Chapter 1 - The Thanksgiving Table
The plate of mashed potatoes slid across the dining table so hard that gravy spilled onto the white tablecloth.
“I told you I don't want mashed potatoes!”
Simone Cole's voice cut through the Thanksgiving conversation.
At the other end of the table, seventy-year-old Joanne Cole stopped pouring water into a guest's glass.
Simone shoved the plate farther away.
“Seriously, how many times do I have to say it? Go clean the kitchen. I'll get something else.”
Nobody moved.
The dining room was crowded with relatives, polished silverware, and dishes Joanne had spent two days preparing.
Her daughter-in-law sat near the center of the table wearing a fitted burgundy dress, gold earrings, and an expression of open irritation.
Beside her, Malcolm Cole stared at his plate.
Joanne looked toward her son.
For one moment, she hoped he would say something.
He didn't.
“I'm sorry, honey,” Joanne said quietly. “I thought you liked the garlic potatoes.”
“Well, you thought wrong.”
Simone picked up her wineglass.
“And please don't bring anything else out until you wipe the counters. The kitchen looks terrible.”
Joanne's fingers tightened around the water pitcher.
Across the table, Curtis Cole slowly lowered his fork.
He had been watching his wife all evening.
He had seen Simone order her to bring more ice.
He had watched her complain that the rolls weren't warm enough.
He had heard her criticize the table decorations, the cranberry sauce, and the way Joanne arranged the serving dishes.
Each time, Joanne had smiled and tried to accommodate her.
But this was different.
Curtis opened his mouth.
Joanne caught his eye and gave the smallest shake of her head.
Please, not now.
She had spent weeks looking forward to having the whole family together.
She didn't want Thanksgiving to become an argument.
“I'll be right back,” she whispered.
Then she picked up the rejected plate and walked into the kitchen.
The moment she passed through the doorway, her smile disappeared.
She placed the plate beside the sink.
Her hands were trembling.
For a long moment, she stared at the potatoes she had made from her own mother's recipe.
Then a tear slid down her cheek.
She wiped it away with the corner of her apron.
“Not today,” she whispered to herself.
She had promised herself she wouldn't cry over Simone again.
Not after the arguments about the guest bathroom.
Not after the comments about her old furniture.
Not after hearing her daughter-in-law tell a friend that the house needed someone younger to take charge.
Joanne pressed her palms against the counter.
From the dining room came laughter.
Simone was talking again.
“I'm just particular about how things are done. Somebody has to have standards.”
Joanne closed her eyes.
Then she straightened her apron, checked the turkey resting beside the oven, and lifted the enormous serving platter.
The roasted bird was golden brown, surrounded by fresh herbs and orange slices.
It was the centerpiece of the meal.
She carried it carefully into the dining room.
“Here we go,” she said softly. “Happy Thanksgiving, everybody.”
She had barely placed the platter on the table when a chair scraped loudly against the floor.
Curtis stood.
“ENOUGH.”
Every conversation stopped.
Simone looked up.
“Excuse me?”
Curtis wasn't shouting wildly.
His voice had the controlled force of a man who had finally reached the end of his patience.
“You've treated my wife like a servant from the moment you sat down.”
Simone rolled her eyes.
“Oh, here we go.”
“No,” Curtis replied. “You don't get to dismiss me too.”
Malcolm shifted uncomfortably.
“Dad, maybe we should—”
“You sit there.”
The words stopped him.
Curtis pointed toward Joanne, still standing beside the turkey.
“That woman has been cooking since six o'clock this morning. She cleaned this house, prepared every dish, and made sure every person here had something they liked.”
His voice hardened.
“And you haven't said thank you once.”
Simone set down her glass.
“I don't appreciate being embarrassed in front of everyone.”
Curtis looked at her.
“Then imagine how Joanne feels.”
The room fell silent again.
Simone crossed her arms.
“This is ridiculous. I live here too.”
Curtis nodded slowly.
“Yes. You do.”
“Exactly.”
“But apparently nobody has explained something important to you.”
He gestured toward the walls.
“Do you even know whose house this is?”
Simone laughed.
“Of course I do.”
Curtis waited.
She glanced at Malcolm.
“This is the house Malcolm and I are taking over. We've already discussed it.”
Joanne's head lifted.
Curtis's expression changed.
“What did you say?”
Simone looked between them.
Then she turned to her husband.
“Malcolm?”
He didn't answer.
“Tell your father what you told me.”
Malcolm's face had gone pale.
Simone's confident expression began to falter.
“Malcolm, you said your parents were ready to sign this house over to us after Thanksgiving.”
Joanne felt the air leave her lungs.
She looked at her son.
May you like
“Malcolm,” she whispered, “what have you been telling your wife?”
And for the first time that evening, Malcolm had no answer.
