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November 11th
They were halfway through their second free Veterans Day breakfast when Bucky set down his fork and frowned. “Guys, we have a problem.”
Sam matched his frown and glanced between their plates before he shrugged. “The hash browns are fine, man. It’s a free breakfast, don’t complain.”
“No, it’s not the hash browns,” Bucky said.
“Mine are a little greasy,” Steve commented lightly, reaching again for the pepper.
“Well yeah,” Sam agreed. “And they’re a little skimpy on the portions this year.”
“Right?”
“My problem is not the hash browns,” Bucky interrupted, impatiently.
Sam glanced around, furtively. “Are you worried they’re onto us?” he asked quietly. “‘Cause I’ve been thinking we should stop after three, maybe four places, tops. Last year was pushing it.”
Steve frowned. “Wait, did we get five free breakfasts last year?”
“Four,” Bucky corrected tersely. “It was a free lunch by the time we hit the fifth place. And anyway, my problem is not paranoia over whether the chain restaurants of New York City are checking to see how many times we cash in on our military IDs for free Vets meals today.” He took a steadying breath. “My problem is Thanksgiving.”
Steve set down the coffee mug he’d just picked up. “What about it?”
“I mean, it’s not even my problem,” he backtracked quickly. “But Natasha’s parents are going to Europe for Christmas.”
A look was shared around the table. Sam pressed the tips of his fingers together and nodded. “Hmm,” he said, looking serious. “I care.”
“So they want her to come to see them for Thanksgiving this year,” Bucky continued as if Sam hadn’t spoken. “Instead of Christmas. Which fucks up our usual plans.”
Their usual plans--where Natasha cooked a turkey and everyone descended upon her apartment with sides and desserts--had been a tradition since Charlotte’s first Thanksgiving. The first year without Peggy, when none of them knew what they were supposed to do with this sharp, raw grief so Natasha started cooking and ended up with a full Thanksgiving dinner before she called them and told them to come and eat with her for lack of anything else to do.
“Uh, yeah,” Steve shifted uncomfortably next to Sam in the booth. “I’ve been meaning to mention...” he cleared his throat. “Darcy’s family’s doing their usual thing in Jersey this year and I don’t know how we’re going to...”
Sam smirked, looking between the two of them. “How we’re going to keep doing the same thing and do something new?” he asked. “Easy answer. We’re not.” He looked at Bucky. “You brought this up ‘cause she wants you to go with her, right? Meet the folks?”
Bucky swiped absently at the back of his neck and shrugged. “She said she’s gotta go no matter what--said she didn’t care if I can with her or not.”
Steve and Sam exchanged a glance. “She cares,” they said in unison before Sam continued. “Look, we’re not kids anymore--a shit ton has changed since last year, we’ve just gotta adjust.”
Bucky looked trepidatious at the idea, but dug back into his omelet. “So what are you gonna do then?” he asked around a mouthful of kale and feta.
Sam looked up. “What?”
“If Steve’s in Jersey and I’m in Idaho. What are you going to do?”
He grinned. “I’m gonna find a nice black family to take me in and finally get some decent sweet potato pie for a change.”
November 16th
Charlotte was not happy with the change in plans. She looked up from setting the table—debating as she always did which side the knives and forks belonged—and twisted her face in confusion. “But we can’t have Thanksgiving without Auntie Nat,” she insisted. “Who’s going to cook?”
Steve removed the glass dish of enchiladas from the oven and let out a tired sigh. “Darcy’s family is going to cook.”
“But why do we have to go?” she asked, surprising him with the question. Normally, Charlotte was only too excited to do anything with Darcy’s family. She and Jane had bonded like two peas in a pod, and every time Darcy’s Aunt Selma had seen her, they’d greeted each other with tight hugs like old friends.
He fumbled for a minute, a slow headache blossoming behind his eyes. “Because,” he said, forcing himself not to finish the sentence with ‘I said so.’ “Because that’s the plan, Charlotte. Auntie Nat is going to visit her family and we’re going to New Jersey to have dinner with Darcy’s family.”
“But why can’t Auntie Nat just stay here and Darcy can just come with us to our regular Thanksgiving? Why do we have to do something different?” Her bottom lip pouted as she abandoned her task and dropped into her usual chair.
“Where is this coming from?” Steve asked, finally, as he started the instant Spanish rice. “I thought you liked Darcy’s family.”
“I do,” Charlotte answered defensively. “But I like ours better.” She pouted again. “What if they don’t make the right stuff?”
He bit back a smile. “What do you consider ‘the right stuff’?” he asked, trying to take her question seriously.
Her narrow shoulders bobbed in another defensive shrug. “I don’t know,” she grumbled. “Madison at school—she’s from Pennsylvania—and she said her family doesn’t eat turkey on Thanksgiving. They eat something called capon and her grandpap has to go out in the morning and hunt it in the woods.” She looked horrified at the thought. “What if they’re like that? What if we have to hunt a bird before we can eat it? And I don’t even know what a capon is!”
Steve swiped a hand over his face and held back another sigh and a smile. He closed the lid firmly on the rice and sat down at the dining room table across from his daughter. “Sweetheart,” he said patiently. “Darcy’s family is from Brooklyn, just like us. I can guarantee that no one in that house has ever hunted anything, let alone capon for Thanksgiving dinner. I’m sure they’ll have turkey and stuffing and all the usual stuff we eat at Auntie Nat’s--”
“But what if—”
He held up a hand. “And if you’ve got your mind on something in particular, we can ask Darcy when she gets home if her grandma would be okay with us making it and bringing it ourselves, okay?”
Charlotte’s mouth was still open, but she closed it, still looking sullen. “It just won’t be the same,” she said, morosely.
“Nope,” Steve said with a nod of agreement. “You’re right. But just because it’s different doesn’t mean it’s bad.” He paused, waiting for her to give some sign that she was conceding her end of the argument. When none came, he continued. “Look, this is part of what happens when two people get together. They have to absorb each other’s families and traditions and sometimes that means that things like holidays have to change a little bit to make room for everyone.” Her lips were still downturned, her shoulders slumped. Steve added the final caveat. “But I really need you to lose this attitude before Darcy comes home,” he said without sharpening his tone. “This is not up for debate, so I need you to be open to new things and try and have a good time. Okay?”
Charlotte looked up, still fighting a pout. “Okay,” she grumbled.
“Thank you,” Steve said and stood up. He came around to her side and kissed the top of her head. “Finish setting the table, please.”
She stood as he returned to the kitchen and finished placing the silverware around the plates. “But if they make us hunt anything,” she said seriously, “I’m out.”
Steve let her see the smile she’d brought to his face. “That’s fair.”
November 19th
Bucky had bought a ticket to Idaho before he could talk himself out of it. He really, truly did not want to go. He would have been much happier staying in New York, watching the parade on tv and starting the day with a Bloody Mary at Steve’s house.
But he’d allowed himself to consider that Sam might have been right. That things had changed a lot since last year and that it was time to shift some traditions around to make room for bigger and better things.
And, if he was still giving Sam credit for knowing what he was talking about, he had to admit that he’d been right and that Natasha cared more about him coming home with her than she’d previously let on.
She sat on the edge of his bed on Monday night, watching him shuffle things around from his clean laundry and into piles of what he might and might not pack. He glanced up and noticed her burning a hole through his empty suitcase with her distracted gaze. “Anything I should avoid?” he asked, only half-joking. “Anything of mine you’d rather die than see me wear in front of your parents?”
Natasha moved her shoulders. “Pack whatever you want,” she said, almost dismissively. “You’re a grown man.” Bucky waited, not moving for three, long, seconds before, “But if you wear anything with rips or holes in it, you’re asking for a personal attack from my mother.”
Bucky smirked and reminded himself to check his jeans and t-shirts carefully for holes or tears before they ended up in the case. “How cold is it there?” He eyed the sweaters hanging in his closest.
“Cold,” she said firmly. “Snow. Ice. Below freezing all the time. It’s a whole thing.”
He went to the closet and grabbed three of his nicest sweaters. “You’re really giving me the hard sell on Coeur D’Alene,” he commented, and grabbed a button-down shirt as well. “Kinda knocking me over with your enthusiasm.”
When he turned back around, she’d gotten up and started moving around his room. Trying to hide what was most definitely pacing. Bucky watched her slide the quarters and nickels in the change dish on his dresser, then adjust the lampshade and wipe her fingers, likely noting how badly it needed to be dusted.
“Nat,” he said finally, catching her thoughtful frown in the mirror when she looked up. “I don’t have to go.”
She dropped her fidgeting hands with a sigh. “That’s not...” she shook her head. “That’s not what I want.”
“Okay,” he said patiently. “Then what’s wrong?”
Natasha sucked in a deep inhale through her nose and let her shoulders fall. “I’ve...never brought anyone home before.”
He blinked in surprise. “What--never?”
She shook her head. “Nope. And I’m kind of freaking out about it.”
Bucky breathed a sigh of relief. “Good,” he said. “Me too.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and beckoned for her to join him. She didn’t. “Wanna do one of those total-honesty moments?”
She rolled her eyes with a wry smile. “I’m not good with total honesty.”
He smiled back. “Neither am I. It’s an exercise in discomfort.”
She sighed again. “Fine. Total honesty for the next five minutes. You start.”
He sighed, having brought that on himself. “Okay, I'm not freaking out, but I don't usually do parents, so I'm pretty nervous.”
She nodded. “I know you don't. That's part of my anxiety.”
“Do you want me to come home with you?”
“Yes,” she said, quickly enough that he relaxed a little bit.
“What’s scarier to you? That your parents will hate me or that they’ll love me?”
Natasha pursed her lips together and glanced down at her feet. She wiggled her toes in her socks.”That they’ll love you,” she said quietly.
Bucky accepted this with a slow nod. “And...why is that scary?” He caught the way her eyes shot to the clock. “You’ve got three and a half minutes, Red. Don’t try to wait it out.”
She fidgeted again and pulled at a lock of red hair that had fallen from her messy updo. She twirled it around her finger as she spoke, focusing again on her feet. “Because...this...matters. To me. And if I take you home and they love you, then it’s...it’s extra real and then I’m extra scared of...” She trailed off and frowned, thoughtfully.
“Scared of what?” he asked, softly, vaguely aware that his heart had started hammering somewhere high in his throat.
“Screwing it up?” she said, an uncertain lift at the end of her words.
He smiled softly and held out a hand a second time. She took it, this time and let him pull her into his lap. “Why are you so afraid of screwing this up?” he asked, quietly, when she was close enough to brush her nose against his.
Natasha pursed her lips again and took another deep breath. “Because,” with an arm around his shoulders, she pulled back to look him squarely in the eye. “Because I think I love you, Bucky Barnes.”
The dam of anxiety that had been building in his chest snapped suddenly and Bucky felt his face split into a wide smile. “Well,” he said carefully, almost dizzy with relief. “I know that I love you, Natasha. And I want to go home with you and charm the fuck out of your parents.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure? Even though you don't usually ‘do’ parents?”
He tightened his grip on her waist and smiled. “I'm willing to do your parents.”
Her laugh was the soft, throaty kind that drove him wild. “That's really romantic,” she said as she wrapped both of her arms around his neck. “Just...don't do my dad doggy-style, okay? He's an old man with very bad knees.”
Bucky grinned. “I'll do my best to make him comfortable,” he promised before she met him for a kiss.
November 21st
Alysha dropped into Sam’s car with a rush of late November cold air and a wild tangle of curls and scarves. “Hey,” she said and leaned across the central console to brush her lips to his. “I need you to do me a favor.”
Sam paused in his plans to put the car into drive and remained in park, turning to face her. “What’s up?” he asked and made a mental note to tell her how pretty she looked. A flush on her cheeks, her green eyes bright in the fading sunlight.
“I need you to have plans for Thanksgiving so I can tell my moms that I invited you and that you don’t want to come.”
He felt his face twist in confusion. “Wait...what?”
She let out a heavy sigh and tipped her head back. Her hair fell away from her face and she clapped a hand over her eyes. “Ugh, I should just delete my whole social media presence,” she groaned before she snapped her head back down and turned to face him, looking apologetic. “So here it is. My moms stalk me on Instagram--even though I’ve explicitly told them they’re not allowed to follow me--but they saw that photo of us on the bridge and they got all curious and now they’re telling me that I have to invite you for Thanksgiving dinner so they can meet you. Which, of course, I don’t want to make you do. Which, of course, they can’t comprehend and since you definitely won’t want to go—why the hell would you? I just need to make sure that you actually have something planned that you want to do—like work or be with people you know—and then I can tell them that I asked you, but that you politely declined, and not be lying to them.” She let out her breath in a huff and smiled. “By the way,” she added, pushing back her hair again. “How are you?”
He was unable to help the smile that stretched over his face. “I’m...good,” he said, momentarily struck by how quickly Alysha spoke and how every thought that crossed her mind fell out of her mouth. She kept assuring him that he’d find it annoying eventually, even come to hate it at some point, but Sam wasn’t quite so sure. They’d been dating--fun, slow, casually getting to know each other-dating for almost three months and he wasn’t even close to finding anything about Alysha annoying. He thought she was fun and gorgeous and weird and complicated and he’d gotten distracted from the fact that his silence was the cause of her single, lifted eyebrow. “Hang on,” he shook his head. “Was there...an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner in there somewhere?”
She deflated again and glanced at her side mirror with a grimace. “You should probably go, that angry meter maid is coming.”
Sam scoffed. “I’m not afraid of her,” he said, as he shifted into drive and pulled away from the heavyset woman with the ticket pad and her cold, empty stare.
“There was the idea of an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner,” she said, jumping right back to the topic at hand. “An idea,” she hit him with a concerned side-eye, “that you’re supposed to be vehemently opposed to, by the way.” She waited. “Super opposed. Way opposed. I’m not hearing nearly enough opposition right now.”
“So...do you want me to have dinner with you? Or not?” he asked, hoping to game the direct answer out of her.
She look flustered. “What I want doesn’t matter,” she said, in an attempt to recover. “You’re the victim here—I’m just trying to minimize fatalities.”
“Okay,” he said patiently. “But if you really don’t want me to be there, then just say that,” he kept his tone as far away from accusation as possible. “What you want should matter a little bit.”
Alysha sighed again and dropped her hands into her lap. “Well of course I want to have Thanksgiving dinner with you,” she said as if it had been obvious all this time.
Which it had not.
“Then sure,” he shrugged and spared her a smile as he merged into the lane for the bridge. “What time is dinner?”
She frowned. “Nonononono,” she shook her head quickly. “You’re not supposed to want to come. You’re supposed to have something so much better to do than get interrogated by two hippie lesbians who absolutely will be smoking weed while they grill you, not about your intentions with their daughter, but about your thoughts on the overwhelming national silence among police officers in the face of constant, public examples of police brutality and how many times you’ve fired your service weapon.”
He snorted. “I don’t know, Leash, that sounds kinda fun.”
“What about your usual traditional thing at Nat’s?” she asked, looking at him like he’d grown a second head.
“Change of plans,” he answered easily. “I was going to be on my own this year until you said something.”
“And none of the things I’ve mentioned—all of which will absolutely happen, I promise—are striking you as horrible and not the way you want to spend your day off?”
He shook his head. “Not really,” he said honestly and shot her another smile that he knew she’d find disarming. “They raised you,” he reminded. “They can’t be that bad.”
There was a long, heavy silence before Alysha threw up her hands with a growl of frustration. “Oh, for the love of God, fine,” she said. “Dinner’s at three, you big...mom-loving weirdo.” From the corner of his eye, he saw that the laugh he let out at her attempt at an insult cracked the firm line of her mouth into a reluctant smile. “But if that’s the case, then we have to change plans for tonight.”
“Okay...” he said slowly.
“We’ve gotta go grocery shopping because I need all the shit to make carrot cake cheesecake and a big, giant bottle of rum.”
He stole another look at her. “Is the rum for baking?”
She grinned and shook her head. “The rum is for consuming while I answer every question either parent has ever had about you via text while the cheesecake is baking.”
November 22nd
12:30pm Pacific Time
Natasha stood on the snow-covered back porch of her parents’ house, walking in place, trying to decide if she was going to be out here long enough to merit running back inside for her coat. The phone at her ear rang for a third time and Darcy answered before she could make up her mind.
“Hey,” she greeted as her breath clouded in front of her face. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
In the background, on Darcy’s end, she could hear women talking loudly and the clatter of pots and pans. “Hey,” Darcy said with a laugh. “Same to you; how’s home?”
Natasha snorted. “Idaho’s Idaho,” she said quickly. “New York is home. How’s Jersey?”
“Charming as ever,” Darcy said dryly, but with a smile Nat could hear across the country. “What’s going on?”
“Oh,” Nat shuffled her feet again, trying to stay warm. “Probably could have texted, but that honey-butter roll recipe you gave me doesn’t have a bake time on it?”
“Yeah,” Darcy said regretfully. “It’s kind of a watch-and-see deal. I’ve have them done and crispy in as little as eight minutes, or as long as fifteen. But as long as they’re just golden brown on the top, they’re good. If you pop ‘em in a muffin tin, it’s easier to keep an eye on.”
“Is that Auntie Nat?” Natasha heard Charlotte ask from Darcy’s other side. She heard Darcy turn from the phone and answer in the affirmative. “Can I talk to her? Just for a minute?”
“Give me a second,” Darcy promised before she returned her attention back to the call. “Nat? There’s a very excited, overly-sugared little girl looking to talk to you. Is everything else okay?”
The question caught Natasha off guard. Is everything else okay? If okay meant letting Bucky sneak into her childhood bedroom and squeeze into her single bed with her to keep her warm without her parents noticing, then yes. Or if okay meant that she was somehow normalizing seeing the biggest part of her New York life here, doing very un-New York things, like target practice with her brother and nephew in the backyard or having coffee with her mother while asking questions about the hospital where her parents both worked...then also yes. “It’s fine,” she said finally, surprised that she meant it. “But one more question, to settle an argument before it starts.”
“Hit me,” Darcy said good-naturedly.
“Pecan pie: hot or cold?”
“Room temperature,” Darcy said instantly. “It’s only good when it’s set all the way, but too cold and it gets gummy. If it’s already baked, set it on the counter to warm up, otherwise bake it early enough to get to room by the time you cut into it.”
“Perfect,” Natasha said honestly. “I knew I could count on the professional.”
She laughed again. “No problem. I’m going to put Charlotte on but have a great rest of your day and give Bucky a hug and kiss from us.”
“Will do,” she promised.
“Auntie Nat?” Charlotte took over the phone and Natasha felt a stab of homesickness at the sound of her voice. “You’re never going to believe what’s happening here.”
“Hmm,” Nat pretended to sound thoughtful. “Is it...lots of turkey and stuffing and football?”
“No,” Charlotte giggled. “Well, yeah,” she conceded. “But it’s snowing! It’s been snowing all day, since we got to Bayonne.”
“Really?” she was genuinely surprised. The past few years, the snow in New York had held off until after Christmas, leaving the end of the year stamped with gray, icy gusts of wind and dry streets that looked stark against any festive Christmas lights. “Are you having a good time?”
“Uh-huh,” Charlotte said. “Darcy’s Grams is really fun—she let me make the mashed potatoes all by myself. But I miss you,” she added quickly.
Natasha smiled. “I miss you too, sweetpea.”
“Do you think your parents like Uncle Bucky?” she asked, and her voice dropped as if sharing a secret.
From her vantage point on the porch, she could see into the kitchen where Bucky was in the midst of an animated conversation with Clint and her mother. She felt her heart swell at the sight of her usually-stoic mother laughing with a pleasant blush on her cheeks. “Y’know,” she said slowly, as Bucky looked up and caught her eye. She felt her own cheeks flush when he sent her a quick wink. “I think they do.”
She could almost see Charlotte’s wide, toothy smile. “I knew they would,” she said with confidence. “You didn’t have anything to worry about.”
Natasha smiled and felt herself warm up, despite the snow around her boots and the breath still hanging in a cloud around her face. “I know,” she admitted.
November 22nd
5:30pm Eastern Standard Time
There was an unmistakable smell that Sam noticed as he finished his conversation with his mother and made his way from the backyard to the side porch. Alysha had grown up in a modest little house in Jamaica, with a treehouse and a tire swing and photos on the walls of nearly every moment of her life.
Alysha’s mothers were, much to his surprise--exactly as she described. An interracial, lesbian couple of civil rights attorneys who had each spent their adult lives working and fighting and protesting against just about everything that could be classified as ‘The Man.’
They had asked him about why he’d become a cop. How he felt about the shooting of unarmed black civilians by white cops all over the country. How often he’d fired his service weapon. How he balanced support for things like Black Lives Matter and the protection of undocumented immigrants with his position on the police force.
It had been one of the most intense and interesting dinner conversations he’d had in a very long time. But Sam wasn’t sure why that surprised him. Alysha was one of the most intense and interesting women he’d dated in a long time—it shouldn’t have come as a shock that she had come from two women who could demand big answers to big questions in between passing the stuffing and macaroni and cheese while still remaining pleasant and welcoming.
“I have a prescription for this,” Carla said as she raised her joint to her lips. Carla was short and dark-skinned with large, luminous brown eyes and a shaved head she’d currently covered with a beanie. Alysha had told him she’d been a prosecutor before she’d gone into civil rights work and it showed in the cool, unflinching way she’d listened to his responses to her hard-hitting questions over dinner.
Her wife, Denise—or Denny, as she was known to her friends—was a startling opposite. Tall, pale and blonde, the source of Alysha’s green eyes and wide hips, Denny cut an imposing figure. Loud, big, and quick to display any and all of her emotions. He couldn’t imagine anyone ever had to guess how Denny felt about them.
Sam smiled and rested a hand on the porch railing. “I’m off-duty,” he reminded.
“In that case,” she coughed on her exhale and offered it out to him.
He laughed and shook his head. “Maybe next time,” he said.
Carla nodded and rolled the burning end of the joint out carefully along the edge of the little wooden table beside her Adirondack chair. They were quiet for a moment, watching the thick snowflakes settle on the grass, before Carla spoke. “Mind if I ask you something?”
Depends on what it is, he thought as his stomach clenched, still on edge from dinner. “Go for it,” he said, deciding to be brave.
“Why did you decide to come here?”
He felt his head recoil with surprise at the blunt question. “Because Alysha asked me to,” he said finally. Honesty seemed like the best policy with Carla. “She made it seem like she was embarrassed about it,” he added, “but something told me she actually wanted me to come, so,” he shrugged. “I did.”
Carla nodded a second time and fell quiet. “She’s a bit of a conundrum, my girl,” she said softly.
“I don’t think so,” Sam countered before he could stop himself.
His companion lifted her eyebrows in surprise. “No?”
“A conundrum implies there’s a problem,” he said, keeping his tone light. “Like there’s something to solve or fix. But,” his shoulders moved casually. “Alysha doesn’t need to be fixed. She’s complicated, sure. And it takes her a million years to make a decision about anything--” Carla interrupted him with a soft chuckle that took him by surprise. “But she’s not a problem,” he continued. “If anything, she’s a solution for a question no one’s asked yet. And I guess I was more than a little curious about what kind of people could raise a woman like that—which is the other reason I came with her today.”
They fell quiet again before Carla grabbed her joint and her lighter and took another deep drag, filling the air with that sweet, skunky aroma and the sound of her coughing. “You know, her mother and I were always hoping she’d be gay.”
Sam smiled. “She mentioned that.”
“And we never, never wanted her to date a cop,” Carla continued. Sam was beginning to hope this had a point and she just wasn’t listing ways his presence had disappointed her. “But,” she held a fist to her chest and coughed again, deeply, rattling his own throat with the sound. “As far as men and cops go,” she glanced over at him and offered a quick, rueful smile. “You’re not so bad.”
Sam figured it was the highest compliment Carla would offer for quite some time.
November 22nd
11:30pm Eastern Standard Time
Darcy took an extra blanket from the hall closet and handed it to Steve. “I’ve slept on the couch a million times,” she reminded. “I don’t mind sleeping on it again.”
He smiled and shook his head. “It’s fine,” he assured her. “It’s just one night.”
The snow, which had started as a lovely Thanksgiving surprise as they’d crossed the bridge into New Jersey thirteen hours ago, had turned into a thick, unyielding blanket that closed roads and cancelled the plans of anyone who had hoped to return to the city before morning.
“It’ll be fun,” Thor said as he approached the closet with a smile. “Can’t remember the last time I camped out in a living room.”
They technically weren’t sleeping in the living room, but in the basement den where Raina and Selma had smoked weed and pierced each other’s ears in high school. Where Darcy and Jane had played video games and made friendship bracelets, and where there were two couches not nearly big enough for the two men who had been assigned them for sleeping arrangements.
Steve grinned. “We should make a fort.”
Darcy smiled tiredly. “You guys are cute,” she commented of their budding bromance. These two blond Alpha males who were about as warm and fluffy inside as a freshly baked dinner roll had bonded instantly, surprising absolutely no one. She looked around the hall and frowned. “Where’s Charlotte?”
“Already in bed,” Steve informed her. “With her favorite person.”
“I’m gonna go say good night and then I’ll probably sit up with Grams for a little bit before I pass out.” She handed the last thick woolen blanket to Thor and closet the hall closet door. “Are you sure you guys are going to be warm enough?”
“We’ll be fine,” Thor assured her and kissed the side of her head. “Sweet dreams, Darcy.”
She echoed his sentiment and waited until he’d padded down the carpeted stairs before she turned back to Steve. “I’m not sure I’m going to be warm enough,” she whined softly and stepped up to rest her hands on his hips.
He smirked. “How creaky are these stairs?” he asked with a lift of one eyebrow. “I could sneak up and keep you warm.”
Darcy snorted. “Across the hall from Saint Shirley, Aunt Selma, Uncle Reese, and sharing a room with Jane the buzz-saw?” She wrinkled her nose. “I think I’ll just have to suffer without you.”
He leaned in and kissed her softly. “I hope you get some sleep,” he said when he pulled away before his lips twitched into another half-smile. “But I’m gonna go make a fort with Thor in the basement.”
She laughed again and rolled her eyes. “Have fun,” she said and stretched up to give him one more quick kiss. “I love you.”
She paused outside the bedroom where she and Jane used to sleep on summer vacation visits, that used to contain two squeaky single beds, but was now home to a pullout sofa and Grams’ sewing machine and knitting materials. “Can you tell me something sciencey?” Charlotte was asking around the sounds of Jane tucking her into bed.
Darcy smiled and hung back, waiting to see how Jane would answer. “Hmm,” she heard her cousin say. “Something sciencey...it’s a little late for a lecture, little miss.”
“Just like, a cool fact then,” Charlotte conceded. “Give my brain something to chew on.”
Jane laughed, and the pullout squeaked with her weight as she sat on the edge of the mattress. “That I can do,” she decided, and Darcy stayed where she was, wondering what nugget of information Jane was going to impart on Charlotte’s hungry brain. “Did you know that all the elements in your body were forged millions and millions of years ago in the heart of a giant star that exploded and died?” Jane’s voice was low, and Darcy could almost hear her eyes sparkling as if she was telling a fairy tale. “And that explosion scattered those elements across all of deep space and then came back together to form new stars and new planets and they made the universe we live in now. And this went on and on for millions of years. These elements came together and burst apart, and they made oceans and apples and sailboats and flowers and princesses. Until, eventually, they came together to make you.”
“Really?” Charlotte asked, in a voice that Darcy could tell was far, far past its bedtime.
“Uh-huh,” Jane assured her. “You, Charlotte Rogers, are made of stardust. Unique in the universe. There could never, ever be another.”
They were quiet for a moment while Charlotte contemplated what she’d just learned. “That’s a really cool fact,” she said quietly. “My brain’s gonna be chewing on that one for a long time.”
“Not too much longer tonight, okay?” Jane was giving her a kiss as Darcy entered the room. “You’ve gotta get some sleep.”
Charlotte nodded sleepily and snuggled herself down into the covers. “Okay. But can we talk about space more tomorrow?”
Jane grinned and shared a smile with Darcy. “We can talk about space whenever you want, sweetie.”
“Cool,” Charlotte said with a sleepy smile. She raised her eyes to Darcy when she traded spots with Jane for a seat on the edge of the bed. “Where are you going to sleep?” she asked.
Darcy pointed to the shared bathroom that led into the other guest room. “Just right through there.” On either a daybed or its accompanying trundle bunk that, if she remembered correctly, were both horrifically stiff and uncomfortable. “You can come get me if you need anything, okay?”
Charlotte nodded. “I’ll be fine. I’m made of stardust.”
She bent and pressed her lips to Charlotte’s temple. “I know,” she said softly. “Sweet dreams, Peanut. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Darcy?”
She stopped in the doorway and turned back. “Yeah?”
Charlotte looked especially small as she pulled the covers up to her chin. “I really liked having Thanksgiving here.”
Darcy smiled and nodded. “Yeah, it wasn’t too bad, huh?”
Charlotte shook her head against the pillow. “Not bad at all.”
She thought Jane might join her as she made her way back down to the kitchen where so much prep and madness had occurred all day, but Jane waved at the door to their shared room and sent Darcy down alone. Past her grandfather, asleep in his easy chair, mouth agape, and into her favorite room in the house.
Grams was at the table, in her usual spot, stirring honey into a cup of tea in a chipped, ceramic mug that Jane had made her in tenth grade. “Everyone settled?” she asked before pouring a cup for her granddaughter.
Darcy nodded and sat down. She accepted the cup and reached for the little pitcher of milk. “Thanks for letting us all crash here, Grams,” she said quietly. “I know it’s not exactly convenient.”
The old woman waved a hand at the words. “Family is never convenient, sweet girl. You know that.”
She smiled and stirred milk and honey into her own cup of tea. “That’s true,” she agreed before she stretched out a hand and laid it in her grandmother’s open palm. “But still. Thanks for everything—today was really nice.”
They were quiet for a moment, staring out the back window where the snow had finally stopped falling. “Raina would love that little girl,” Grams said suddenly, snapping her granddaughter’s attention back to her.
Darcy nodded. “Yeah, she would.”
Grams fingers tightened around Darcy’s in a soft squeeze. “She’d be so proud to see what a good mother you are,” she added softly, moving her eyes from the window back to Darcy’s face. She smiled softly and stroked her thumb over Darcy’s knuckles. “You’re a natural with Charlotte,” she added.
Darcy swallowed around the lump that had risen unexpectedly in her chest. “Well,” she squeezed her grandmother’s hand back. “I had a couple of really great teachers.”
They sat quietly for another long moment before Grams raised their joined hands and kissed the top of Darcy’s fingers. “I think I’ll head up,” she said, shuffling to her feet. “Need my beauty rest if I’ve gotta house full of people for breakfast tomorrow.”
“No,” Darcy protested softly. “Don’t even think about it—Jane and I will handle breakfast before we head out.”
Grams kissed the top of her head. “We’ll see who gets up first,” she challenged lightly. “Sleep well, Cherry Pie.”
Darcy watched her shuffle away, her childhood nickname hanging in the air like a lingering of sweet perfume. She took another sip of her tea and turned to look out the window again. On the way, her eyes caught a photo she hadn’t noticed in a long time. A candid shot her grandfather must have taken, for it contained all five of the Lewis women--Grams, Selma, Raina, Jane, and herself. She squinted in the low light and decided she couldn’t have been more than five or six. They were in the kitchen, at the same table where she was sitting now, around cups of tea—coffee in her mother’s case, she remembered—and a plate of cinnamon rolls in the center. They were laughing, clad in pajamas and bed-rumpled hair, and for a second, the memory was so real, so visceral, Darcy could have sworn they’d all be there with her if she looked back around the table. She could practically hear the rise and fall of their voices, taste the sweet, heavy frosting the clung to her fingers.
She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what this day would have been like if her mother had still been there. There would have been more laughter, she decided. More swearing, more stories, more eye-rolling and banter snapped back and forth with love.
And Grams was right—there would have been Charlotte and Raina, likely thick as thieves.
She sipped her tea and opened her eyes to look at the photo again. “Happy Thanksgiving, Mom,” she said softly. To the photo. To the empty kitchen. To the space in her heart that always ached just a little more this time of year. “You would have really loved this one.”
fin