Homemade rolls.
Fresh cranberry sauce.
Four desserts.
And pumpkin pie made entirely from scratch because, according to her, store-bought crust was unacceptable.
“You should probably begin around four in the morning,” she said. “Maybe three-thirty, just to make certain everything is perfect this time.”
I stared at the paper.
My husband, Hudson, stood beside her nodding as though asking one person to create a restaurant-quality meal for more than thirty guests was completely reasonable.
“When you say four in the morning…” I began.
“Well, dinner must be ready by two,” Vivien interrupted. “The Sanders are driving three hours. They will expect something impressive.”
I had never even met the Sanders.
Yet apparently, I was expected to sacrifice my sleep and spend ten hours in the kitchen to earn their approval.
“I know it looks like a lot,” Vivien added with a bright smile, “but everyone depends on you.”
That evening, after she left and Hudson fell asleep in front of the television, I sat alone at the kitchen table and tried to plan everything.
The schedule was impossible.
The turkey needed the oven for hours, but so did the ham, casseroles, bread, and desserts. No amount of careful planning could change the basic limits of one oven and one exhausted woman.
Then I examined the guest list again.
My name was not on it.
Thirty-two people had been invited to eat the food I would prepare, yet I had not even been counted among them.
I was not a guest.
I was the staff.
Then I noticed another missing name.
My sister Ruby had attended Thanksgiving with us for ten years. She always brought cornbread and stayed late to help clean.
I called her immediately.
“Did Vivien tell you not to come this year?”
Ruby paused before answering.
“She called last week. She said I might feel more comfortable at a smaller gathering because of the divorce. Apparently, being around happy couples might be difficult for me.”
Ruby had been divorced for only six months and was rebuilding her life with remarkable courage. Vivien had decided that her pain did not match the flawless family image she wanted to display.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay,” Ruby said, though I could hear the hurt in her voice. “I’m spending Thanksgiving with Carmen. At least there I won’t feel like someone’s charity project.”
After we hung up, I finally understood what Vivien’s gatherings were truly about.
