November 28, Thursday

AUTUMN SUNLIGHT dappled the long table we'd set up in the yard, catching the crystal glasses Kelly had insisted on using. Fall leaves danced across the white tablecloth, despite our best efforts with paperweights. The Whisper House loomed behind us, its windows reflecting golden afternoon light.

"Perfect weather," Sawyer murmured, squeezing my hand under the table. He looked handsome in a green sweater that brought out his eyes, relaxed in a way I rarely saw him.

Kelly had outdone herself—the turkey gleamed bronze and perfect, surrounded by dishes that wouldn't have looked out of place in a magazine spread. Coleman's sweet potato casserole sat next to Tilda's herb bread, while colorful serving bowls held everything from traditional stuffing to roasted root vegetables.

"Shall we pray?" Reverend Abernathy stood, his voice carrying across the yard. Everyone joined hands, forming an uneven circle around the feast.

"Lord, we thank you for this bounty, for the hands that prepared it, and for the fellowship we share." His eyes swept the gathering. "We remember those no longer with us—Wayne and Rose and all the souls resting in your peaceful garden. May they know the grace of your eternal love."

"So mote it be," Tilda added quietly. "Great Mother, bless this food, these friends, this sacred ground. Let all who gather here find nourishment for body and spirit."

Her twin daughters exchanged glances but said nothing. Beside them, Frannie shifted uncomfortably while Dora studied her plate.

"Amen," Uncle Pete said firmly, breaking the tension. "Now, who's carving this beautiful bird?"

Sawyer stood to tackle the turkey while dishes began circulating. The first few minutes were filled with the comfortable sounds of plates being filled, glasses clinking, and murmured compliments to the cooks.

"Lovely stuffing, Kelly dear," Muriel said, settling her napkin in her lap. Then, as casually as discussing the weather: "So, who do you think murdered Wayne?"

My fork clattered against my plate. Across the table, Dora went pale.

"Muriel, that's been debunked," Sawyer cut in smoothly. "Wayne died from an allergic reaction, end of story. Perhaps we could discuss something more appropriate for Thanksgiving?"

Tessa leaned forward and glanced all around. "We could talk about who murdered Rose instead."

Silence fell like a heavy curtain. Even the breeze seemed to hold its breath.

"Tessa," Tilda warned, but the damage was done.

"Now, now," Reverend Abernathy raised his hands placatingly. "This is a day for gratitude, not speculation. Kelly, tell us about the secret ingredient in this magnificent gravy."

But the moment was broken. Conversation resumed in fits and starts, careful and stilted. Dora pushed food around her plate, eyes bright with unshed tears. Frannie kept glancing toward the graveyard, while Coleman seemed fascinated by his sweet potatoes.

"I'm sorry," Sawyer whispered to me.

"It's okay," I said firmly, though my own appetite had waned. "This is exactly what we needed to do. Get everything out in the open."

He gave me a skeptical look. "By watching our friends accuse each other of murder over turkey?"

"Better than whispered rumors and sidelong glances." I squeezed his hand. "Besides, the food's too good to waste."

As if on cue, Uncle Pete asked for seconds of Kelly's cornbread dressing, and some of the tension eased. Muriel launched into a story about her first Thanksgiving in Irving, fifty years ago, when a flock of wild turkeys invaded the town square. Gradually, laughter returned to the table.

But I couldn't help noticing the careful distance people kept from certain subjects. The way Tilda's twins watched Sawyer when they thought no one was looking. How Reverend Abernathy's smile never quite reached his eyes as he raised to drink from his wine glass again and again.

And more than once, I caught people glancing toward the graveyard, visible between the bare trees.

"More wine?" Kelly offered, breaking into my thoughts.

"Please." I held out my glass, grateful for the distraction.

The sun slipped lower, casting long shadows across our gathering. Someone lit the paper lanterns strung between trees, creating pools of warm light against the gathering dusk. Muriel declared it was time for pie, and Coleman helped Kelly fetch them from the kitchen.

It wasn't the celebration I'd imagined—all Norman Rockwell warmth and small-town charm. Instead, it felt like something older, more complex. A gathering of people bound together by secrets and circumstances, breaking bread despite their differences.

Or maybe because of them.

After all, I thought, watching my strange temporary family pass around slices of pie, isn't that what Thanksgiving is really about? Finding gratitude in imperfect moments, creating connection despite our fears?

And maybe that made them more precious.