Lena smiled, and I relaxed. There was nothing better than when she smiled. It blew me away every time. “I don’t think it sounds boring.”
“You’ve never been to Thanksgiving at my house.”
“I’ve never been to Thanksgiving at anyone’s house. Casters don’t celebrate Thanksgiving. It’s a Mortal holiday.”
“Are you kidding? No turkey? No pumpkin pie?”
“Nope.”
“You didn’t eat much today, did you?”
“Not really.”
“Then you’ll be okay.”
I had prepped Lena ahead of time so she wouldn’t be surprised when the Sisters wrapped extra biscuits in their dinner napkins and slipped them into their purses. Or when my Aunt Caroline and Marian spent half the night debating the location of the first public library in the U.S. (Charleston) or the proper proportions for “Charleston green” paint (two parts “Yankee” black and one part “Rebel” yellow). Aunt Caroline was a museum curator in Savannah and she knew as much about period architecture and antiques as my mom had known about Civil War ammunition and battle strategy. Because that’s what Lena had to be ready for—Amma, my crazy relatives, Marian, and Harlon James thrown in for good measure.
I left out the one detail she actually needed to know. Given how things had been lately, Thanksgiving probably also meant dinner with my dad in his pajamas. But that was something I just couldn’t explain.
Amma took Thanksgiving really seriously, which meant two things. My dad would finally come out of his study, although technically it was after dark so that wasn’t a big exception, and he would eat at the table with us. No Shredded Wheat. That was the absolute minimum Amma would allow. So in honor of my dad’s pilgrimage into the world the rest of us inhabited every day, Amma cooked up a storm.
Turkey, mashed potatoes with gravy, butter beans and creamed corn, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, honey ham and biscuits, pumpkin and lemon meringue pie, which, after my evening in the swamp, I was pretty sure she was making more for Uncle Abner than the rest of us.
I stopped for a second on the porch, remembering how I felt standing on the veranda at Ravenwood the first night I showed up there. Now it was Lena’s turn. She had pulled her dark hair away from her face, and I touched the place where it managed to escape, curling around her chin.
You ready?
She pulled her black dress loose from her tights. She was nervous.
I’m not.
You should be.
I grinned and pushed open the door. “Ready or not.” The house smelled like my childhood. Like mashed potatoes and hard work.
“Ethan Wate, is that you?” Amma called from the kitchen.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You have that girl with you? Bring her in here so we can get a look at her.”
The kitchen was sizzling. Amma was standing in front of the stove, in her apron, a wooden spoon in each hand. Aunt Prue was puttering around, sticking her fingers in the mixing bowls on the counter.
Aunt Mercy and Aunt Grace were playing Scrabble at the kitchen table; neither one of them seemed to notice they weren’t actually making any words.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Bring her on in here.”
Every muscle in my body tensed. There was no way to predict what Amma, or the Sisters, were going to say. I still had no idea why Amma had insisted I invite Lena in the first place.
Lena stepped forward. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”
Amma looked Lena up and down, wiping her hands on her apron. “So you’re the one keepin’ my boy so busy. Postman was right. Pretty as a picture.” I wondered if Carlton Eaton had mentioned that on their ride to Wader’s Creek.
Lena blushed. “Thank you.”
“Heard you’ve shaken things up at that school.” Aunt Grace smiled. “A good thing, too. I don’t know what they’re teachin’ you kids over there.”
Aunt Mercy put down her tiles, one at a time. I-T-C-H-I-N.
Aunt Grace leaned closer to the board, squinting. “Mercy Lynne, you’re cheatin’ again! What kinda word is that? Use it in a sentence.”
“I’m itchin’ ta have some a that white cake.”
“That’s not how you spell it.” At least one of them could spell. Aunt Grace pulled one of the tiles off the board. “There’s no T in itchin’.” Or not.
You weren’t exaggerating.
I told you.
“Is that Ethan I hear?” Aunt Caroline walked into the kitchen just in time, her arms open wide. “Come on over here and give your aunt a hug.” It always caught me off guard for a second, just how much she looked like my mother. The same long brown hair, always pulled back, the same dark brown eyes. But my mom had always preferred bare feet and jeans, while Aunt Caroline was more of a Southern Belle in sundresses and little sweaters. I think my aunt liked to see the expression on people’s faces when they found out she was curator of the Savannah History Museum and not some aging debutante.
“How’re things up North?” Aunt Caroline always referred to Gatlin as “up North” since it was north of Savannah.
“All right. Did you bring me some pralines?”
“Don’t I always?”