Not really, I wanted to say. I’m actually on borrowed time and quickly approaching it’s not going to happen territory.

Griffin’s grandmother headed for the sand table. I stared out the window, watching fall leaves twirl through the air, defying gravity, only to give up and flutter to the ground.

Polly and I passed out the Thanksgiving placemats, herded kids and grands outside.

My father grabbed Polly by both hands and started dancing her between the freshly trimmed boxwood ducks that lined the walkway. She laughed and pushed him away.

I looped my arm through my father’s, dragged him over to the dismissal area, where I thought I might have half a chance of keeping him out of trouble.

My bitch of a boss turned and gave us a long look. Back when I was growing up, we used to call that look a hairy eyeball.

“Who’s the broad with the broomstick up her rear end?” my father stage-whispered to me.

“Da-ad.” I dug my fingers into my father’s arm. “You know that’s my boss. Come on, please don’t get me in trouble.”

“Look.” My dad pointed over my shoulder.

By the time I realized I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, he’d managed to slip out from my death grip and was heading straight for my bitch of a boss. He scooped her up in his arms, gave her a spin around one of the dismissal benches. Then he dropped her off where he’d picked her up, like it was a bus stop.

Amazingly, Kate Stone seemed to be laughing. She might even have been flirting.

My father kissed her hand and came back to join me.

“Let me know when you’re up for a raise,” he said. “I’ll take her for a longer twirl and get her in the mood to say yes.”

Ethan, the new teacher, brought his class out to sit next to ours on the dismissal benches. Ethan said something to Polly, and she said something back to him, their heads close together. The two of them laughed.

Beside me, my dad crossed his arms over his chest and gave Ethan his famous stink eye.

“I don’t like the cut of his jib,” my father said.

Chapter Three

Before I knew it, I was stumbling down the stairs of the house I’d grown up in, on my pre-dawn Thanksgiving Turkey Mission. In a lifetime spent doing my best to avoid the perils of domesticity, this was by far my biggest challenge yet.

I managed to locate the kitchen and open the ancient refrigerator. I identified the turkey right away, all twenty-eight pounds of it. An old Roseanne Barr line popped into my head: “Here I am at 5 o’clock in the morning, stuffing breadcrumbs up a dead bird’s butt.”