“No.”
“Sweet potato pie?” “Candied yams?” They all started shouting dishes at her, until she laughed and shook her head. Then one of the boys said, “Stuffing?”
“Yes!” Ellen smiled at him.
“That’s just so sad,” said Megan, and grabbed the green beans. “Right, well, here you go; an introduction to the classic American tradition of eating too much—” she ladled a massive spoonful of green beans and fried onions onto Ellen’s plate “—and glaring at each other across the table.” She cast a dark eye over to Cat, who pretended she hadn’t been looking.
“Dark or white meat, Catriona?” Antonio asked, and the focus shifted away from Ellen. Megan only stopped putting things on her plate when there was no plate left to see.
Kane caught her eye. “Gravy?” he said innocently, but his eyes were molten. She had to look away from him before she started panting.
Obediently working her way through the pile of food, the conversation ebbed and flowed around her. Antonio taught at Boston College, and Cat was a third-grade teacher, so they always had stories to tell. Cat was a good storyteller when she forgot to send Ellen the stink-eye. She kept Thea next to her and after a few minutes took the baby from her so Thea could eat. Ellen wondered why they didn’t put him down in a crib somewhere, but she supposed he was a kind of security blanket for Thea. She took him back from Cat as soon as she could.
About halfway through the mountain of food in front of her, Ellen began to flag. Or maybe it was the tone of Cat’s voice when she demanded, “What are the police doing about the fires? Seems like the arsonists are just going from one town to the next to the next without any hope of stopping them.”
“They’ve been going through the employee lists, all the way back to Dad’s time,” Kane said, and a hush fell over the table, as if their father wasn’t invoked often. “They think they’ve narrowed it down to a group that’s disappeared. Ex-employees, some recent, some we had to fire back then.”
Now he frowned. Ellen knew what was bothering him: he still felt guilty for not being able to hire everyone back all those years ago. “They’re trying to find them,” he went on. “They say Thanksgiving’s a good time; people tend to go home then.” He fixed the boys with a dark stare. “No blabbing about this at school, okay, boys?” They nodded.
“I mean it,” Cat added. “This is family stuff. You hear?” They nodded feverishly again, even Jake, who had turned off his music at last. “Family stuff” was apparently the magic word.
When Cat stood up to clear, Ellen joined her and made sure she was the first at the sink. She treated each heirloom plate with so much care even Cat couldn’t complain. Between them she and Kane had everything put away before his sister could think of something snotty to say.
Megan had put out the dessert things by then; Ellen made one last attempt to be nice. “Cat, is it all right if I use the stove? I wanted to make some custard to go with the pie.”
“You. Are. Shitting me,” Kane said.
“What?” asked Megan, ever sensitive to changes in mood. “What’s wrong with custard?”
“Excuse me,” said Kane, and abruptly went out of the back door. She could see him lean against the deck railing, his back to the house. Megan said, “You’re making custard? Like, ice cream?”
Ellen tried, and again failed, to describe it. She got out the milk and the powder she had brought with her, and started heating the milk, with Megan looking on. “Oh,” Megan said. “It’s like hot pudding.”
“Ewwwww!” squealed the boys, who had come in hoping for some cookies to sneak.
“Well, if you put it like that,” Ellen admitted. “But... well, I like it.”
“What’s Kane’s problem, then?” Megan asked, frowning at the back door.
“Nothing.” Ellen allowed herself a small smile. “I’m sure he’ll like it too.”
When Kane came back in a couple of minutes later (not before Cat had stuck her head out of the door and said, “You better not be smoking out there!”), he pulled Ellen back when she was about to take the pie into the dining room. “This pie’s hot,” she complained.
“You’re hot,” he growled. “Next time you’re going to say ‘custard’ in front of me, give me a little warning.” She laughed so hard she nearly dropped the plate.
Ellen couldn’t convert everyone to the custard, but they loved her apple pie, made without spices so the sweet tartness of the apples came through. Antonio got out some port and whisky, and even Cat stopped sucking on a lemon. She’d moved from the head of the table so she could lean against Antonio. Thea had gone off to nurse again, but Cat had insisted she have a little Guinness (Antonio’s mother had sworn by it for nursing mothers), so even she’d been looking a bit more cheerful.
The boys had run outside again to burn off their sugar highs. Dean Martin was singing a Christmas song. Kane had his arm around Ellen and was playing with her hand. The room smelled of the fire in the grate, a smell she always associated with him now, and of syrup and melting ice cream.
“So, Helen,” Cat said on a slightly drunken sigh, “what exactly are your assspirations with my brother?”
“That’s none of our business, cara,” Antonio said gently.
“Yes ’tis,” Cat objected. “My only brother, isn’t he? Baby brother...” She closed her eyes.
“I’ve been bigger than you since third grade,” Kane said.
“Don’t matter,” Cat breathed, leaning farther into Antonio. “Those actresses... used you, din’ they? Poor innocent Kane.” Kane coughed out a laugh. “Dropping trou for any chick that bats an eyelash...”
