Her voice sounded unfamiliar.
Quiet.
Almost nervous.
“We’re having Thanksgiving at our house,” she said.
“Okay.”
“Camille is making the turkey. I’m preparing the sides.”
I waited.
“You don’t need to bring anything, Olivia.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Just come,” Mom added.
So
I did.
When I arrived, the house smelled of roasted turkey and slightly burnt bread rolls.
Camille was standing in the kitchen wearing an apron, staring at a meat thermometer as though it were a complicated scientific instrument.
“Liv! Thank goodness!”
I laughed.
“What happened?”
“Is the turkey supposed to reach one hundred sixty-five degrees or one hundred eighty-five?”
“One sixty-five in the thigh.”
She nodded rapidly.
“Okay. Good. But don’t help me. I’m doing this myself.”
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“I wasn’t planning to take over.”
“Good.”
We both laughed.
Hannah ran from the living room and wrapped her arms around me.
