“Gentle,” Meg warned. To which of them, I wasn’t sure.

“John, please bring some more chairs from upstairs,” Mom said, raising her voice over the noise of the football game. “Meg, there are extra cups in the pantry. Can you make sure our guests all have something to drink?”

Forget drinks, I thought, counting heads. What were they all going to eat?

“Do we have enough food?” Meg whispered to me.

Seven, eight, nine . . . There was a sixteen-pound bird in the oven. Enough for guests and leftovers, I’d thought. Figure fifteen adults at a pound and a bit per person . . .

“I’ll go check,” I whispered back, and escaped into the kitchen to take inventory.

In the back of my head, I heard Chef’s voice: “We feed them, yes. So simple. We take care of them, yeah? So basic. Service. Everything is for the guest.”

So, okay. Counting the soufflé, we had plenty of sides. If I added more noodles to the mac and cheese . . .

I filled a pot in the sink.

“They’re here!” Beth’s voice sang out.

More guests.

I glanced out the kitchen window. Sure enough, there was old Mr. Laurence’s long black Lincoln turning into my parents’ driveway. And there . . . Yep. That was Trey at the wheel, bringing them both to Thanksgiving dinner.

Setting the pot on the stove to boil, I resecured my hair and crowded into the hallway with the rest of the family to greet them.

Trey had brought flowers and beer, and Mr. Laurence, wine. Our parents were not big drinkers, but John took a beer and passed the rest around. Captain Lewis opened the wine, pouring pinot noir into red plastic cups. At least all the activity covered the awkwardness of seeing Trey again.

Mom and Meg both exclaimed over the big bouquet of sunflowers and roses.

“I’ll just get these in water,” Meg said as Trey enveloped me in a hug.

Well, everybody was hugging everybody.

I turned my head, aware we had an audience. Amy looked away as his kiss landed somewhere above my ear. He smelled the same, like bergamot and starch, the only twentysomething guy I knew who sent his shirts to the dry cleaner’s. Or could afford to.

“Hey, Trey,” I mumbled against his shoulder.

“Jo.” He backed to arm’s length, still holding both my hands. “You look amazing.”

He did, too. His hair had grown, dark curls tumbling around his face. Very Lord Byron. “Bedhead,” I used to tease, back in the days before we’d been to bed together.

Now I said nothing.

He ran his finger along the strap of my borrowed apron. “This is a new look for you.”

I jerked back a step. “I’m giving Mom a hand in the kitchen.”

“Jo made almost the entire dinner this year,” Momma said. “She’s a chef now.”

Trey gave me a speculative look. “Really.”