Lucy shook her head firmly. “That is so not what Thanksgiving is about.”
“Have you had many Thanksgiving dinners?” Juliet asked. “With the turkey and the marshmallow and the rest of it?”
“No,” she admitted. “You know Mum. She saw Thanksgiving as another sign of patriarchal oppression.” Juliet rolled her eyes and Lucy smiled. “But I’ve seen enough holiday movies and Norman Rockwell paintings to know what it’s supposed to be like.”
She spent the next several days searching the Internet for recipes, and waiting for the delivery of canned pumpkin and marshmallow fluff from an online store that sold American products at astronomical prices. She practiced folding napkins into the shape of turkeys—more or less—and bought all the real pumpkins at the supermarket in Whitehaven for a festive centerpiece.
And then there was the matter of the guest list. “I thought I’d invite Rachel and her family,” Lucy told Juliet, “and Peter and his father. . . .” Juliet tensed a bit at this, but didn’t object. “And the Kincaids.”
“You mean Alex?” Juliet said.
“We’re meant to be friends,” Lucy replied. “And if that’s what we’re meant to be, then that’s how I’m going to act.”
“Are you sure this isn’t just a way to win him back?” Juliet asked bluntly. “The way to a man’s heart and all that?”
“No, it isn’t,” Lucy replied after a moment, and knew she meant it. “I’ve learned my lesson there, at least. I’m done trying to insinuate myself into other people’s lives, or to convince them they really need me. This is just about being friends and celebrating a holiday. It’s as simple as that.”
Except it wasn’t so simple, Lucy realized as she rushed around the kitchen on the Sunday after the official Thanksgiving Day, trying to make sure everything was ready at the same time. Juliet had offered to help, but Lucy wanted to prove to her—and everyone else—that she could do it on her own. She just hoped she actually could.
At least the napkins looked cute.
By five o’clock everyone had assembled in the dining room and Lucy had most of the dishes on the table, including the promised green bean casserole and marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes. She was saving the turkey for last, wanting to bring it to everyone just like in a movie or a painting, everything golden and gleaming and perfect.
And it was almost like that, except she tipped the platter a little as she set it on the table, and turkey grease dripped onto the once-pristine white tablecloth and splattered onto Peter, so he jumped up and brushed ineffectually at his trousers.
“Sorry!” Lucy exclaimed, and Peter just smiled and sat down again.
A little turkey grease hardly mattered, not when she was sitting at a table with friends and family—Rachel and her family, Peter and his father—Peter had tenderly tucked a napkin into his father’s shirt, which had almost made Lucy choke up—Alex and his daughters, and Juliet. People she cared about. People who cared about her.
This was her home, Lucy knew then, without a doubt. Her home and where her heart was, no matter what did or didn’t happen with Alex. Of course she was staying here.
“Lucy?” Juliet’s amused voice broke into her thoughts.
“Yes?” She smiled at her sister, and Juliet nodded towards the turkey.
“Aren’t you going to carve?”
“Oh. Um.” That was something she’d never done before. With a deep breath Lucy picked up the carving knife and fork. She began, tentatively, to saw with the knife and didn’t even break through the glossy brown skin.
“You’ve got to commit,” Rachel said with a laugh. “It’s dead already. You’re not going to hurt it.”
“Okay, okay,” Lucy said with an answering laugh. “I get it.”
Commit. She could do that. She took the first uneven hacked-off slice and put it on Rachel’s plate. “Satisfied?”
“I wouldn’t recommend you try for a job at a carvery, but yes. It looks delicious.”
The evening passed in a blur of good food and conversation; at least, mostly good food. The green bean casserole was burned on the bottom and the gravy was lumpy, but everyone pronounced the meal a success, and Bella and Poppy both gave Lucy a thumbs-up after trying pumpkin pie for the first time.
By nine o’clock everyone was feeling sleepy and satisfied, lolling back in their chairs as Juliet filled glasses with port.
“An English tradition,” she told Lucy. “We can’t have an entirely American Thanksgiving.”
“The English celebrate Thanksgiving?” Lucy teased, and Juliet smiled back.
“We rejoice at being free of you bolshy lot,” Rachel chimed in.
Lucy brandished papers and pencils. “And to cap off the evening, a pub quiz! Minus the pub, of course. And all the questions have to do with Thanksgiving.”
