Jack leaned on the counter across from her while she ate. He had the easy posture of someone who had spent years on his feet, and the quieter watchfulness of someone who had recently learned that feet were not the hardest part of standing. The small tattoo on his forearm was a simple line drawing of a bird in flight, ink faded at the edges as if the bird had been traveling a long time.
"You cook like this every Thanksgiving?" Claire asked between bites of turkey that somehow tasted like patience rendered into meat.
"Used to be a family operation," Jack said. He folded the towel and set it beside the napkin holder, then seemed not to know what to do with his hands. "My folks ran the front with Mae. I came back from the service in sixty-nine and never quite left the kitchen again. Mom and Dad—" He paused, wiped an already clean spot on the chrome until it reflected his face in warped miniature. "Car accident, two winters ago. Black ice on the hill past the feed store. Same kind of night as this, almost. Wind like this. Snow like this. Mae kept the place open because shutting it felt like burying them twice. I cook because if I stop, the silence gets loud enough to hear their voices in it."
Claire set her fork down. The turkey suddenly tasted like something sacred and fragile, a meal that had been cooked against absence. "I'm sorry. That isn't enough, but I am."
"Don't be. Or do. Both work." He smiled sideways, and the loose strand of hair dipped into his eyes. "Anyway, Mae insisted on the full spread tonight even though every sensible local is home with their own disasters. She said Thanksgiving is for whoever walks through the door. I said nobody would. She said hope is a free ingredient. I said free ingredients still need a customer. She told me to stop arguing with a woman who had outlived two presidents she disliked and start basting."