There had been several times since Christopher Foyle arrived in the States when he wished he could somehow have brought Sam along with him. Her marriage and his implacable purpose rendered the prospect untenable, but as he sat in the guest's seat of honor and watched the womenfolk of John Kieffer's family bring out dish after dish, heaped and laden with vegetables glossy with butter, the colors muted with cream, a gravy boat in danger of capsizing with its savory cargo and John himself proudly carrying a scalloped platter with an enormous turkey, golden-brown and fragrant with sage, he couldn't help but imagine Sam's face if she sat beside him, her eyes wide and cheeks flushed with anticipation at the bountiful meal. The Americans had done only the barest rationing during the War and in its aftermath, they abandoned any pretense of limits, eager to share, to consume, their gusto like that of English children and the elderly, who were allowed such license. He knew he would be given a generous portion of everything on the table and that John's wife would exhort him, kindly but insistently, to take additional servings and that he would be expected to have some second appetite for pudding, which was never only one sweet but today, he'd spied at least five pies, the flaky crusts stained with gold or ruddy juice from the fruit within, one seemingly a mass of sugared nuts, and a sort of cornmeal pottage swimming with treacle. He thought of how Sam had been so taken aback at the American base at the display of food and how she would smile, as if fairies danced before her, to see the table with its white cloth barely visible beneath the tureens and china.
"Happy Thanksgiving, Christopher! Hope you're not missing your home and hearth too much to enjoy the feast. Sally's outdone herself—I think she imagines you'll return to England with tales of a famous American housewife, a reincarnated, colonial Mrs. Beeton," John laughed.
"Happy Thanksgiving to you, John. And thank you for inviting me—you may assure Mrs. Kieffer she will be renowned on the other side of the pond after today… if I can roll away from the table," Christopher replied.
The food was tempting but it was the family atmosphere that stirred him, a melancholy tenderness for home and his own. This…indulgence didn't suit him, but to be amidst it was pleasant and John had said the day's traditions included a brisk constitutional after the meal, the young boys and their cousins planning to engage in some mildly martial game akin to rugby with a ball and a few, fungible rules in the back garden. Christopher hoped the women, who'd been closeted in the kitchen for hours, would take the chance to rest before coffee was served in the evening, the fire merry, its greed satisfied by great oak logs. That was what Rosalind would have liked, to sit in front of that fire and watch the flames and he to watch their soft, blurred reflection on her cheeks, her dark eyes splashed with gold. When he was asked, he would say he was thankful for the hospitality of old friends, but he wouldn't say the rest, how much memory meant and the cool satisfaction of serving justice, and the knowledge that however unusual and ambiguous, his own family waited for him at home, their affection perhaps curated but unrationed.