to be an excellent cook. All through the meal, the host and hostess have expertly shepherded the conversation toward football, films, fog, and similarly ordinary topics. Reeve has managed to navigate through Amanda’s friendly queries, and now lazily watches the shared intimacies between the couples, the pats and murmurs. The baby laughs at her, his face crinkling with glee, and her family seems blissfully normal.
Her father pushes his plate away and leans back in his chair, declaring, “Amanda, this was very possibly the best meal I’ve eaten in my entire life.”
Amanda grins at him while Reeve and Rachel exchange a look. This is Classic Dad. He has said exactly this at every shared holiday meal they can remember.
“And that pumpkin soup!” Rachel exclaims. “You have got to give me the recipe.”
“I’ll e-mail it to you,” says Amanda.
“And that stuffing!” Rachel rises out of her chair and begins clearing the table. “Wild rice and almonds and what else?”
“Butter, butter, and more butter,” Amanda says, rising to help.
Reeve stands. “No, no, Amanda, you sit,” she insists, gathering plates.
“The cook does not do dishes,” Rachel agrees. “That’s the rule.”
“No, Rach, you sit, too. You’ve done way too much already,” Reeve says, waving her sister off.
“Really, let us take care of this,” Reeve’s father adds, putting a hand on Amanda’s shoulder. He carries the platter of turkey toward the kitchen, saying, “We’ll start the coffee. Who’s ready for dessert?”
Everyone groans, laughing, while Reeve and her father disappear into the kitchen. They work together quietly, stacking dishes in the sink, wrapping leftovers, and wiping off countertops. It’s a small kitchen, but they each know it well and work in efficient harmony.
Reeve wants to say something nice about her father’s new live-in girlfriend, a smart, stylish woman who—to Reeve’s amazement—her father met online. “Um, Amanda’s great for you, Dad. You’ve been dating for quite awhile now, right?”
“Just about nine months.”
The conversation stalls, and Reeve cringes at her inability to make small talk. She busies herself with filling Tupperware containers and stacking them in the refrigerator while her father loads the dishwasher. When it is nearly full, he asks softly, “How are you doing, kiddo?”
She freezes. “I’m fine.”
He does not embarrass her by stopping or even looking at her. “I was hoping you would call me back last night so we could talk.”
The subject they’ve been avoiding falls like a shadow. “Yesterday wasn’t a good day,” she says curtly.
“Well, I’m sure all this business about Tilly Cav—”
“It’s not just that,” Reeve interrupts. “I got fired from my job.”
“What?”
She feels her face flush.
“They let you go?”
She hadn’t meant to spill this particular bit of bad news—it’s Thanksgiving after all, so she’s supposed to be happy and thankful—but now it seems a convenient way to steer the conversation away from darker issues. “They tried to be nice about it,” she says. “But still.”
“I’m so sorry. What happened?”
“Takami-san, the owner, has a daughter who has apparently been kicked out of UCLA,” she turns quickly to the sink and begins scrubbing a pot. “Or maybe she dropped out, because I don’t think she ever wanted to study business. Anyway, she’s home again, so she’s back working at the restaurant, and I’m out.” Her voice starts to crack and she covers it with a cough.
“When did this happen?”
“Yesterday.”
“You really liked that job, didn’t you?”
“Well, yeah. But I was really just replacing Keiko, I guess.”
Her father puts an arm around her shoulders and gives her a hug, just briefly, because it’s understood that Reeve doesn’t like being touched.
* * *
After dessert, while the family sprawls around the television, Reeve slips away for a nap in the guest
Her father pushes his plate away and leans back in his chair, declaring, “Amanda, this was very possibly the best meal I’ve eaten in my entire life.”
Amanda grins at him while Reeve and Rachel exchange a look. This is Classic Dad. He has said exactly this at every shared holiday meal they can remember.
“And that pumpkin soup!” Rachel exclaims. “You have got to give me the recipe.”
“I’ll e-mail it to you,” says Amanda.
“And that stuffing!” Rachel rises out of her chair and begins clearing the table. “Wild rice and almonds and what else?”
“Butter, butter, and more butter,” Amanda says, rising to help.
Reeve stands. “No, no, Amanda, you sit,” she insists, gathering plates.
“The cook does not do dishes,” Rachel agrees. “That’s the rule.”
“No, Rach, you sit, too. You’ve done way too much already,” Reeve says, waving her sister off.
“Really, let us take care of this,” Reeve’s father adds, putting a hand on Amanda’s shoulder. He carries the platter of turkey toward the kitchen, saying, “We’ll start the coffee. Who’s ready for dessert?”
Everyone groans, laughing, while Reeve and her father disappear into the kitchen. They work together quietly, stacking dishes in the sink, wrapping leftovers, and wiping off countertops. It’s a small kitchen, but they each know it well and work in efficient harmony.
Reeve wants to say something nice about her father’s new live-in girlfriend, a smart, stylish woman who—to Reeve’s amazement—her father met online. “Um, Amanda’s great for you, Dad. You’ve been dating for quite awhile now, right?”
“Just about nine months.”
The conversation stalls, and Reeve cringes at her inability to make small talk. She busies herself with filling Tupperware containers and stacking them in the refrigerator while her father loads the dishwasher. When it is nearly full, he asks softly, “How are you doing, kiddo?”
She freezes. “I’m fine.”
He does not embarrass her by stopping or even looking at her. “I was hoping you would call me back last night so we could talk.”
The subject they’ve been avoiding falls like a shadow. “Yesterday wasn’t a good day,” she says curtly.
“Well, I’m sure all this business about Tilly Cav—”
“It’s not just that,” Reeve interrupts. “I got fired from my job.”
“What?”
She feels her face flush.
“They let you go?”
She hadn’t meant to spill this particular bit of bad news—it’s Thanksgiving after all, so she’s supposed to be happy and thankful—but now it seems a convenient way to steer the conversation away from darker issues. “They tried to be nice about it,” she says. “But still.”
“I’m so sorry. What happened?”
“Takami-san, the owner, has a daughter who has apparently been kicked out of UCLA,” she turns quickly to the sink and begins scrubbing a pot. “Or maybe she dropped out, because I don’t think she ever wanted to study business. Anyway, she’s home again, so she’s back working at the restaurant, and I’m out.” Her voice starts to crack and she covers it with a cough.
“When did this happen?”
“Yesterday.”
“You really liked that job, didn’t you?”
“Well, yeah. But I was really just replacing Keiko, I guess.”
Her father puts an arm around her shoulders and gives her a hug, just briefly, because it’s understood that Reeve doesn’t like being touched.
* * *
After dessert, while the family sprawls around the television, Reeve slips away for a nap in the guest
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