“Yup and I did what you said and put it into the plastic bag. It’s on the porch table.”
I began spinning the fur and the thought occurred to me this would be the first time in over thirty years I wouldn’t be preparing Thanksgiving dinner. When Monica was a baby, we had my parents to our house and I did the cooking. It became our tradition. I also realized that for the first time since leaving high school I had no plan—no direction, no commitments and, except for Lilly, no responsibility. It was both frightening and exciting.
Worrying about lack of money was the scary part, but finding the job at Cook’s helped me to feel a little better. The possibility of discovering me was exciting though. Ali had been right. I’d never had a chance to be alone and figure out that in addition to being a daughter, a wife, and a mother, I was a woman. Somehow my own identity had been squashed as I took on the roles expected of me. I had listed myself on the A.L.M.A. Web site and wondered if I’d ever be contacted by a woman thinking I could be her daughter.
I continued to spin Winston’s fur and thought it might be fun to own my own business. I was an expert knitter. For years I’d taught girlfriends how to knit and suggested different patterns and yarns. It would be fun to be doing this and actually pull in a salary.
My mind wandered to the retail space downtown. I probably had enough in my bank account to put a deposit on it. But I didn’t even know if a knitting shop would be a lucrative business in such a small town. Ali had mentioned I should pay a visit to the bank and speak with Dorothy. She could give me some tips and suggestions about opening a shop. I decided that after I finished my first shift at Cook’s on Friday that was exactly what I’d do.
I wondered about Noah Hale. Although I wouldn’t admit it to Ali, he was pretty damn good looking. I smiled, trying to recall the last time I’d thought that about a man. Other than a TV or movie star. Momentarily, I felt ashamed thinking such thoughts less than two months after losing Stephen. Well, not to worry, I thought. He may have been quite handsome, but I’m not sure I cared for his attitude. Besides, a man was certainly the last thing I needed in my life.
Polly Tyburn was the first to arrive at the B&B for Thanksgiving dinner.
“Yoohoo,” she hollered, entering the hallway off the kitchen. “Anybody here?”
“Just us turkeys,” Alison called out while checking the oven temperature.
Laughing, Polly placed a bowl on the table. “I made my special cranberry chutney,” she said, walking over to give Alison a hug. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“And to you. Thanks for your contribution. You make the best on the island.”
“You must be Sydney,” Polly said. Her eyes squinted, as she adjusted her glasses for a better look. “Welcome to Cedar Key.”
“Thank you.”
Polly was a petite woman, barely five feet tall. She appeared to be late sixties and had brunette curls framing her face.
Leaning closer, she stared into my almond-shaped brown eyes, making me feel a bit awkward.
“You look familiar to me. Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so, but I’ve been here over a week. You may have seen me around town.”
“Hmm, could be. Well, welcome again. I hope you’ll like it here.”
The woman then reached to finger my hair, which I’d pulled back into a limp ponytail.
“Oh, my. You could really use a good conditioner, and a cut would add wonders to your looks.”
I was shocked by the woman’s candor, and my hand went protectively to my hair.
“Honey, you come see me tomorrow. We’ll get you all fixed up. A widow today has to do everything possible to snag herself a new man. Lord knows there’s enough competition out there. Look at me—my Harold’s been gone ten years and I’m still alone.”
A man was the last thing on my mind. How dare she insinuate I was looking for a replacement? Unsure whether to laugh or be offended, I stood there mute.
“Lighten up on her, Polly.” Alison grinned. “But if you do want a makeover, Syd, Polly’s the one to see. She can work miracles with a pair of scissors. Not that I’m a very good advertisement for her.”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” a male voice called from the porch.
“Officer Bob, come on in,” Alison hollered.
I had questioned the informality of calling a police officer by his first name when Ali told me he was coming to dinner. That was unheard of in New England, but Ali assured me that in the South, it was quite common. I turned to see a heavyset man in a police uniform walk into the kitchen carrying a beautiful bouquet of orange mums.
“For the chef,” he said, handing them to Ali.
“Thank you so much,” she told him. “They’ll look lovely on the table. Bob, meet my best friend, Sydney.”
“Nice to meet ya,” he said, extending a large, calloused hand.
“Same here,” I replied, thinking the man was a dead ringer for Ernest Borgnine.
“I hope you’ll enjoy your stay on the island, and if you need anything at all, why you just let me know. I’d be happy to help you.”
His sincerity came through in his words. “That’s very nice of you,” I told him. “Thanks.”
Alison was pouring apple cider into glasses arranged on a tray. “Do me a favor, Syd. Take this out to the porch. Dinner will be ready in about forty-five minutes, so we’ll have some cider first.”
Placing the tray on the table, I glanced up to see an older woman coming down the walkway. Silver hair was pulled back into a fashionable chignon. Wearing a two-piece beige pantsuit, she carried herself with an air of elegance.
Walking up the steps, the woman’s eyes met mine, but she didn’t speak.
“I bet you’re Miss Dora,” I said, smiling.
For a fraction of a second, the woman scrutinized my face before replying.
Clearing her throat, she nodded. “Yes. Yes, I am. I’m Eudora Foster and you must be Sydney.” Her hand flew to her hair smoothing stray pieces from her chignon.
“Yes, I’m Alison’s friend. Happy Thanksgiving. Would you like a glass of cider?”
“That would be very nice. Thank you,” she said, as the rest of the crowd filtered out onto the porch.
“Ah, Miss Dora, welcome.” Alison greeted the woman with a hug. “Is that your famous squash pie?”
“It is,” Dora said, not taking her eyes from mine as she passed the covered plate to Ali.
“Thank you. I’ll put it in the fridge. Hey, Saren, just in time for cider.”
The elderly man nodded to everyone. I noticed that the baseball cap from the day before was missing and strands of white hair covered his head. In place of the T-shirt was a crisp blue-and-white striped shirt, but the suspenders remained.
“Some of my mullet dip,” he said, passing the bowl to Alison.
“Saren still goes fishing almost every day,” Ali explained to me. “And his mullet dip is to die for. I’ll get some crackers and we’ll have some with the cider.”
I finished handing out the glasses and pulled up a chair with the guests.
“Are you planning to stay on the island long?” Dora questioned.
“I’m not really sure what I’m