Thanksgiving

Chapter 6

Megan lay still as a clam, barely breathing, contemplating the situation. It was official. She had a lover. She’d spent the night with Patrick Hunter. A ripple of excitement caused an involuntary shiver to rush through her. It was thrilling and scary and awkward. She’d been engaged twice before, but she had never felt the jumble of emotions that were flooding through her now. Her engagements had been sterile and orderly compared to this. And she’d never spent the night.

She was new to this morning – after stuff. What the devil was she supposed to do? She needed a cup of coffee, but her lover was still sound asleep. She had a brief thought of dallying with him in his sleep but dismissed it as unethical. She stretched luxuriously and glanced at the bedside clock. Seven – thirty.Seven – thirty?Pat was supposed to be at the hospital at six!

“Pat, wake up. It’s seven – thirty.”

“Mmmm.”

She shook him gently. “You have to get up. You’re late.”

He sighed and rolled onto his stomach.

What did it take to get the man out of bed, a cattle prod? “Pat!”

He burrowed under his pillow.

Megan hopped up and tore the covers off him. She stood motionless for a moment in awed admiration. Lord, he was grogeous. But there was no time for ogling, she thought regretfully. He still wasn’t moving.

“Pat, if you don’t get up I’m going to do something drastic! Pat!” She wrapped herself in his robe and padded into the bathroom.

“Okay, you asked for it,” she said, returning with a glass of cold water.

She stood poised over his naked body. Where should she spill it? He mumbled in his sleep and rolled onto his back, and Megan closed her eyes and dumped the water.

“Holy-!” he shouted, springing put of bed. “What the hell?”

“I couldn’t get you to wake up. It’s seven thirty.”

“Oh, no.” He groaned. “How could I have slept so long?” He looked down at himself. “What happened?”

“I poured some water on you to wake you up.”

His eyes were wide with incredulity, and his voice cracked. “I’m soaked!”

“It was sort of an accident.”

He dashed for the bathroom. “Get me some orange juice. I’ll be down in five minutes.”

Megan slapped a lump of clay onto her potter’s wheel. She looked at it reverently, imagining the teapot she was about to create, anticipating the sensuous feel of the clay whirling against her fingers.

Ever since she was a little girl she’d had a compulsion to make things. Paintings, poems, mittens, kites. She had a deep love of creation, of watching a blank canvas take on color and form, a length of yarn twist and knot into a knitted cap. When she went to the sea she made sand castles. When she was housebound by a snowstorm she made snowmen. When the wind whipped her hair across her face she made kites.

She didn’t think of herself as an artist or craftswoman. She simply considered herself a maker of things. Now she knew how to make a pie, and it had given her almost as much pleasure as making a teapot.

She drizzled some water over the clay, pressed the foot pedal to turn the wheel, and applied firm pressure to the muddy – looking lump, centering it in the circle of her hands. The slick red – brown clay spun against her palms as she forced it into a conical shape. She pushed with her thumbs and returned it to a squat cylinder.

Megan loved working with clay. It was malleable and of the earth. It felt alive in her hands, and when she stopped the wheel and closed her eyes, she could still feel the warm clay moving across her fingertips.

She drew the clay up with steady hands, expertly shaping it into a globe, using her fingers to form a lip at the top. At last she stopped the wheel and examined her creation with a critical eye. “Pretty nice, huh?” she said to Timmy. He looked at her over the rim of his playpen, clapped his hands, and laughed.

It was warm in the outbuilding – turned pottery – studio, thanks to an electric heater. Outside, a cold rain slathered down in sheets, thundering on the shingled roof, spattering against the two small windows. She started when the door suddenly flew open and Pat appeared. He closed the door, leaned against it, and dripped.

“Is it true turkeys are so stupid they’ll stand out in the rain and drown?” he asked. “That’s how I feel. Like a drowned turkey.”

She rinsed the clay from her hands and wiped them on a paper towel. “How did you manage to get so wet? And what are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

“I decided to have lunch with you and Tim. As soon as I got on the road the drizzle turned into a downpour. Then I hit a pothole and the window on the driver’s side went ‘clink’ and slid down into the door, never to be seen again. I had to drive all the way with the window down.”

Rain dripped from bangs plastered to his forehead and ran in rivulets down his neck, soaking his shirt. His slacks were wet, though his shoes looked relatively dry. He rubbed his hands together to warm them. “And my heater doesn’t work.”

Megan couldn’t help smiling. Patrick Hunter was especially huggable when he needed rescuing. She lifted Tim from the playpen and held him close while she draped an enormous army – surplus poncho over herself. She ducked under the hood and opened the door. “Come on, turkey, race you to the house.”

Ten minutes later Pat sat at the kitchen table sipping hot coffee, wrapped in Megan’s pink chenille robe while his clothes tumbled in the dryer. He wanted to pull Megan onto his lap and cuddle her, but she was busy opening a can of soup. Today was Tuesday. She’d shared his bed for two nights, and he was obsessed with her. He couldn’t work. He couldn’t eat. He could only remember, and the memories were keeping him in a constant state of euphoric arousal. He was hopelessly, totally, ridiculously in love, he thought. He couldn’t tell if he was happily miserable or miserably happy. It was torture.

She refilled his coffee cup, and they both went still at the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. “Probably my neighbor,” Megan said. “She keeps her horse here. Rents the barn and the pasture.”

Two car doors slammed, followed by loud rapping at the front door. Megan answered the door and took a step backward. “Mom!”

The woman flung her arms around Megan and gave her a hug. “We couldn’t stand Thanksgiving in Florida all by ourselves, so here we are! Surprise!”

“Surprise,” Megan mumbled dumbly.

Her burly, red – haired father shoved two enormous suitcases through the door and shook the water off his plastic raincoat. “Good to see you, hon…” he began, but his voice trailed off as he stared beyond Megan, into the kitchen.

She turned her head and stared with him. “Oh, my God,” she whispered at the sight of Pat, sitting at the kitchen table with hairy legs and hairy chest hanging out of the pink robe her parents had given her for Christmas. The picture was enhanced by the fact that he was wearing black dress socks and holding a baby.

“I can explain this,” she said, watching her father’s face turn brick red. Lord, she hoped he wasn’t wearing his revolver.

Megan’s mother started to giggle. She had her hand clapped over her mouth, but she was shaking with laughter. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We should have phoned first.”

“I don’t see what’s so damned funny,” Megan’s father roared.

“My word, Mike, the man’s wearing black socks and Megan’s robe. He looks silly.”

“He looks naked! What the hell’s going on around here?”

“It’s all very simple,” Megan said, following her father as he stalked into the kitchen. “Pat came over for lunch, and-”

Megan’s mother took Timmy from Pat. “Megan, this is a baby.”

“It’s sort of Pat’s.”

Megan’s father scowled at Pat. “I assume this is Pat?”

Pat stood and extended his hand. “Pat Hunter. Nice to meet you, sir.”

“You always dress up in women’s clothes?”

“Um, no, but it was cold sitting on the kitchen chair-”

“Are you married to my daughter?”

Pat shook his head. “She won’t marry me.”

“That does it!” Megan’s father grabbed him by a chenille lapel and punched him in the nose.

Pat tripped over his chair and sprawled onto the kitchen floor. He tenderly touched his bloody nose. “Oh, hell.”

“Daddy!” Megan shouted. “How dare you! Criminy sakes, you can’t just go around punching people out!” She rushed to Pat’s side with a wet towel. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“I think my nose is broken.”

She glared at her father. “I hope you’re satisfied.”

“Actually, I feel a little foolish. I just hit a guy wearing a skirt.”

“It’s not a skirt. It’s a robe,” Pat said, getting to his feet. “And if it bothers you that much, I’ll take the damn thing off.”

Megan’s mother screamed and closed her eyes.

Megan whistled through her teeth and raised her arms. “Stop! Daddy, you take the suitcases upstairs to the guest bedroom. Mom, please take care of Timmy until I get back. And you,” she said to Pat, “you will get dressed, so I can drive you to the hospital to get your stupid nose X – rayed.”

She stomped off to the laundry room and returned with Pat’s clothes. “You can change in the downstairs bathroom,” she told him.

Patrick Hunter and Mike Murphy stood toe to toe for a moment in silent, furious appraisal of each other.

Megan glared at both of them. “Daddy, the suitcases, now!” She sighed, and almost collapsed with relief when the two men turned from each other and went in opposite directions.

She dumped the contents of an ice tray into a plastic bag and crushed the ice with a rolling pin. “Well, Mom,” she said, “what do you think of Pat?”

“Nice legs. Cute little nose. It’s a shame it got broken.”

Megan smiled at her mother. “It needed character.”

“Do you love him?”

Oh, boy, here we go, Megan thought, dropping the poncho over her head. “Don’t start asking questions, Mom. Don’t hire a hall for the reception. Don’t start planning a surprise shower. Don’t contemplate names for your grandchildren. This man is a pediatrician, and-”

Mrs. Murphy’s eyes lit up. “A doctor?How nice!”

Megan thunked her fist against her forehead. Try a different approach, she told herself. “I don’t think Daddy likes him.”

“Nonsense. Your father was just taken by surprise. He didn’t expect to find a naked man in your kitchen.”

Megan grabbed her car keys as Pat emerged from the bathroom. She handed him the ice bag and quickly ushered him past her mother. “Make yourself at home, Mom. Fix Daddy some lunch.”

Pat slouched in the passenger seat, pressing the ice and a towel to his bloody nose. “Fix Daddy some lunch,” he mumbled. “What does he eat, raw meat and Christians? He ever been accused of police brutality?”

“He’s really very sweet. He just got excited.”

“It’s no wonder you’re not married yet. The life expectancy of your boyfriends must be about two hours.”

Megan pushed the poncho hood off and pulled out of the driveway, thinking she should be so lucky. Her parents had a knack for turning boyfriends into fiancés in an alarmingly short period of time. Unfortunately, their coercive talents stopped just short of the altar.

“My other boyfriends have never had to worry about life expectancy. They were smart enough to keep their clothes on in front of my father.”

Pat scowled and sank deeper into his seat. He didn’t like the idea of other boyfriends. He especially hated the idea of other boyfriends without clothes. He wasn’t a violent person, but if he ever met any of those other boyfriends, he’d punch them in the nose.

Suddenly he liked Megan’s father. Yessir, the man was okay. This was going to be a great Thanksgiving. His family.Her family. Megan. Timmy. “Do you think I should order a larger turkey?”

“I think you should order a smaller turkey, since I won’t be there.”

“Of course you’ll be there. You and your mother and father.”

Megan stared at him. “Are you crazy? I’m not putting you and my father in the same room.”

Pat rearranged the ice bag. “Don’t worry about it. Your father and I will get along just fine.”

That was exactly what she was worried about, Megan thought. She’d come to believe that having your parents’ approval was like the kiss of death to a romance.

Megan brushed her hair behind her ears and returned to her apple peeling. Nothing in her twenty – seven years of life as an only child had prepared her for this day. There were seven women and three children packed into the tiny cottage, all in the throes of preparing the next day’s Thanksgiving feast. Timmy sat in his crib by the fireplace, sucking his thumb with a vengeance and watching the activity. Pat’s four – year – old niece and six – year old nephew were making hand – shaped cookies out of leftover pie crust. Mrs. Hunter and Mrs. Murphy presided over a mammoth bowl of stuffing.

“A little sage,” Mrs. Murphy said, “and more sausage.”

“And apples,” Mrs. Hunter said. “Needs apples.”

Megan’s mother dropped a handful of sliced apples into the bowl. “So when do you think they should get married?”

Mrs. Hunter thoughtfully tasted a lump of raw stuffing. “A spring wedding would be nice, but they have the child…”

Both women turned and looked at Timmy.

“Christmas,” Mrs. Murphy said. “It would be best to marry as soon as possible. It would look better for the adoption.”

Megan ground her teeth and bent over the bowl of sliced apples.

Pat’s sister Laurie was sitting across from Megan. She leaned over and whispered, “Your mom and my mom sure hit it off.”

Megan made a strangled sound in her throat.

“I think they’re planning your wedding.”

“They’re in for a big surprise. I’m not getting married.”

“What about Timmy? Don’t you have to get married before you can adopt Timmy?”

Megan stared at the pile of apple peelings. Everyone assumed Timmy’s mother wouldn’t return, especially since they hadn’t heard from her in all the time she’d been gone. Megan couldn’t remember what her life had been like before Timmy. And it was true: If Pat didn’t have a wife, he wouldn’t stand a chance of adopting the baby. Not a good reason to get married, she thought. You were supposed to get married because you were in love. Megan, her inner voice whispered, you are in love.

“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.