Andrew
By the time the meal was finished, my kitchen was unrecognizable. Not even when Karen went on a cooking frenzy, as she sometimes did when stressed and made enough casseroles for a week, did the counters look like this.
“You have carving tools?” Lanie asked me as she took the turkey out of the oven.
“Sure do.”
“And never been used,” Raven added.
We moved with a rhythm, taking the dishes into the dining room, a place I only ventured into if a client was over for dinner.
“Can we light those?” Lanie asked, pointing at the tall, untouched white candles in the center of the table.
“Of course.” Grabbing the lighter from the fireplace’s mantle, I handed it over—making sure my fingers grazed Lanie’s an undue amount in the process.
She lit the candles, adjusted the angle of the turkey
