Before Thanksgiving Comes by Marisa Carroll

Author:Marisa Carroll
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2011-06-08T00:00:00+00:00

“MORE ICE CREAM?” Tom asked Allison. As payment for the two bushels of acorns they’d brought with them, Tom had asked them all to stay for spaghetti and meatballs—his specialty.

“Thank you, no. I couldn’t eat another bite.” She smiled up at him as she refused another scoop of the fudgy chocolate chip ice cream. “Everything was delicious.”

“Good company makes good food.” Tom smiled back. He’d been halfway flirting with Allison ever since they’d pulled into the yard, and Jake felt a surprising twinge of jealousy. It took him a moment to recognize the sensation. He hadn’t been jealous in years, and never over any woman except Beth. But he couldn’t blame Tom for flirting with Allison. He’d been pretty much wanting to do that himself lately.

“If you’re right, Tom, then this meal was gourmet fare,” Allison said.

Tom bowed his head in a courtly gesture. “Thank-you, ma’am. And the turkeys thank you, as well. They are most grateful for the excellent acorns you brought with you.”

“Raking acorns was a pain,” Libby said, looking down at her hands. “I think I got a blister and those old turkeys didn’t look like they were all that grateful.”

“Turkeys are proud birds. When the male strutted around the pen and dragged his wings along the ground, he was telling us how much he liked the gift.”

“Really? I thought he was just showing off for the lady turkeys.”

Jake grinned. “Well, that, too.”

“I want more ice cream, Tom,” Julia announced, holding up her bowl. “Please.”

“Just a spoonful.”

“Only a spoonful.”

Jake spoke in unison with Allison, just as he used to do with Beth. She caught his eye for a moment, colored slightly, then looked away. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking, what she was feeling, but he wanted to know. She was always so calm. The day of Julia’s accident was the first time he’d seen her display any emotion, yet underneath that composure and self-assurance he knew there was passion.

“Kids, why don’t we help Tom with the dishes?” Allison said, getting up from the table. “It’s the least we can do to say thank-you for this great dinner.”

“I’d rather walk around with my arms out like the turkey,” Libby said, scowling down at her plate.

“Wish Tom had a dishwasher,” Mike groused under his breath, but he picked up his plate and headed for the sink. When Libby didn’t follow, he glared at her until she started to clear the table.

“I don’t need a dishwasher,” Tom informed Mike as he put the ice cream back into the refrigerator. “Besides, they don’t make them in harvest gold these days and I’d hate to spoil the decor.” Tom’s kitchen was a monument to the seventies, gold-colored stove and refrigerator, orange brickwork linoleum on the floor and a heavy, carved table and chairs that were vaguely Mediterranean—and downright ugly.

“Too bad,” Jenny said, piling up plates and silverware. “This place is seriously retro. I wouldn’t change a thing, but a dishwasher is an absolute necessity of life.”

“The world has gotten along for thousands of years without automatic dishwashers,” Tom observed mildly.

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