She took the bottle from me, looked at the label again, and laughed under her breath. “This is obscene.”
“Good.” I pulled two glasses down. “Then it finally has a purpose.”
We carried everything outside to a small table near the water instead of the formal dining room. I found candles in a drawer. Isa found a lighter. The night was soft and warm, the bay black and silver beyond the lawn, the dock stretching out under moonlight.
Turkey. Mashed potatoes. Stuffing from a box that tasted better than anything the country club served. Green beans swimming in butter. Sweet potatoes with marshmallows slightlyburned on top because I got distracted watching Isa bend into the oven.
She caught me.
I denied it.
She did not believe me.
We ate by candlelight with our knees touching under the table.
The wine was ridiculous.
The turkey was basted to perfection.
The potatoes were creamy.
Isa lifted her glass. “To surviving Thanksgiving.”
I touched mine to hers. “To ruining Richard’s wine cellar.”
“To Publix.”
“To butter.”
She laughed.
I loved that laugh.
I loved it more when she was tired enough to let it come out without checking it first.
Halfway through dinner, she leaned back, eyes bright from wine and candlelight. “This is kind of perfect.”
I looked at the water because looking at her was dangerous.
“Best Thanksgiving ever,” I said.
The words came out before I could dress them up.
Her smile softened.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Her foot brushed mine under the table.
Not strategy.
Not performance.
Just touch.
I wanted to keep her there forever.
