Lock and Key(78)

“Can you blame me? ” She leaned back with a thud against the wall. “Any minute now, the house will be crawling with people who are expecting the perfect family Thanksgiving. And who’s in charge? Me, the last person who is equipped to produce it.”

“That’s not true,” I said.

“How do you figure? I’ve never done Thanksgiving before.”

“You made pizzas that year, for Jamie,” I pointed out.

“What, you mean back in college?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Okay, that is so not the same thing.”

“It was a meal, and it counts,” I told her. “Plus, he said it was the best Thanksgiving of his life.”

She smiled, leaning her head back and looking up at the clothes. “Well, that’s Jamie, though. If it was just him, I wouldn’t be worried. But we’re talking about his entire family here. They make me nervous.”

“Why? ”

“Because they’re all just so well adjusted,” she said, shuddering. “It makes our family look like a pack of wolves.”

I just looked at her. “Cora. It’s one day.”

“It’s Thanksgiving.”

“Which is,” I said, “just one day.”

She pulled Roscoe closer to her. “And that’s not even including the whole baby thing. These people are so fertile, it’s ridiculous. You just know they’re all wondering why we’ve been married five years and haven’t yet delivered another member into the tribe.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” I said. “And even if it is, it’s none of their business, and you’re fully entitled to tell them so if they start in on you.”

“They won’t,” she said glumly. “They’re too nice. That’s what so unsettling about all this. They all get along, they love me, they’ll eat the turkey even if it’s charred and raw. No one’s going to be drunk and passed out in the sweet potatoes.”

“Mom never passed out in food,” I said.

“That you remember.”

I rolled my eyes. We hadn’t talked about my mom much since the day Cora had laid down my punishment, but she also wasn’t as taboo a topic as before. It wasn’t like we agreed wholeheartedly now on our shared, or unshared, past. But at the same time, we weren’t split into opposing camps—her attacking, me defending—either.

“I’m just saying,” she said, “it’s a lot of pressure, being part of something like this.”

“Like what?”

“A real family,” she said. “On the one hand, a big dinner and everyone at the table is the kind of thing I always wanted. But at the same time, I just feel . . . out of place, I guess.”

“It’s your house,” I pointed out.

“True.” She sighed again. “Maybe I’m just being hormonal. This medication I’m taking might be good for my ovaries, but it’s making me crazy.”

I made a face. Being privy to the reproductive drama was one thing, but specific details, in all honesty, made me kind of queasy. A few days before, I’d gone light-headed when she’d only just mentioned the word uterus.

The doorbell rang again. The promise of visitors clearly won out over the fear of the oven, as Roscoe wriggled loose, taking off and disappearing around the corner.

“Traitor,” Cora muttered.

“Okay. Enough.” I got out of the closet, brushing myself off, then turned around to face her. “This is happening. So you need to go downstairs, face your fears, and make the best of it, and everything will be okay.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “When did you suddenly become so positive?”

“Just get out of there.”

A sigh, and then she emerged, getting to her feet and adjusting her skirt. I shut the closet door, and for a moment we both stood there, in front of the full-length mirror, staring at our reflections. Finally I said, “Remember Thanksgiving at our house?”

“No,” she said softly. “Not really.”

“Me neither,” I said. “Let’s go.”

It wasn’t so much that I was positive. I just wasn’t fully subscribing to such a negative way of thinking anymore.

That morning, when Cora had been in serious food-prep freak-out mode—covered in flour, occasionally bursting into tears, waving a spoon at anyone who came too close—all I’d wanted was a reason to escape the house. Luckily, I got a good one.

“Hey,” Nate said from the kitchen as I eased in through his sliding-glass door, carrying the four pies stacked on two cookie sheets. “For me? You shouldn’t have.”

“If you even as much as nip off a piece of crust,” I warned him, carrying them carefully to the stove, “Cora will eviscerate you. With an eggbeater, most likely.”

“Wow,” he said, recoiling slightly. “That’s graphic.”

“Consider yourself warned.” I put the pies down. “Okay to go ahead and preheat?”

“Sure. It’s all yours.”

I pushed the proper buttons to set the oven, then turned and leaned against it, watching him as he flipped through a thick stack of papers, jotting notes here and there. “Big day, huh? ”