3.5 Roasted in Christmas River by Meg Muldoon Page A

than a warm fire on a cold wintry night. 
    “Now, c’mon,” I said. “Let’s drop these off at the shelter. Then we’ve got a lot to do when we get home.”
     

 
    Chapter 26
     
    I stood out alone on the back deck, leaning back so I could feel the feathery snowflakes melt against my face.
    The first snowfall of the year dotted the black sky above in beautiful, swirling patterns.
    I took in a deep breath, savoring the fresh, pine-scented air as it flooded my lungs. The sounds of Chet Baker’s trumpet drifted out from the dining room behind me, softly muffled by the atmosphere.  
    Though I had changed out of my cooking outfit and into a dress and heels, my nice clothes had still become permeated with the strong aroma of turkey, bacon gravy, sage, and roasted butternut squash.
    But the fact that my new, fancy clothes now smelled like Thanksgiving didn’t bother me none. It was just one of the hazards of being the chef, I guessed.
    I tilted my head back again, looking at the beautiful woods that surrounded our house. White flakes were piling up on the tree limbs that swayed gently in the mountain wind.
    My arms were bare and I should have been cold, but I wasn’t.
    I glanced back inside, getting a clear view through the sliding glass door of our happy Thanksgiving dinner table.  
    Everyone dear to me in the world was sitting at that table. Or near it, anyway. Huckleberry was sprawled under Warren’s feet, stuffed to the gills with gravy and turkey. The dog was snoozing soundly, and the pooch had occasionally passed some gas, cracking Warren up to no end.
    I smiled.
    Every dish I’d made had been a hit.
    We’d just finished the big meal and now everyone was enjoying the intermission between dinner and dessert, passing the time with beer, stories and chit chat.
    Warren and Aileen sat next to my empty chair, looking cozy as two peas in a pod together. My grandfather’s cheeks had turned a bright red on account of the many beers he’d had, but his eyes were dancing with happiness. He looked happier than I’d seen him in years with his Scottish lady at his side. Aileen looked happy too, fitting into the crook of his arm as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
    Then there was Kara and John, equally smitten, sitting at the other end of the table. Expecting parents, with everything to look forward to in the world this next year. Kara was leaning her head on his shoulder. They were laughing at something Warren had just said. Even Mrs. Billings seemed to be having an okay time, full on peas and her own homemade Brussels sprouts.
    Owen and Chrissy were there too. I thought about how unhappy both of them had been last Thanksgiving. Both alone, both recovering from relationships that had left them devastated and broken inside. Looking at them together now, you wouldn’t have known any of that.
    Then there was Tobias, sitting on the other side of Warren. After getting him to taste test the pies, I’d helped him get fixed up before the big meal. I made him take a hot shower, and Daniel had given him some of his clothes to wear for the big meal. He still looked like Tobias, only much more dapper now. And much fuller, too. That look of hunger in his eyes had dissipated. It was replaced by something like contentment.
    Tiana was there too, and so was her sister: every ounce as nice as Tiana. Warren’s cousins were also there, old and hard of hearing, but kind of spirit. Daniel’s buddy from Fresno and his lovely wife had also made the trip to our dining table. Their beautiful baby was now fast asleep in the guest bedroom.
    Across from Warren sat Deb, Frankie, and his younger sister, Madison, dressed up in their very, very best Sunday school wear. Frankie seemed to be taking a real liking to Warren, staring at him with wide eyes while the old man told story after story after story.
    I smiled, looking at the boy.
    I’d gone with him to tell his mom about what had happened to Jack Daniels earlier. And as I thought,