Janet Evanovich - Thanksgiving

“So when do you think you’ll get married?” Laurie asked.

“Christmas,” Megan said. “A Christmas wedding in Williamsburg.”

The front door was flung open, filling the cottage with a welcome blast of cold air. Pat and his brother staggered in under a load of boxes and bags.

“Here it is!” Pat announced. His cheeks were flushed, his jaunty red scarf askew, and he was laughing as he set an enormous cardboard carton on the table.

Everyone crowded around to look into the box.

“What is it?” Megan’s mother asked.

“It’s the turkey!” Pat said.

“Turkeys don’t come that big,” Mrs. Murphy said. “It must be an ostrich.”

Mrs. Hunter shook her head. “You’d better measure it. I don’t think it’ll fit in the oven.”

Mrs. Murphy held her big wooden spoon aloft. “We need more stuffing.”

“We need more people,” Mrs. Hunter said. “This bird could feed the Pacific fleet.”

Pat beamed. “It’s a beauty, isn’t it?”

Hours later Megan was sprawled on the braided rug, toasting her stockinged feet by the heat of the fire. “I don’t ever want to see another apple,” she said to Pat. “Look at my finger. It’s got a blister from paring.”

He looked solicitous and kissed the injured finger.

His niece giggled. “Pat kissed Megan’s finger,” she said.

“It’s all right,” Mrs. Murphy said. “They’re going to get married. You can do that sort of thing when you’re engaged to get married.”

Pat leaned close to Megan and whispered in her ear. “Did I miss something? Are we engaged?”

“Yup. Your mom and my mom decided it this afternoon.”

“Have they decided on a date?”

“Christmas.”

Pat considered it for a moment. “You seem pretty mellow about all this.”

“I’m trying to keep a sense of humor. Besides, my jaw aches from grinding my teeth.”

He stretched out on his back beside her and clasped his hands behind his head. “Are you going to do it?”

“Do what?”

He grinned. “Marry me.”

“I don’t know. Do you think I should?”

“It’s the least you could do after having your way with me two nights in a row. And it would probably help my tax return. Of course, it would ruin my image as a cute bachelor.”

She looked at his nose. It wasn’t broken, and the swelling was going down, but he was left with a classic shiner. “I think your image might be a little tarnished anyway.”

Mrs. Hunter finished feeding Timmy and sat with him in the rocking chair. “Don’t you think Timmy resembles Pat?” she asked Megan’s mother. “Around the mouth?”

“Maybe, but he has Megan’s eyes.”

Megan groaned. “Mom, he doesn’t have my eyes. He has Tilly Coogan’s eyes. This is Tilly Coogan’s baby.”

“I know that, dear. But there is a little resemblance growing here. You remember Mrs. Yates and her poodle, and how they looked like each other? And what about Skokey Moyer and that old bloodhound he kept?”

“I think they’ve gone off the deep end,” Megan said to Pat.

He agreed. “Jumped in with both feet.” There was a moment of silence. “Still, you have to admit, he does sort of have my mouth.”

“I think that punch in the nose went straight to your brain.”

“Nope. It’s you. You make me starry – eyed and fuzzy – headed, and all warm and mushy inside.”

“Yuk.”

His eyes grew serious. He lowered his voice, so only she could hear. “It’s true. I can’t concentrate on anything. My stomach’s a mess. My libido’s out of control. Meg, I’m so in love with you it hurts. I can’t stand being away from you, and when I’m with you I can’t stand not touching you, holding you.”

Megan felt her stomach flip and press against her backbone. She experienced the same pain of separation, the same overwhelming desire to join flesh to flesh. For once, she couldn’t blame her mother for jumping to conclusions. Any emotion this strong had to be obvious even to the most casual observer.

She touched her fingertip to his lips, and they exchanged smiles, acknowledging the mysterious power their love held over them.

There was the scrape of a kitchen chair as Mr. Murphy stood and stretched. “I think it’s time to call it a night. I’ve had my supper, lost two games of chess, and need to soak my hand in hot water and Epsom salts.” He tenderly rubbed his swollen, bruised knuckles. “Patrick, you’ve got a hard nose.”

Everyone laughed. The story had already grown to classic proportions and was guaranteed immortality in both families.

“Patrick Hunter is a nice young man,” Megan’s father said as he drove them home in his rental car.

“A doctor,” her mother added. “And his family is wonderful.”

“I like him,” Mr. Murphy said. “I even like him better than David.”

Mrs. Murphy clapped her hand to her forehead. “Oh, dear! David!”

Megan leaned forward from the back seat. “What do you mean, ‘Oh, dear, David’? What about David?”

Mrs. Murphy waved the issue away. “Nothing.Nothing to worry about.”

“Then why am I worrying?” Megan asked. “Why do I have this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach?”

Mrs. Murphy glanced back at her daughter. “It’s just that David called last week. He was wondering about you.”

“And?”

“And he wanted to know where you were living. Well, heavens, Megan, you never tell us anything. We didn’t know you had a new boyfriend.”

Megan closed her eyes. “He isn’t coming here.”

“He is. He’s stopping around after Thanksgiving.”

“I’m going to slash my wrists.”

“I think he’s still interested in you. He mentioned something about reconsidering.”

“What?” Megan yelled. “That toad. That slime ball. I’ll reconsider him to the moon.”

She sat back with a sigh. In all honesty, she didn’t know why she was so mad. David had done her a favor. She’d never truly been in love with him. She realized that now. When the chips were down, he’d been the one with the guts. She’d stood quaking in her fancy shoes, afraid to admit she’d made a horrible mistake, and David had been the one to say “no.” At the time it hadn’t seemed like a kindness. At the time it had been damned embarrassing.

“How come I never get to dump on anyone?” she mumbled. “How come I’m always the dumpee?”

Her mother smiled. “Maybe this is your chance, Megan. Maybe you’ll get to dump on David. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Megan threw her head back and laughed out loud. Her mother might be a little pushy when it came to marriage, but she was a lesson in flexibility and finding the silver lining.

Megan awoke before the alarm. She threw back the covers and dashed from her warm bed to see the sun rise through the frosty windowpane. It was Thanksgiving, and she couldn’t have been more excited if it were Christmas and she were seven years old.

She stuffed her feet into a pair of warm socks and pulled on her jeans and sweat shirt. She’d planned to spend a few hours working in her studio that morning as a special treat to herself. She was going to make Christmas presents. A teapot for Pat and a bowl for Timmy.

She quietly closed the front door and crept across the frozen lawn, her breath making clouds in the crisp air. She switched the lights on in her studio and started the electric heater. Then she stood for a moment, warming her hands on the mug of hot coffee she’d brought from the kitchen, watching the steam rise from the black liquid, filling her head with the smell of morning.

She couldn’t ever remember feeling more loved. She’d had a wonderful childhood, but she’d come to realize there were many kinds of love. The love one felt for parents, the love a woman shared with a man, the love a mother felt for her child. She had to smile at herself. She felt swollen… no, downright bloated with happiness.

She slipped a mud – spattered lab coat on and prepared her clay, whistling as she worked, focusing her attention on her craft. By nine thirty she had her projects drying on a board and was ready for another cup of coffee.

Pat met her halfway to the house. “I’m done with my rounds at the hospital and need a kiss,” he said. He swept her into his arms and kissed her long and hard. “I’ve been feeling deprived since all these relatives descended on us. I miss waking up next to you.”

“If my mother has her way, you’ll wake up next to me for the rest of your life.”

He nibbled on her neck. “Yum.Sounds nice.”

“Hmmm.” If it sounded so nice, Megan thought, why hadn’t he asked her to marry him? Pat had taken all the talk of engagement and marriage in stride. He looked and sounded like a fiancé. But he had never seriously proposed, and the vagueness of their relationship nagged at her.

She didn’t want to confront him with it, though. She wasn’t sure what her answer would be if he asked. There was still a small corner of her that harbored misgivings about marriage. It wasn’t so much being married that bothered Megan. It was the getting married that sent her heart into a nose dive.

Pat held her at arm’s length and studied her face. It was unreadable. As unreadable as her “hmmm.” He always sensed some reserve in Megan. It seemed alien to her character, but there it was. Always a “hmmm.” He wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement, or may be just a device to deter the natural progression of a conversation. “What does ‘hmmm’ mean?”

“ ‘Hmmm’ is like a sigh that you say out loud. Instead of going, ‘sigh’… you go, ‘hmmm.’ ”

“Megan Murphy, that’s an evasive answer.”

“Hah! Talk about evasive.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Think about it.”