Lock and Key (30 page)

I was listening to this, but still thinking about Cora and those pizzas so intently that I didn’t really hear the last part. At least intially. “Thankful lists?”

“Sure,” he said, pulling another piece of bread out and bringing the peanut butter closer to him. “Oh, that’s right. You guys didn’t do those, either, did you?”

“Um, no,” I said. “I don’t even know what that is.”

“Just what it sounds like,” he said, scooping out a glop of peanut butter and putting it on his bread. “You make a list of everything you’re thankful for. For Thanksgiving. And then you share it with everyone over dinner. It’s great!”

“Is this optional?” I asked.

“What?” He put down the knife with a clank. “You don’t want to do it?”

“I just don’t know . . . I’m not sure what I’d say,” I said. He looked so surprised I wondered if he was hurt, so I added, “Off the top of my head, I mean.”

“Well, that’s the great thing, though,” he said, going back to spreading the peanut butter. “You don’t have to do it at the moment. You can write up your list whenever you want.”

I nodded, as if this was actually my one hesitation. “Right.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll do great. I know it.”

You had to admire Jamie’s optimism. For him, anything was possible: a pond in the middle of the suburbs, a wayward sister-in-law going to college, a house becoming a home, and thankful lists for everyone. Sure, there was no guarantee any of these things would actually happen as he envisioned. But maybe that wasn’t the point. It was the planning that counted, whether it ever came to fruition or not.

Now, as Cora and I sat in the closet, we heard the doorbell ring downstairs. Roscoe perked up his ears, then yelped, the sound bouncing around the small space.

“That’s me,” I said, pulling off my sweater and grabbing another one off a nearby hanger. “I’ll just—”

I felt a hand clamp around my leg, jerking me off balance. “Let Jamie get it,” she said. “Just hang out here with me for a second. Okay?”

“You want me to get in there?”

“No.” She reached over to rub Roscoe’s ears before adding, more quietly, “I mean, only if you want to.”

I crouched down, and she scooted over as I crawled in, moving aside my boots so I could sit down.

“See?” she said. “It’s nice in here.”

“Okay,” I told her. “I will say it. You’re acting crazy.”

“Can you blame me? ” She leaned back with a thud against the wall. “Any minute now, the house will be crawling with people who are expecting the perfect family Thanksgiving. And who’s in charge? Me, the last person who is equipped to produce it.”

“That’s not true,” I said.

“How do you figure? I’ve never done Thanksgiving before.”

“You made pizzas that year, for Jamie,” I pointed out.

“What, you mean back in college?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Okay, that is so
not
the same thing.”

“It was a meal, and it counts,” I told her. “Plus, he said it was the best Thanksgiving of his life.”

She smiled, leaning her head back and looking up at the clothes. “Well, that’s Jamie, though. If it was just him, I wouldn’t be worried. But we’re talking about his entire family here. They make me nervous.”

“Why? ”

“Because they’re all just so well adjusted,” she said, shuddering. “It makes our family look like a pack of wolves.”

I just looked at her. “Cora. It’s one day.”

“It’s Thanksgiving.”

“Which is,” I said, “just one day.”

She pulled Roscoe closer to her. “And that’s not even including the whole baby thing. These people are so fertile, it’s ridiculous. You just know they’re all wondering why we’ve been married five years and haven’t yet delivered another member into the tribe.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” I said. “And even if it is, it’s none of their business, and you’re fully entitled to tell them so if they start in on you.”

“They won’t,” she said glumly. “They’re too nice. That’s what so unsettling about all this. They all get along, they love me, they’ll eat the turkey even if it’s charred
and
raw. No one’s going to be drunk and passed out in the sweet potatoes.”

“Mom never passed out in food,” I said.

“That you remember.”

I rolled my eyes. We hadn’t talked about my mom much since the day Cora had laid down my punishment, but she also wasn’t as taboo a topic as before. It wasn’t like we agreed wholeheartedly now on our shared, or unshared, past. But at the same time, we weren’t split into opposing camps—her attacking, me defending—either.

“I’m just saying,” she said, “it’s a lot of pressure, being part of something like this.”

“Like what?”

“A real family,” she said. “On the one hand, a big dinner and everyone at the table is the kind of thing I always wanted. But at the same time, I just feel . . . out of place, I guess.”

“It’s your house,” I pointed out.

“True.” She sighed again. “Maybe I’m just being hormonal. This medication I’m taking might be good for my ovaries, but it’s making me crazy.”

I made a face. Being privy to the reproductive drama was one thing, but specific details, in all honesty, made me kind of queasy. A few days before, I’d gone light-headed when she’d only just mentioned the word
uterus
.

The doorbell rang again. The promise of visitors clearly won out over the fear of the oven, as Roscoe wriggled loose, taking off and disappearing around the corner.

“Traitor,” Cora muttered.

“Okay. Enough.” I got out of the closet, brushing myself off, then turned around to face her. “This is happening. So you need to go downstairs, face your fears, and make the best of it, and everything will be okay.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “When did you suddenly become so positive?”

“Just get out of there.”

A sigh, and then she emerged, getting to her feet and adjusting her skirt. I shut the closet door, and for a moment we both stood there, in front of the full-length mirror, staring at our reflections. Finally I said, “Remember Thanksgiving at our house?”

“No,” she said softly. “Not really.”

“Me neither,” I said. “Let’s go.”

It wasn’t so much that I was positive. I just wasn’t fully subscribing to such a negative way of thinking anymore.

That morning, when Cora had been in serious food-prep freak-out mode—covered in flour, occasionally bursting into tears, waving a spoon at anyone who came too close—all I’d wanted was a reason to escape the house. Luckily, I got a good one.

“Hey,” Nate said from the kitchen as I eased in through his sliding-glass door, carrying the four pies stacked on two cookie sheets. “For me? You shouldn’t have.”

“If you even as much as nip off a piece of crust,” I warned him, carrying them carefully to the stove, “Cora will eviscerate you. With an eggbeater, most likely.”

“Wow,” he said, recoiling slightly. “That’s graphic.”

“Consider yourself warned.” I put the pies down. “Okay to go ahead and preheat?”

“Sure. It’s all yours.”

I pushed the proper buttons to set the oven, then turned and leaned against it, watching him as he flipped through a thick stack of papers, jotting notes here and there. “Big day, huh? ”

“Huge,” he said, glancing up at me. “Half our clients are out of town and need their houses or animals checked on, the other half have relatives visiting and need twice as much stuff done as usual. Plus there are those who ordered their entire dinners and want them delivered.”

“Sounds crazy,” I said.

“It isn’t,” he replied, jotting something else down. “It just requires military precision.”

“Nate?” I heard his dad call out from down a hallway. “What time is the Chambells’ pickup?”

“Eleven,” Nate said. “I’m leaving in ten minutes.”

“Make it five. You don’t know how backed up they’ll be. Do you have all the keys you need?”

“Yes.” Nate reached over to a drawer by the sink, pulling out a key ring and dropping it on the island, where it landed with a clank.

“Double-check,” Mr. Cross said. “I don’t want to have to come back here if you end up stuck somewhere.”

Nate nodded, making another note as a door slammed shut in another part of the house.

“He sounds stressed,” I said.

“It’s his first big holiday since we started the business,” he said. “He signed up a lot of new people just for today. But he’ll relax once we get out there and start getting things done.”

Maybe this was true. Still, I could hear Mr. Cross muttering to himself in the distance, the noise not unlike that my own mother would make, banging around before she reluctantly headed off to work. “So when, in the midst of all this, do
you
get to eat Thanksgiving dinner?”

“We don’t,” he said. “Unless hitting the drive-through at Double Burger with someone else’s turkey and potatoes in the backseat counts.”

“That,” I said, “is just plain sad.”

“I’m not much for holidays,” he said with a shrug.

“Really.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Why is that surprising?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I just expected someone who was, you know, so friendly and social to be a big fan of the whole family-gathering thing. I mean, Jamie is.”

“Yeah? ”

I nodded. “In fact, I’m supposed to be making up my thankful list as we speak.”

“Your what?”

“Exactly,” I said, pointing at him. “Apparently, it’s a list of the things you’re thankful for, to be read aloud at dinner. Which is something we never did. Ever.”

He flipped through the pages again. “Neither did we. I mean, back when we
were
a we.”

I could hear Mr. Cross talking now, his voice bouncing down the hall. He sounded much more cheerful than before, and I figured he had to be talking to a customer. “When did your parents split, anyway?”

Nate nodded, picking up the key ring and flipping through it. “When I was ten. You?”

“Five,” I said as the oven beeped behind me. Instantly, I thought of Roscoe, huddling in my closet. “My dad’s pretty much been out of the picture ever since.”

“My mom lives in Phoenix,” he said, sliding a key off the ring. “I moved out there with her after the divorce. But then she got remarried and had my stepsisters, and it was too much to handle.”

“What was?”

“Me,” he said. “I was in middle school, mouthing off, a pain in her ass, and she just wanted to do the baby thing. So year before last, she kicked me out and sent me back here.” I must have looked surprised, because he said, “What? You’re not the only one with a checkered past, you know.”

“I just never imagined you checkered,” I told him. Which was a massive understatement, actually. “Not even close.”

“I hide it well,” he said easily. Then he smiled at me. “Don’t you need to put in those pies?”

“Oh. Right.”

I turned around, opening the oven and sliding them onto the rack, side by side. As I stood back up, he said, “So what’s on your thankful list?”

“I haven’t exactly gotten it down yet,” I said, easing the oven shut. “Though, actually, you being checkered might make the top five.”

“Really,” he said.

“Oh, yeah. I thought I was the only misfit in the neighborhood. ”

“Not by a long shot.” He leaned back against the counter behind him, crossing his arms over his chest. “What else?”

“Well,” I said slowly, picking up the key he’d taken off the ring, “to be honest, I have a lot to choose from. A lot of good things have happened since I came here.”

“I believe it,” he said.

“Like,” I said slowly, “I’m very thankful for heat and running water these days.”

“As we should all be.”

“And I’ve been really lucky with the people I’ve met,” I said. “I mean, Cora and Jamie, of course, for taking me in. Harriet, for giving me my job. And Olivia, for helping me out that day, and just, you know, being a friend.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Uh-huh.”

“And,” I continued, shifting the key in my hand, “there’s always Gervais.”

“Gervais,” he repeated, his voice flat.

“He’s almost totally stopped burping. I mean, it’s like a miracle. And if I can’t be thankful for that, what can I be thankful for?”

“Gee,” Nate said, cocking his head to the side, “I don’t know.”

“There
might
be something else,” I said slowly, turning the key in my palm, end over end. “But it’s escaping me right now.”

He stepped closer to me, his arm brushing, then staying against mine as he reached out, taking the key from my palm and sliding it back onto the table. “Well,” he said, “maybe it’ll come to you later.”

“Maybe,” I said.

“Nate?” Mr. Cross called out. He was closer now, and Nate immediately stepped back, putting space between us just before he stuck his head around the corner. He glanced at me, giving a curt nod instead of a hello, then said, “What happened to five minutes?”

“I’m leaving right now,” Nate told him.

“Then let’s go,” Mr. Cross said, ducking back out. A nearby door slammed and I heard his car start up, the engine rumbling.

“I better hit it,” Nate said, grabbing up the stack of papers and the key ring. “Enjoy your dinner.”

“You, too,” I said. He squeezed my shoulder as he passed behind me, quickening his steps as he headed out into the hallway. Then the door banged behind him, and the house was quiet.

I checked on the pies again, then washed my hands and left the kitchen, turning off the light behind me. As I walked to the door that led out onto the patio, I saw another one at the end of the hallway. It was open just enough to make out a bed, the same USWIM sweatshirt Nate had lent me that day folded on top of it.

I don’t know what I was expecting, as it wasn’t like I’d been in a lot of guys’ rooms. A mess, maybe. Some pinup in a bikini on the wall. Perhaps a shot of Heather in a frame, a mirror lined with ticket stubs and sports ribbons, stacks of CDs and magazines. Instead, as I pushed the door open, I saw none of these things. In fact, even full of furniture, it felt . . . empty.