Page 35 of Embers in Autumn

Dean’s father rose at the head of the table, resting his fingertips on the chair back.

“I do not have a speech,” he said, which of course meant he had one after all, “but I would like to say that in a year that has been complicated, I am grateful to be here at a table that makes the word home feel like a real place. To my daughter and son in law for opening their doors, to my son for the way he stands where he is needed, to my grandchildren for remembering that joy is simple, and to Amber, for reminding us that there are still new someones to be thankful for.” His eyes found mine and warmth curled under my ribs. “Amen.”

We chorused amen and laughter bubbled up as serving spoons began their journey. Plates filled. Butter slid across rolls. The first sighs of good food rose like a blessing.

“Careful,” Sarah warned, wagging a fork at Dean as he reached for the sweet potatoes. “You do not get to take half the pan like when we were kids.”

“Half?” Dean arched an eyebrow. “It was never half. It was a very reasonable third. Ask Mom. She kept records.”

Lana giggled and slid her bowl of mashed potatoes toward Dean. “Do you want some of mine, Dad, so Aunt Sarah will stop shaming you in front of your girlfriend?”

Dean pretended to consider. “No, I will just be shamed. It builds character.”

Jacob peered at his plate and then at Sophie’s. “Why is her turkey bigger than mine?”

“It is the same,” Sophie said without looking up.

“It is not.”

“Jacob,” Sarah warned, “do not start comparative poultry studies at the table. If you are still hungry you can have more.”

He brightened. “So I can have more sweet potatoes now?”

“You can have more turkey now,” Andrew said. “Sweet potatoes later.”

“Negotiations continue,” Jacob muttered, which made the entire table laugh.

Across the linen and the low flowers, Dean caught my eye.

The light from the candles gilded his cheekbones, softened the scar at his brow that I had learned with my fingers.

He looked content in a way I had not seen before, shoulders looser, mouth eased, a man at ease in his own home base.

He tipped his head the smallest amount. Heat climbed my throat and I dropped my gaze to my plate, smiling into my wine like a teenager.

“So, Amber,” Dean’s father said once the first flurry of serving had calmed, “the bookstore. How has a year treated you in this town that smells like leaves and baked sugar?”

“Better than I expected,” I said. “Harder in ways I did not expect too. The rain stole my customers for a week. The Halloween party saved the month. People like having a place to come and talk about stories. I like being the person who listens.”

“Small business is honest work,” he said. “You can look a day in the eye after it is done. If you ever want a very boring talk about spreadsheets and tax deductions, I am your man.”

“Do not frighten her off,” Sarah said, laughing. “Let her finish her turkey first.”

“I am not frightened,” I said, meeting his gaze. “I could use the help. The only thing scarier than a slow Tuesday is a spreadsheet with a formula I did not write.”

“Then we are allies,” he said, and raised his glass an inch.

Conversation loosened and braided, as it does at good tables.

Andrew told the story of a delivery mix up at the flower shop that had left him ankle deep in eucalyptus on the sidewalk.

Sarah teased Dean about the time he tried to braid Lana’s hair for a school picture and she ended up with what looked like three ropes battling for territory.

Dean protested that the child would not sit still and the hair refused to cooperate.

Lana declared that Aunt Sarah would be doing all future braids and that Dad should stick to pancakes.

Jacob asked if firefighters ever rescued turkeys.

Sophie said that was not how turkeys worked.

Dean’s father told Jacob about the time Dean tried to teach a very old family dog to fetch specific garden tools and the dog retired in protest under the dining table.

I watched them with a sense of wonder, as if I had been given an invitation to a story that had started long before me.

The clink of cutlery, the thrum of overlapping voices, the easy rhythm of people who know each other’s edges and choose them anyway.

Every few minutes I looked for Dean and found him already looking back.

It felt like passing a secret across the table that no one else could see.

By the time the platters had been picked over and the gravy boat scraped, Sarah appeared with coffee and the pies.

Pumpkin, apple, and one pecan that glistened like dark glass.

She set a dollop of whipped cream on Jacob’s slice that made his eyes go wide, then leveled the same cloud on everyone else’s so no one could claim injustice.

“Remember when Dean tried to make pecan pie and set the smoke alarm off three times,” Sarah said, settling beside me with her own plate.

“In my defense, pecans burn. It is a design flaw.”

“In your defense ,” Sarah replied, “you forgot there was a pie in the oven while you were trying to fix the garbage disposal you broke earlier that afternoon.”

Dean’s father sipped his coffee, eyes bright with mischief. “He did get the disposal working again. We rewarded him with store bought pie and a lecture.”

“Which I still remember,” Dean said. “Never leave what you love unattended.”

His father glanced at me then, and the look was gentle. My fork paused halfway to my mouth. I felt heat climb my throat again and busied myself with whipped cream, pretending I did not understand.

After dessert the kids drifted toward the living room, drawn by a game and the soft lure of blankets.

Conversation softened, coffee cooled, candles burned lower.

Sarah leaned into Andrew’s shoulder with a satisfied sigh.

Dean’s father told me about the first book he fell in love with, a battered detective novel that had belonged to his own father, pages softened by time and thumbs.

I told him about my grandmother’s kitchen and how stories rise from a stove as surely as steam.

Dean’s hand found my knee under the table. His thumb traced an easy circle through the fabric of my dress. Quiet, steady, certain. I set my hand over his without looking and felt the last of my nerves loosen as if a knot had finally given way.

Home did feel like a real place. It smelled like sage and sugar and coffee. It sounded like children laughing and a sister’s mock outrage and a father’s bad jokes. It looked like the man across from me who never seemed to run out of ways to choose me.

When we finally stood to help clear, Sarah caught my sleeve, her smile soft and tired and something like grateful.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, so simple it made my eyes sting. “He is happy. I can see it.”

“I am too,” I said, and believed myself.

In the kitchen we stacked plates, ran warm water, and passed dishes from hand to hand.

Through the doorway I could see Dean on the rug with Jacob, demonstrating how to free a metal loop from an impossible tangle, his laugh easy, his head tipped back.

Lana sat curled beside her grandfather, the new bookmark peeking from a book she had insisted on bringing to dinner.

Sophie had already painted a burst of color on the first page of her pad, an abstract riot of autumn.

I lingered there, dish towel clutched in my hands, and let the weight of the moment sink into me.

It wasn’t sharp or fleeting, but slow and steady, like warmth curling through my bones.

The room smelled of cinnamon and soap, the kind of scent that felt like home even though I’d spent years searching for it.

Outside, the windows had gone dark, the glass catching our reflections and holding them like a memory I wished I could press between pages and never lose.

When Dean lifted his head, his eyes found me as if they’d been waiting all along. He smiled, unhurried, steady, sure. And when I smiled back, there was no fear tugging at the edges of it, no whisper of panic. Only the quiet, glowing truth of belonging.