Tommy Cabot Was Here (The Cabots Book 1) by Cat Sebastian

Author:Cat Sebastian [Sebastian, Cat]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Independent
Published: 2021-04-08T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter 7

“Which do you want first? Good news or bad?” Pat asked, her voice tinny over the phone.

“I don’t think I’m in any shape for any kind of news,” Tommy said.

“I’m not getting there until late Thursday. Because of the snow, we can’t get a flight from Idlewild to Logan, not for love or money. And Harry’s quite adamant that we not attempt to drive until the storm has passed.”

“I suppose the good news is that I get Daniel for Thanksgiving.” That really was good news—he hadn’t been relishing the prospect of spending a holiday alone.

“You’ll get me too, as soon as I can get a flight.”

“Good God, Pat, I’m not running a hotel. I’m barely even running a house. And—wait—what on earth am I going to feed Daniel for Thanksgiving dinner? Macaroni?”

“Call a caterer, darling.”

Tommy wanted to tell her his days of calling the caterer were long past. He had needed to count his pennies in order to pay the man who installed sheetrock in the living room that morning. “You’ll have to sleep in the bathtub, and Harry on the floor beside you.”

“Very bohemian.” Or at least that was what Tommy thought she said.

“The line is breaking up, Pat.”

“It’s the storm. See—” The line went dead.

Well, whatever happened, he wasn’t feeding his son macaroni for Thanksgiving. After hanging up the phone, he flicked on the kitchen light and took his copy of The Joy of Cooking off the shelf by the sink. Eating nothing but scrambled eggs and tinned soup had only made his situation seem even more hopeless, so he tried a new recipe almost every day. The results had been mixed. Fettuccine Alfredo and pineapple upside down cake were unqualified successes. Split pea soup, on the other hand, had been every bit as dismaying as he remembered it being in his childhood. And he thought it highly unlikely that he’d ever make use of the pages devoted to skinning squirrels or cooking muskrats. Cooking, even the failures, at least gave him something to do, a way to fill his newly empty days. So did tearing the house apart and putting it back together again. Nailing in moldings and ripping out mildewed paneling, baking a cake and roasting a chicken—these all gave him immediate, visible results. He was feeding and sheltering himself and that had to count for something.

He flipped through the index of the cookbook, trying to remember what foods typically appeared on his mother’s Thanksgiving table, and then was hit with the fresh realization that all his brothers and their families would be together in Marblehead, just a few hours away. Nobody had explicitly told him not to attend, just as nobody had specifically told him to resign his post. They had just made it clear that his continued connection with the family—as if he were some kind of hanger-on, and not their brother and son—was no longer desirable. So maybe he didn’t want to replicate whatever was on his mother’s holiday table, after all.

He

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