She instructed Dr. Grant to chop the onion while she salted the bird’s cavity and prepared to stuff.
When she had spooned in all the stuffing, she asked: “Do you have any olive oil left, or did it all go in my hair?”
“I think I have some. Or butter.”
“Butter! And you call yourself a cardiologist!”
He smiled and handed her a bottle of olive oil. “The entire thing drips in fat so I’m not sure it makes a difference at this point.”
While the onions sautéed, she hunted for some dried herbs in the pantry. They were covered in dust. “Do you think herbs expire?” she asked.
“If they do, then they have.”
“When was the last time you used your kitchen?” she asked.
“This morning. I made tea.”
“When was the last time you used your oven?”
“Why? Is it not working?”
“It’s working fine.”
“Does heating up pizza count?”
“No.”
“Then about two years ago.”
So, Felicity had died two years ago.
“Mallory’s not coming home for Thanksgiving?” she asked as she poured the oil and onions onto the turkey and massaged them into Fred’s still chilly skin.
He shook his head. “I’ll see her in a few weeks for Christmas when I go out to California.”
“And you really weren’t doing anything today?” she asked, sprinkling herbs and salt over the bird.
He seemed transfixed, as if he’d never seen anyone prep a turkey. “Louise has been on my case to come over. But I feel like one of her church projects.” He grimaced. “I had planned to watch football all day.”
“You can still do that.”
“I might do.”
“Do you have any twine? Or anything to tie the drumsticks together?”
“Hang on. I’ve got just the thing,” he said and went into his office, returning with a pack of surgical sutures.
She used the sutures to tie the legs together. “Unless you prefer to do stitches.”
“I yield to the expert,” Dr. Grant said.
She gave the pepper mill a few final twists and then began to lift the roasting pan toward the oven.
“Allow me,” Dr. Grant said.
“I’m past six weeks,” Maribeth said.
“This is about chivalry, not infirmity.”
“In that case.” She stood to the side.
When the bird was in the oven, she set the timer. It was twelve-thirty now. It would take at least five hours to roast, possibly longer because it was not fully defrosted. Really, it ought to be basted once an hour, though it wouldn’t be the end of the world if it went without. “Should I go and come back?” she asked. “Or I can stay here and babysit the bird if you want to go somewhere. I don’t want to put you out.”
“You’re not putting me out. And I have nowhere to be,” he said. “You can leave the bird if you have somewhere to be.”
“I have nowhere to be either,” she said.
BY THE TIME Fred was ready, it was getting near six, and Maribeth was somewhere on the road between tipsy and drunk. Around three, she and Dr. Grant had gone down into his basement wine cellar and picked out several bottles for the dinner that by some unspoken agreement they had both decided to attend. Somewhere around four, they had uncorked a bottle of Rioja. Somewhere around five, she’d stopped calling him Dr. Grant.
“Oh, thank god,” Todd said when they arrived bearing Fred on a platter. “We thought we were going to have to eat the nut loaf.”
“Nut loaf?” Maribeth asked.
“Sunny’s friend Fritz made a nut loaf because he thought she was vegetarian because she’s Indian. And because he totally wants to jump her bones.”
“Hush, he does not,” Sunita said. She turned to Dr. Grant—Stephen—and held out her hand. “Hi, I’m Sunita. Thank you so much for helping us out.”
“I’m Stephen,” he said. “And you’re welcome.”
“And you brought wine! Excellent!” Todd said, gesturing to the bottles in Stephen’s hand. “All Sunny’s philistine friends brought beer. And nut loaf.”
“Shut up about the nut loaf already,” Sunita said.
“Can I have a glass of that?” Todd asked Stephen, pointing to the Shiraz.
“I feel like I should perhaps card you first.”
“He acts immature but he’s of age,” Sunita said.
“Then show me to your corkscrew.”
“Follow me,” Sunita said.
As soon as Stephen was out of earshot, Todd nudged Maribeth in the ribs: “Who’s the silver fox?”
“A friend.”
“Hmm, mmm. A friend? Is he the friend you cut your hair for?”
He was the friend who cut her hair, but she didn’t say anything.
“Your grin gives you away,” Todd said.
She bit her lip, though what was there to give away? He had been her doctor, and he had become her friend. It seemed official now, though had it not been heading in that direction? Consider her appointments: increasingly short physical exams, followed by ever-longer conversations in his office after. And those conversations—metaphysical, intellectual, philosophical, meandering—they’d become the highlight of her week. She couldn’t remember the last time she had talked to anybody like that.
“He’s just a friend. Like you and Sunny are friends.”
“So he’s gay?” Todd asked, misunderstanding.
“Not that I know of.”