“I’m glad.”
“The view is ridiculous. You can see mountains from almost every room.”
“That sounds lovely.”
Another pause.
Then Daniel cleared his throat.
“Natalie’s dad didn’t like the chef’s menu.”
“Oh?”
“He thought it was too experimental.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Then Richard made some comment about the wine, and Natalie’s dad got annoyed, and there was this whole thing during dinner.”
I leaned against the porch railing.
Daniel continued.
“The food was good. Really good.”
“But?”
He sighed.
“I don’t know.”
I waited.
“It doesn’t feel like Christmas.”
His voice dropped.
“I keep thinking about your chicken.”
I looked through the kitchen window.
Jerome was standing at the counter eating something off a plate.
Probably more chicken.
“There will be leftovers.”
“You think?”
“I cooked for seventeen people as if I expected thirty.”
He laughed softly.
For the first time all day, I heard the boy in his voice.
“Did everybody come?”
“Every single one.”
“Seventeen people.”
“Seventeen.”
“What did you make?”
I told him.
Chicken.
Ham.
Potatoes.
Corn pudding.
Cranberry sauce.
Cookies.
When I mentioned the Pfeffernüsse, he groaned.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“You made those too?”
“Of course.”
“Do you have any left?”
“I hid a tin.”
“From seventeen people?”
“From Ruth.”
He laughed again.
Then he went quiet.
“I’m sorry.”
I didn’t rush to fill the silence.
Finally he said, “What I said about your cooking was awful.”
“It hurt.”
“I know.”
“I don’t think you did know when you said it.”
“No.”
Another pause.
“I thought I was trying to keep Natalie happy.”
“I understand that.”
“But I made you sound like something I needed to apologize for.”
That was closer to the truth than anything I could have said for him.
“Yes,” I said.
“I’m sorry.”
This time I believed he understood the sentence he was saying.
I looked across the yard at the last strip of orange light.
“You can come by tomorrow if you want.”
“Really?”
“We’ll have leftovers for lunch.”
“Chicken?”
“If Jerome hasn’t finished it.”
Daniel laughed.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Daniel.”
I went back inside.
Nobody asked what the call had been about.
Ruth glanced at me from across the room.
I nodded once.
She nodded back.
Then Beverly called out, “Gwendolyn, settle something. Is canned cranberry sauce acceptable under any circumstances?”
“Absolutely.”
Beverly looked triumphant.
Ruth shouted, “Coward.”
The room erupted again.
We stayed together until well after dark.
People packed leftovers into containers.
Marcus took potatoes.
Beverly took ham.
Jerome left with enough chicken for two meals, despite insisting he didn’t need it.