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some more of the turkey.
    “I just installed an expensive, gas-burning
fireplace in my penthouse. It looks so amazing. I even placed fake
logs to the side to give it more of an authentic feel.”
    My uncle was a wealthy restaurateur and made
his money as the owner of some of New York’s finest and trendiest
restaurants. He had even offered to bring the Thanksgiving dinner
along with him.
    “I could have had my sous-chef, Luis, make
the turkey and all the sides, Laura,” he said as he sliced into a
juicy brown turkey leg. “His homemade cranberry sauce is to die for
and you wouldn’t have had to go to all this trouble.”
    My mother smiled, proud as a peacock, as she
spooned steaming peas and carrots onto James’s plate. James plugged
his nose and looked at me. I giggled. My mom noticed.
    “James! Stop it! And you, too, Willow.”
    She turned her smile back to my uncle.
    “It’s no trouble at all, Ron. I’ve always
enjoyed cooking a turkey and love how it makes the whole house
smell.”
    My mother gave me veggies, too.
    “Plus, I could never repay you for letting us
move in and live here rent free.”
    My mother put her hand to her chest and got
choked up. “I really don’t know what I would have done without you,
brother.”
    My uncle patted the top of her hand. “Don’t
worry, Laura. I did it because I can.”
    Uncle Ron got all excited and animated.
“Plus, for some time now, I’ve had my eye on a bigger house here on
the island, over on Peck Road. I always wanted an excuse to buy it,
and now I have one!”
    My mom smiled lovingly at her only
sibling.
    Uncle Ron spoke softly. “Consider this place
all yours, sis.”
    My mother was so moved by his gesture. She
tried to hold back her tears, but could not.
    My grandfather, who seemed to be getting more
and more senile lately, yelled, “What’s all the blubbering about,
Laura? Is it because the food tastes so horrible?”
    My grandmother rolled her eyes and gently
elbowed him in the side. “Quiet, Shamus! The food is
delightful.”
    My mother looked at each one of us as we
feasted on her hard work. She frowned. “Is it that bad?”
    “Not at all,” James answered as he plopped
another heap of mashed potatoes onto his plate.
    “It’s delicious, Mom,” I swore and even took
another bite of my stuffing.
    “I’ve got some bad news for you, sister,” my
Uncle Ron said in his most serious tone. “If you cook like this all
the time, I’m gonna have to steal you from Willow and James so you
can run one of my kitchens in New York.”
    As my mom smiled with appreciation and dried
her eyes, the doorbell rang. We all turned toward the family room.
My mother, who was already standing, put down the carving knife and
fork. “I’ll get it,” she said and left the room.
    My grandfather continued ranting about how
salty the food was and my grandmother kept trying to quiet him,
while James, my uncle and I ate as though it was our last meal.
    My mother came back into the kitchen and
cleared her throat. We all looked at her. She addressed me.
    “Willow, you have a visitor.”
    “I do?”
    She nodded.
    “Who is it?”
    She gestured toward the family room. “Go and
see.”
    The others stared at me. I shrugged, got up
from the table and threw my napkin onto my chair. “Be right
back.”
    Who the heck would stop by and visit today,
of all days, I wondered as I stepped into the family room? I stood
and looked around. No one was in there. I saw a blurred movement
coming from beyond the icy, frosted panes of the front door.
Cautiously, I walked toward it.
    Slowly I turned the cold, metal doorknob,
faced the unexpected visitor and gasped.
    “Happy Thanksgiving!” Michael beamed.
    • • •
    Never in my life had I seen anyone shiver as
much as Michael. I pulled him into the family room and led him
toward the hot, crackling fire. I was filled with questions, but
wanted him to defrost first.
    Michael looked terrible. He was paler than
ever and his lips were a light