfway down the second aisle when my entire plan goes all to hell. Past the end of the shelves, I see the massive sign advertising the store’s blowout turkey sale.
Now, I have never considered myself one of those women who goes all in with shopping. Coupon is not a verb in my vocabulary. I would not devote an entire day to doing a tour of all the stores in the area to get all the best prices. Three AM Black Friday finds me asleep with a belly full of midnight second-dinner turkey, usually on the couch with a movie playing in the background, rather than with a miner’s helmet glowing on my head trudging through the parking lot of the big-box store.
But, I do enjoy a good bargain. I scan through ads if I think about it before going to the grocery store. And I won’t turn down a good marathon at the mall with Bellamy. But I remain sensible about the whole thing. The singular incident over sweet potatoes aside, I like to keep things simple and civil when it comes to acquiring groceries.
For me, it takes on much the same sentiment as the large-scale Easter egg hunts my parents took me to when I was a little girl. All the other children started screaming and running around frantically trying to gather as many eggs as they possibly could. I might just scoop up an egg or two if I happened upon it, but it seemed to me the other kids were so desperate for those multicolored plastic jewels that I didn’t want to deny them any. I figured if they wanted them that much, they should have them.
But something changes in me when I see that turkey sign. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s knowing I’ll have a house full of people for the holiday for the first time in a really long time. Maybe it’s knowing I’m staring down the barrel at being a wife and suddenly becoming very aware of all the responsibilities that holds.
Whatever it is, I am overtaken by the need for a turkey at twenty-nine cents a pound.
It’s like a seasonal roller derby over there, but instead of skates, everybody has shopping carts. Everybody is clamoring over the deep chest coolers filled with different sizes of birds. With absolutely no intention of doing the math to ensure I get an appropriate size for the number of servings I need, I head straight for the biggest ones I see.
Any self-control and cool my training through the Bureau has given me goes straight out the window as I jockey for position and eventually snag my turkey. Popping out the other side of the crush of shoppers finds me at the back of the store. Only a few feet away is a hallway that leads to the restrooms, employee break room, and door to the stockroom.
Still feeling a bit light-headed and with maybe even a slight buzz from the adrenaline, I move toward the hallway so I can recalibrate and check my list. But I am only a couple of steps in when the feeling fades. Any fun I was having disappears.
Right in front of me is the employee bulletin board. Rather than being in the break room, it’s right there on the wall, available for anybody who comes down this way to see. Which means anyone visiting the restrooms or stopping for a sip from the water fountain will see him.
Gabriel.
A huge picture of him in his work uniform is pinned right to the middle of the bulletin board. Black edging surrounds
