“I’m sending it to him now.” Kara flips her phone back around and thumbs out a message. “When we talked this morning, he said his fiancée’s family Thanksgiving is going to be twenty people. Can you believe that? Twenty! No wonder the guest list for the wedding is so long.” She pauses, then looks up at me to add, “Ellie’s brother is spending Thanksgiving with his fiancée and her family in Sacramento.”
“She knows, Mom,” Ellie says. “She knows all about Marcus.”
After a few scattered pieces of conversation about plus-onesand whether or not there should be a bride’s and groom’s side during the ceremony, the kitchen returns to the task at hand: Thanksgiving dinner. While Kara opens the last of the cranberry sauce, Carol resumes her post at the counter, putting her full weight into slicing a quarter-size eye off a potato. Ellie joins her, shaving potatoes at twice Carol’s rate. She’s gotten two done in the time it takes her aunt to whittle off that eye, which flies across the room and onto the floor, becoming Bo’s afternoon snack. Playing the role of vacuum cleaner, the dog is officially more helpful than me. As I look around for something to do to give the illusion of helpfulness, I spot the Tupperware among the potato scraps. “I uh, brought dessert. Where should I put it?”
Kara lifts a brow. “What is it?”
“Puppy chow,” I say, ready with an apology. “I know it’s not really a Thanksgiving food, but…”
“But it’s perfect,” Ellie says, then lifts her cheek in what I think is a wink, but it’s over so quickly, I’m not totally sure.
“You can put it with the pie on the credenza,” Kara says, and although I don’t know what a credenza is, I do know what a pie is. I scan the room, locate the foil-topped pie tin, and set my bowl down next to it. Out of curiosity, I peel the foil back half an inch. Pumpkin. Good thing the store was out.
“Is there anything else I can help with?” I ask, praying for ayes.I’m not sure how much longer I can stand around feeling completely useless.
Kara pauses to think. “Want to check on Otto? He’s been fussing with that smoker all day. I’m starting to wonder if we’ll even have turkey this year.”
“Backyard, right?” Ellie hops down from her stool, rolling a half-peeled potato toward the middle of the counter. “C’mon, I’ll introduce you.”
“Uhp-uhp-uhp!” Kara protests in the sort of stuttering, finger-wagging way moms are experts in. “You’re not going anywhere if we want all these potatoes to be done in time.” She gives me a knowing look over her horn-rimmed glasses before adding, “She was supposed to have them done before she picked you up.”
A twinge of guilt pinches my stomach. So far, my campaign for the title of teacher’s pet is looking grim.
“I’ll meet you out there,” Ellie assures me, returning to her post at the counter. “Promise.” And as much as I don’t want to go out there alone, I want to stand around and feel useless even less.
I grab my shoes and coat from up front and verify one last time that there’sreallynothing I can do to help in the kitchen—You’re sure there are no more vegetable peelers? And only one potato masher, really?—before I slip out the back door, following the low grumbles of frustration to the far end of the brick patio. The backyard is quintessentially suburban, white picket fence and all. Unlike my neighborhood, the few trees they have are newly planted and only a bit taller than I am, allowing plenty of sunlight to warm up the air. Behind a smattering of wrought-iron patio furniture, Otto is crouched over a small black pod with stainless steel legs, the bright red pom of his Cubs stocking cap bobbing as he futzes with something. When I step on an especially crunchy leaf, he looks up, startled out of his close watch on the smoker.
“Who are you?” His voice is gruff, if not a little accusatory.
“I’m Murphy. Ellie’s girlfriend.” I stop a few feet away from him, leaving a patio chair between us. I’d shake his hand if his gloves weren’t covered in charcoal.
“Girlfriend?” Otto’s face twists up. The word must sound as weird to him as it does to me. His eyes roll skyward, scanning his memory. “Yeah, I think El Bell mentioned ya. Hey, ya ever used a smoker before?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Me neither,” Otto says. He shoves a gloved hand into his pocket, digging out a crumpled instruction manual and holding it at a distance. “Guess I should’ve read this thing first. No clue if I’m doing this right.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” I say with more conviction than I have any right to. “How long have you been out here?”
He checks his watch. “Six hours, give or take? Although if you subtract however long the neighbor kept an eye on it while I ran out for more charcoal…” His laugh is more of a grunt as he stuffs the manual back into his pocket. “I don’t know. Kara’s the one who’s good with numbers, not me.”
“I’m no mathematician either,” I admit, nudging a few loose wood chips into a pile with the sole of my shoe.
“Yeah?” He lifts one thick, furry brow at me. “Whatcha do for work?”
Shit. I guess I set myself up for that.
“I’m a student. And…a turkey smoking consultant,” I joke, and his laugh turns my nerves down a notch.
“Any insights on how I’m doing, then?”
I suck my teeth, shaking my head as I study the little black jetpack of a smoker between us. “Yeah. I’d say this turkey had a serious nicotine problem. No surprise he died so young.”
This time, his laugh is a full-body guffaw that shakes his shoulders. “Atta girl,” he says. “You can stay.”
Before we can fully settle into the comfortable lull in conversation, Otto pulls his phone from his pocket, swiping unsuccessfully at the screen with gloves on three or four times. He finally peels one off and pockets it, punching his pointer finger against the screen and thumbing up the volume until we’re listening to the brassy voice of a sports broadcaster shouting about the third down. “You like football?” he asks.
I pinch the air, holding my thumb and forefinger just far enough apart to show that my football knowledge isn’t zero. “More of a baseball girl.”
