Molly looks up at me with sad eyes. “You would do that?”
“Of course.”
“What about your interviews on Monday?”
I shrug. “I’ll reschedule them.”
I know these firms want me, bad. They’ll wait.
“Wow,” Molly says. “It would be so nice to surprise her. Let’s do it.”
“I’ll look at flights after dinner.”
She smiles, and her whole face looks brighter—like she just got an extra four hours of sleep.
I relax. My plan is still fine.
“The food smells amazing,” I say. “I’m excited for your feast.”
“Thanks,” she says. “I have every intention of blowing your mind with my culinary prowess.”
“You can blow me anytime, babe.”
She groans.
“Hey, I saw a deck of cards in the dining room,” I say. “Want me to beat your ass at gin?” I want to keep her occupied so she doesn’t find a random reason to go out into the front yard for the next half an hour.
“I’m a little tired. Didn’t sleep well last night. Would you mind if I lie down for a bit before we eat?”
Even better. The bedroom is at the back of the house, where there’s no chance of her hearing anything.
“No,” I say, “of course not.”
“Okay. I just put the chicken in. The oven’s on a timer, so you don’t need to do anything.”
“Got it. Get some sleep. I’ll set the table.”
I text the event coordinator to let her know we’ll be starting a little later, but this is actually good, because it gives me time to make the table romantic as fuck. I’m grateful to my mother that she forced me to learn where all the forks go. I’m the George Clooney of tablescapes.
I rummage in the sideboard and get to work arranging place settings. I find some Jadeite candlesticks and set up long white taper candles for a perfect, flickering ambiance. We need a centerpiece, so I snatch a towel and some scissors from the kitchen and go outside. I cut a bunch of green limbs from a flowering creosote bush with pale yellow blooms, which I arrange around the candlesticks.
The effect is festive and pretty, and the creosote gives the room an earthy scent, like the aftermath of a rainstorm.
I change, to look nice for dinner, then pace around, jittery and excited. Molly sleeps longer than I was expecting, so I occupy myself with texting holiday wishes to everyone I know. When she finally emerges, she’s wearing a cozy sweater and her makeup is fresh. She’ll look so cute in our pictures.
“How was your nap?” I ask.
“Restorative. And I’m starving. Are you ready to eat?”
“Yep.”
“Okay. I just need to blanch the beans. Sit down. I’ll serve you like a proper little wifey.”
Wifey. Pleasure surges through me. I send a text to give the ten-minute warning, light the candles, and hope I don’t fall apart from nerves and give myself away.
Molly walks in holding a tray with two little golden hens surrounded by rosemary sprigs.
“Why Miss Molly Malone,” I say. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding your poultry-cooking ability all this time.”
“A lady has to have her secrets.”
She carries out the rest of the food, and I snatch the bottle of pinot she opened and pour us each a glass. And that’s my cue.
Time to change our lives.
Let’s fucking do this.
“Before we begin,” I say, “let’s say what we’re grateful for.”
She smiles. “You and your gratitude lists.”
“Hey! It’s Thanksgiving! If ever there was a day for gratitude lists—”
“Okay, okay, you start.”
“Well, first and foremost, I’m grateful for airplanes, because they take me to see you,” I say.
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Very creative.”
