“Good luck,” he said, his voice roughened with emotion. “But be careful. When Leland’s involved, you’re playing with fire. I’d just hate to see you get burned.” He turned to leave, then seemed to think better of it and turned around to face me. “Again.”

And then he was gone for good.

Ten

Thanksgiving is the only holiday when we eat food we never eat any other time of year. It’s also the only American holiday based entirely around everyone in the country dining on almost the exact same meal at almost the exact same time. And it is the annual lament of my cousin Dominique Gosselin, who owns the Michelin-starred Goose Creek Inn, that this national gastronomic eat-a-thon revolves around food that is neither healthy nor good for us.

I tended to agree with her about some of the more calorie-laden, artery-clogging food—candied yams with marshmallow topping being at the top of my list—but my most enduring memory of Thanksgiving is not food, but something my French mother said to me when I was a little girl.

“It is so uniquely American, ma chérie, for a country to give thanks once a year for its good fortune, its bounty and many resources, and to remember its origins,” she’d said. “We have no such holiday in France to express our gratitude for the beauty and richness of our land, for freedom, liberty, and justice, for friends, neighbors, and family, and for living in a country blessed with peace. I love Thanksgiving and I love that the very first Thanksgiving took place here in Virginia at Jamestown.”

And so did I. The warmth and good cheer as the holidays began, when it was not quite winter but definitely the waning days of fall, always tugged at my heartstrings. Harvest was over. A season was beginning that would be filled with parties, gift-giving, tree-decorating, caroling, peace on earth and goodwill to men, a new year and a fresh start. Leaves had been raked, trees were bare, and the vineyard had gone dormant for the year. My mother loved it when our house was full of guests, so we always hosted Thanksgiving for the rest of the family and any neighbors and friends who she’d learned would otherwise be alone that day. I remember when she would start baking and preparing everything the week before so the house had smelled of cinnamon, cloves, allspice, and nutmeg for days. When she brought home the turkey—always a freshly killed turkey from a local farm in Upperville—it had been a big occasion.

Tonight, after all the drama and tension of the past twenty-four hours, I wanted to eat Thanksgiving leftovers for dinner, comfort food that would be sure to induce a tryptophan drowsiness, send me off to sleep with no nightmares of bloody murders or bank vaults filled with long-buried secrets.