“I mean, I’m busy.”

I had a sudden image of Chef expediting dishes at the pass, legs planted like tree trunks as the storm of dinner service swirled around him, sending everything out to the table at just the right moment. How did he do it?

That soufflé had to come out of the oven. Now. I grabbed the green bean casserole and shoved it, pot holders and all, into Trey’s hands. “Take this out to the table. Dinner’s ready.”

Without waiting for his reply, I whirled to the stove. Eased open the oven door. The soufflé was puffed and golden. I released a breath of relief. Whipping out my phone, I snapped some quick pictures for the blog before I slid the soufflé from the rack. Holding the dish chest high like a trophy, I turned. And . . .

The top crust listed. Steam escaped before the whole creation collapsed gently on itself.

Crap.

Squaring my shoulders, I marched into the dining room, carrying the deflated soufflé.

“What’s that? Where’s the turkey?” Aunt Phee demanded.

“In the kitchen.” Meg stood hastily. “I’ll get it.”

When she returned with the turkey platter, Daddy led us in grace, holding hands around the table, two TV trays placed awkwardly at one end to accommodate our last-minute guests. I watched as my father’s lean, elegant fingers enclosed my mother’s smaller, callused ones. They were high school sweethearts, a small-town love story, the boy from the big white house on the hill and the farmers’ daughter. No wonder everybody in Bunyan thought I’d end up with Trey. History repeating itself.

But my parents truly loved each other. My mother always said how much she admired my father, his sense of purpose, his rigorous intellect, his deep devotion to God and country. And he loved her because she was devoted to . . . him, I guess.

I flushed. That wasn’t fair to either of them.

Bowing my head, I let the familiar words wash over me. “Bless, O Lord, this food to our use and us to thy service . . .”

Aunt Phee poked her soufflé with a fork. “I don’t see any marshmallows.”

Daisy bounced in her high chair. “Marthmellowth!”

“No marshmallows. Sorry, Daisy.” I smiled at my niece. “Sorry, Aunt.”

I’d wanted to bring something of myself to the table. To show my family what I’d learned. How I’d grown. Big mistake.

“Have some cranberry sauce,” Meg said, passing the cut glass bowl.

Aunt Phee peered at it suspiciously. “What’s this?”

“Real cranberries, Aunt. Try it. You’ll like it.”

“Real cranberry sauce has ridges,” Miss Wanda said.

Right. From the can.

“I love the soufflé,” Amy said unexpectedly.

I looked at her in surprised gratitude. “Thanks, Ames.”

At least my father’s guests weren’t picky. They loaded their plates as if this were their first decent meal in days, or their last. For some of them, maybe it was. Our mother, on the other hand, struggled to eat anything at all. I wondered if pain or the pills she was taking had killed her appetite. More likely, she was trying to save some turkey for her guests.