Mrs. Stalinski asks me to make Thanksgiving dinner this year.
We’re whispering in the kitchen so we don’t wake Stone, who’s slumbering in the next room. I’d crept down the stairs and noticed enlarged lumps on the pull-out couch. It’s a twin fold out, yet Stone encompasses it like it’s a toddler’s mattress.
Tufts of his chestnut hair stick out from under the bedding, but otherwise, he’s buried under the covers like a troll hiding under his bridge until an unsuspecting goat comes along.
I have no idea where he went last night. After our painful lunchtime confessions, he dropped me off at my car, then disappeared. Stone didn’t come home that evening for dinner, nor did I find him sleeping on the pull-out when I came down for a 2 am glass of water. Thoughts turning over in my head and crowding in on one another kept me awake, memories, flashbacks, and wishes all fighting for space. I wonder if Stone was experiencing the same.
From the smell coming off the couch, I assume he found solace at the bottom of a bottle at the Tipsy Falcon.
I’m glad Stone made it home. As much as I convince myself our lives don’t have to intersect anymore, I worry about him. I care. And if I have to come down the stairs and smell a brewery while putting together a quick egg scramble, then I’ll take it.
Stone’s not sleeping it off somewhere else. He didn’t find another woman. He didn’t give anyone an excuse to press “upload” on their phones by being an idiot last night.
For all of those things, I’m thankful.
“So what do you think? Can you cook up a turkey for, say, six or seven people?” Mrs. Stalinski asks. She gestures for a refill on her coffee.
“Why seven?” I lift the carafe of hot coffee and pour. “Who’s coming?”
“Well, I figure Maisy, Carly, and Mae, and Stone, of course, you, me, and I’m thinking of inviting Rome since he’s all alone out on that ranch of his since his daddy will be patrolling the streets, and Stone said something about this Aaron boy stopping by next weekend.”
“Next weekend?” My voice becomes high-pitched. “Oh my God, Thanksgiving is next weekend!”
Mrs. Stalinski reaches over the breakfast counter and pats my hand. “You’ve been busy.”
I subtly frown at her, wondering exactly what she means by that. Mrs. Stalinski maintains her mysterious air as she leans back without a clue in her expression. It’s not like Stone to open up and let her in on what we talked about yesterday or how we’ve christened this counter, but these are different times, and I know when my mother was at this point in her diagnosis, I told her everything I could and absorbed everything she had to tell me.
Then again, I think while staring through the archway at a comatose Stone,denial is a wonderful choice, too.
“Well?” Mrs. Stalinski asks, blinking like a patient owl.
“Um, can I think about it?”
“No.”
“Oh.” I pull the frying pan off the stove, buttery eggs sizzling nicely. “Then I guess I’m a yes.”
“I knew you would be!” Mrs. Stalinski claps. “We’ll do a traditional turkey fare and I’ll help in any way I can. Maybe you can also prepare a dish from your new class.”
“I don’t know. I’ve only had one class with Chef Toussaint and he’s, well, not exactly keeping up with the holidays. This week we’re doing Choucroute Garnie à l’Alsacienne.”
Mrs. Stalinski cocks her head. “What now?”
“Braised sauerkraut with mixed meat and sausages.”
“Hmm. Not exactly Thanksgiving friendly, is it?”
I laugh. “No, but I’ll come up with something fun to make. I’ll enjoy looking through my old cookbooks.”
“That would be wonderful. Surprise us. This will be fun.”
Day brightened, Mrs. Stalinski slides off her stool. “Keep that warm for me, will you? I feel like a bike ride with my son.”
“Is that a good idea?” I spin with her as she passes me. “It’s getting pretty cold out.”
“We go at a brisk pace. Don’t worry.” She flaps her hand behind her, waving me off, then approaches Stone.
Hands on her hips, she studies him for a moment, then pulls the pillow out from under his head and whacks him with it.
