“Prep cook,” I said.

I’d been let go from the paper less than a month after our last fight.

“I don’t need this,” I remembered yelling at him.

He’d glared at me, sulky and gorgeous. “You mean, you don’t need me.”

I didn’t want to need him. I could not be his instant family, his next step to achieving manhood.

So I’d turned him down, turned him away. Again.

I tightened my ponytail. “Speaking of cooking, I left a pot of water on the stove.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Mom said.

My parents had always welcomed strays, on the farm and around the table. I admired their easy hospitality, my father’s determination that no soldier should go hungry on our national holiday of Thanksgiving.

But honestly, what was he thinking, springing guests on her an hour before dinner? Not that I would have noticed a year ago.

“I got it, Mom,” I said.

Daisy wriggled down from the stranger’s lap. “I help, Auntie Jo,” she announced.

DJ lurched for me, holding out his little arms.

“Oh, I don’t think . . .” Meg began.

“Absolutely.” I hefted my nephew onto my hip. Smiled at my niece. “You can . . .” What? Toddlers had terrible knife skills. “Put out some more napkins and forks, okay?”

While Daisy and DJ trotted importantly back and forth from the dining room, I grabbed butter and cheese to make a roux.

“There’s no more room at the table,” Meg said, bustling in. “I told John to set up TV trays.”

Beth slipped in from the dining room. “I can eat in the kitchen.”

“Ha.” Amy came in for another bottle of wine. “You just don’t want to sit next to Aunt Phee.”

Beth half smiled. I wondered how my shy, performance-averse sister would manage if she ever actually got a singing part in a show. But she didn’t have a bad idea. No making conversation with bearded strangers, no Great-Aunt Josephine, no Trey . . .

“Why don’t the four of us eat in here?” I suggested. “It would be like old times.”

“We’re a little old to sit at the kiddie table,” Meg pointed out.

“Although it does sound nice,” Beth said.

“As long as we have alcohol.” Amy carried the open bottle out to the living room.

I opened the pantry.

“What can I do?” Beth asked.

“I’m fine,” I said.

Meg returned carrying a stack of dirty cups. “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to ask for help every once in a while.”

I snorted. “Look who’s talking.”

“She’s right,” Beth said.

“Fine. Grate me some cheese.”

“Aunt Phee wants to know what time we’re eating,” Meg said.

I threw a look at the kitchen timer. “Ten minutes?”

“Great.” Meg stooped to retrieve DJ from under the kitchen table. “And we need more chips.”

“I’ll get them,” Beth said.

She collided with Trey in the doorway. He steadied her, rescuing the chips from spilling. Beth blushed and thanked him, ducking under his arm to carry the bowl to the living room. It struck me—not for the first time—how good he was with her.