“This is humiliating,” Vivien said, flour in her hair and defeat in her voice. “Absolutely humiliating. The Sanders are going to think we’re incompetent.”
“Maybe we should just cancel,” Hudson suggested weakly.
“Cancel? Cancel? We cannot cancel Thanksgiving dinner at 1:00 p.m. on Thanksgiving Day. Do you have any idea what people will think?”
But Hudson was beginning to realize that what people thought was the least of his problems.
The doorbell rang like a death knell.
Hudson opened the door to find Cousin Cynthia and her new boyfriend standing on the porch with a bottle of wine and expectant smiles.
“Something smells… interesting,” Cynthia said, sniffing the air with obvious confusion. Instead of the rich aromas of a Thanksgiving feast, the house smelled like raw onions and panic sweat.
“We’re running a little behind schedule,” Hudson said, his voice strained with false cheerfulness.
More cars pulled into the driveway—Uncle Raymond with his arms full of backup dishes, the Sanders with their six-year-old son and obvious expectations of the high-class dinner Vivien had promised them. Cousin after cousin, friend after friend, all arriving to find Hudson standing in the doorway, looking like he was greeting mourners at a funeral.
“Where’s Isabella?” asked Aunt Margaret, looking around for the hostess who usually greeted everyone with genuine warmth and the promise of an amazing meal.
“She had to step out. Emergency,” Hudson said.
The living room filled with increasingly confused relatives. Conversations grew stilted as people realized something was seriously wrong. The dining room table, set with Isabella’s careful place settings from two days ago, stood ready for a feast that didn’t exist.
Vivien emerged from the kitchen looking like she’d been through a war. Her perfect hair was disheveled, her clothes stained with various food substances, and her usual composure had cracked to reveal something close to panic.
“Everyone, please be patient. We’ve had some unexpected challenges with the meal preparation.”
Mr. Sanders, a man accustomed to country club service and fine dining, looked at his watch pointedly.
“We were told dinner would be served at 2 p.m. It’s nearly that time now.”
“Yes, well, there have been some complications.”
“What kind of complications?”
The question came from Hudson’s cousin Julie, who had driven three hours with her family and was beginning to look annoyed.
Hudson and Vivien exchanged glances. Neither of them wanted to be the one to explain that the woman they’d all taken for granted had simply vanished, leaving them helpless.
Na
USA