Episode 11: Thanksgiving
1303 Words
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Emily almost didn't go.
She spent the morning of Thanksgiving telling herself it was inappropriate. She spent the afternoon convincing herself she'd imagined the invitation. She spent the early evening standing in front of her closet, trying to decide whether the navy dress was too formal or the sweater was too casual or any of it mattered at all.
At 6:47 PM, her phone buzzed.
The pie is out of the oven. My grandmother is asking why there's an extra plate. Cora is pretending she doesn't know anything.
I'm pretending I don't know anything either.
But I'm hoping.
—M
Emily put on the navy dress.
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The Miller estate looked different at night.
Without the harsh light of obligation—the gala, the donors, the endless performance of wealth—the house settled into something softer. The windows glowed amber. The oak trees cast long shadows across the lawn. Somewhere inside, someone was playing piano.
Emily stood at the edge of the driveway and tried to remember how to breathe.
"Dr. Addison."
She turned.
Cecilia Miller stood in the doorway, her apron dusted with flour. She was smiling—not the careful composure of their previous encounters, but something genuine. Something warm.
"Welcome," she said. "We've been expecting you."
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The kitchen was the heart of the house.
Emily hadn't expected this. She'd imagined formal dining rooms and crystal stemware and servants circulating with silver trays. Instead, Cecilia led her through the grand foyer, past the ballroom where galas were held, into a warm and cluttered kitchen that smelled of sage and butter and something sweet.
A small woman stood at the stove, her silver hair pinned loosely, her hands steady as she stirred a pot of gravy.
"So you're Emily," she said, without turning. "Cora's told me everything. Malachi's told me nothing. Between the two of them, I have a complete picture." She turned, her eyes sharp and kind. "I'm Eleanor. Malachi's grandmother. You'll call me Eleanor, not Mrs. Hawthorne or Mrs. Miller or any of the other names that make me sound like I'm already dead."
Emily blinked. "Thank you for having me."
Eleanor waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense. Anyone who makes my grandson look at his phone every five minutes with that particular expression is welcome in my kitchen." She paused. "You'll sit next to him at dinner. Cora has already arranged the seating chart. I pretend not to notice these things."
Emily felt her face warm.
"Leave her alone, Grandmother." Malachi's voice came from behind her. "You promised you'd be subtle."
"I am subtle. I haven't mentioned the postcard once." Eleanor turned back to her gravy. "Yet."
Malachi moved to stand beside Emily. Not touching—his hands at his sides, the careful distance still intact—but close enough that she could feel the warmth of him.
"You came," he said quietly.
"You said there would be pie."
His mouth curved. "There's pie. Apple and pecan. My grandmother wasn't lying about that."
"And the rest of it?"
He looked at her.
"The rest of it," he said, "is more than I hoped for."
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Dinner was chaos.
Cora had indeed arranged the seating chart. Emily found herself seated between Malachi and Eleanor, directly across from William Miller, who was making a visible effort to be gracious and succeeding only in looking vaguely uncomfortable.
Cecilia sat at the far end of the table, her composure restored, but Emily caught her watching William with something new in her expression. Not hope, exactly. But not resignation either.
Cora dominated the conversation with a detailed account of her orchestra's upcoming winter concert, during which she would be playing a solo that was "very difficult and very important and everyone should definitely attend." Her gaze flickered to Emily when she said this.
Eleanor told stories about Malachi as a child. Not the embarrassing ones grandmothers usually told, but quieter ones. The way he'd collected fallen feathers and kept them in a shoebox under his bed. The way he'd taught himself to whistle, practicing for weeks until he could mimic any bird in the garden. The way he'd sit on the porch and watch the tide, patient and still, for hours at a time.
"He was always waiting," Eleanor said. "Even then. I used to wonder what he was waiting for." She looked at Emily. "I don't wonder anymore."
Malachi's hand found Emily's beneath the table.
His fingers interlaced with hers. His palm pressed against her palm. His thumb traced a slow circle on her wrist.
He didn't look at her. His face remained composed, his attention apparently on his grandmother's story. But beneath the table, his hand held hers like it was the only solid thing in a shifting world.
Emily didn't pull away.
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After dinner, Cora dragged her to see the garden.
"It's not as nice in November," she said, pulling Emily toward the conservatory. "Everything's dormant. But there's a koi pond, and if you stand very still, they come to the surface because they think you're going to feed them."
"Cora—"
"I know you can't be with my brother yet. I know there are rules and reasons and grown-up things I don't understand." Cora paused at the conservatory door. "But you came today. That's a start."
She pushed open the door.
The conservatory was glass and wrought iron, filled with orchids and the soft sound of water. The koi pond glittered in the moonlight, orange and white shapes moving slowly beneath the surface.
Emily stood at the edge of the water and thought about waiting.
"The first time I saw you," Cora said, "I knew you were different. Not because of how Malachi looked at you—he looks at everyone the same way, like he's measuring whether they're going to hurt him. But because of how you looked at him." She paused. "Like he was a person. Not a problem to solve."
"Cora—"
"I'm not asking for anything. I just wanted you to know." She paused. "Also, my grandmother really likes you, and she hates everyone. So that's something."
She slipped out of the conservatory, leaving Emily alone with the fish and the orchids and the weight of everything unsaid.
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Malachi found her twenty minutes later.
He didn't speak. He simply stood beside her at the edge of the pond, his hands at his sides, his reflection rippling in the dark water.
"My grandmother," he said finally, "has never told those stories to anyone. Not my father. Not my mother. Not me." A pause. "She was telling you something. I don't know what."
She was telling you I've been waiting my whole life, Emily thought. And she thinks I'm what you've been waiting for.
"I'm glad I came," Emily said.
"Are you?"
"Yes."
He was quiet for a moment.
"I'm glad too."
His hand found hers in the dark.
Not beneath a table, hidden from view. Here, in the glass room where everything was visible, his fingers interlaced with hers and held.
"This is dangerous," Emily whispered.
"I know."
"Someone could see."
"I know."
He didn't release her hand.
Neither did she.
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Later, when the dishes were washed and the leftovers packed and Eleanor had kissed her cheek and told her to come back soon, Emily stood at her car and watched the house glow amber against the November dark.
Her phone buzzed.
Thank you for coming. My grandmother said you have good hands. Cora said you stood by the koi pond for twenty minutes and the fish came to the surface.
I stood by the koi pond for twenty minutes and the fish came to the surface too.
—M
Emily smiled.
She drove home with her phone in her lap and his handprint still warm on her skin.
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- Writer
