He wore a button-down shirt and a tie that was slightly too narrow for the collar. The shirt was so sharply pressed that I suspected he’d spent a good amount of time on it.
He carried a box of chocolates.
“Miss Gwendolyn.”
“You’re early.”
“I didn’t want to be late.”
“You are forty minutes early.”
“That’s not late.”
“Excellent reasoning. Come in.”
He stood in the kitchen uncertainly while Priya worked on a tray.
“You cook?” I asked.
He looked alarmed.
“Depends what you mean.”
“Can you mash potatoes?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You are now in charge of potatoes.”
His shoulders relaxed.
For the next half hour, Jerome mashed potatoes as if his academic future depended on them.
At one point Ruth leaned toward me.
“He’s nervous.”
“I know.”
“Give him another job.”
I handed him the cranberry sauce.
By one o’clock, the house was full.
Dolores, ninety-one, claimed the armchair near the fireplace before anyone else could and announced that age had privileges.
She had brought her sherry.
Patricia and Lynn brought wine.
Beverly arrived with a sweet potato pie even though I’d told her not to bring anything.
Carol carried white carnations and holly arranged in a mason jar.
People stood in the living room because there weren’t enough seats.
Someone sat on the stairs.
Coats filled my guest room bed.
The house smelled like roasted chicken, brown sugar, cloves, butter, pine, and rosemary.
Three conversations were happening at once.
Dolores was telling Jerome about spending a Christmas in Germany in 1956.
Marcus and Beverly were arguing cheerfully about whether marshmallows belonged on sweet potatoes.
Ruth kept moving one candle on the mantel because she claimed it was crooked.
I stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room and looked at everyone.
For a moment, I thought about Asheville.
I pictured Daniel in a large rented house with a mountain view.
Natalie’s father.
Her colleagues.
The private chef.
Nice dishes.
Good wine.
Everything planned carefully.
And I hoped it was wonderful.
I truly did.
Somewhere during those six weeks, I had stopped needing Daniel’s Christmas to fail in order for mine to matter.
“Are you going to stand there all day?” Ruth called. “Your potatoes are being attacked.”
I turned.
Jerome had a spoon in his hand.
“I’m only checking them.”
“That’s your third check.”
“They keep needing quality control.”
We sat down a little after one.
It took several minutes to fit everyone around the tables.
Nobody complained.
There was so much food that every available space held a bowl, platter, basket, or serving dish.
The chickens came out with skin the color of dark honey.
The ham glistened with brown sugar.
The potatoes were bubbling at the edges.
I looked at all seventeen people.
For years, my husband had said grace.
After he died, Daniel usually did it.
Now seventeen people were looking at me.
So I said the simplest thing I could think of.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
That was enough.
We ate for nearly two hours.
People reached across one another.
Dishes moved in both directions.
Someone spilled cider.
Three people tried to clean it at once.
Priya beat all of us to it.
Jerome took one bite of the chicken and stopped chewing.
I noticed.
“What?”
He stared at his plate.
“Miss Gwendolyn.”
“What?”
“I need you to understand something.”
Everyone nearby quieted.
“This might be the best chicken I’ve had since I left Atlanta.”
Ruth snorted.
“It’s chicken, not a religious experience.”
Jerome pointed his fork at her.
“You didn’t taste what I just tasted.”
People laughed.
“It’s the brine,” I said. “Two days.”
“Two days?”
“Lemon, salt, rosemary.”