“I need you to take all of these peelings in this basin here and take them out to the compost heap. Can you do that for me?” I move the basin filled with all the peelings down onto the floor, and Nick gazes over my shoulder, his lips twisting in thought.
“That will help you?”
“Yes, absolutely.”
“Okay!”
Just as he reaches for some of the peelings, I catch his wrist in my hand. “Coat and hat first, okay? It’s super-duper cold outside.”
“Yes.” Nick turns suddenly and sprints out of the kitchen. While he’s gone, I unlock the door to the back porch and move my chopping board to the counter by the window so I can keep an eye on Nick. It’s a cheeky way to keep him out of my way while I cook New Year’s Day dinner, but it makes him feel useful and that’s most important.
Five minutes later, Nick returns in his puffer coat while cramming a red knit cap down over his curls. “Ready!”
“Ah, Mister. Come here.” Motioning him closer with one finger, I crouch and quickly zip his coat all the way up to the top. “Now I want you to promise me you won’t run. I don’t want you falling in the snow.”
“I promise,” Nick says, panting slightly from his run around the house. “Can I go now?”
“Yes, you can.”
The gust of cold air rushing in through the back door is a small price to pay for keeping Nick occupied. He grabs handfuls ofthe vegetable peels and hurries outside, down the two steps to the snow-covered grass, and then all the way to the back of the garden. There, he throws the peels into the compost heap that’s just as frozen as the rest of the garden.
I keep my attention split between him and cooking, covering the carrots and parsnips in my own honey glaze, sprinkling salt into the potatoes and setting them to boil, peeling the outer leaves off the sprouts and laying them out on their own tray. As I cook, the basin of peels gradually reduces while the kitchen fills with the mouthwatering aroma wafting from the small roast chicken in the oven.
Last year, Dad cooked. He roasted a ham with all the trimmings, spent all morning and afternoon in the kitchen. It was his job since Mom was always in charge of Christmas. This year, it’s been me. I roasted a small turkey at Christmas and now I’m here, roasting a chicken because the thought of eating a ham not prepared by my father was too painful.
We had our differences, but his absence is like an alarm constantly blaring in the back of my mind, refusing to let me forget that he’s no longer here.
His funeral cleaned me out, as did adjusting my accounts to accommodate the bills in this house and my parents’ debt since Mom hasn’t worked since Dad’s heart attack. Balancing this by myself is a strain, and as much as I try to put it out of my mind, I just can’t.
Not after the call I overheard last night.
If Angelic Jewels is in trouble, I have a right to know. I’m a manager. I take care of an entire department that’s mostly separate from the rest of the business, so if there’s an issueregarding the survival of the company, then I should be the first to know.
The sheer volume of pre-orders I take through the website should be proof enough, but of course, Jimmy keeps everything to himself. I could confront him. Knowing my luck, he’d use that as an excuse to fire me and I’d end up in an even worse situation.
Mulling it all over in my mind helps me create the smoothest mashed potatoes I’ve ever made in my entire life. By the time I’m finished, my shoulder throbs and my mind isn’t any clearer about what the hell I’m supposed to do.
“I’m finished!” Nick’s breathless words bring me crashing back to reality.
Glancing down, the basin is completely empty and Nick stands proudly over it with his hands waving at his sides and his cheeks glowing pink from the cold. “What’s next?”
“Thank you.” I laugh. “Next, I need you to take off your coat and hat, and then wash your hands. Can you do that for me?”
“Okay!” Nick puffs out his cheeks and toddles away with a soft groan. “Such hard work.”
Laughing to myself, I set the mash aside and quickly close the back door, sealing the heat back into the kitchen. After rinsing out the basin and checking on the chicken, I set Nick’s stool up near the table and lay three plates out. He returns, grinning, and immediately climbs onto his stool.
“Did you wash your hands?”
“Yep!” He thrusts his pink, slightly floral-scented hands in my face and then gazes at the plates. “What do you want me to do?”
“You see these sauces?” Three small bowls sit in front of him, one with ketchup, one with gravy, and one with cranberry. “I want you to decorate the plates so they look nice for when I put the chicken on them. Can you do that?”
“Yes!” Nick eagerly claps his hands together and reaches for the first spoon. “Can we do this for my birthday too?”
My heart stalls ever so slightly in my chest. “Your birthday?”
“Mmhmm. Can I paint the plates?”
