Happy Thanksgiving.
Silver Spoon
November 26th, 1913
Denver, Colorado
Below the warm cozy loft, the sound of a door closing rattled up the wooden frame of the small cabin. Already the window panes were frosty. And just outside, snow silently drifted to the ground, covering the jagged mountains and dusting the pine trees. The loft had small circular window panes that overlooked the breathtaking landscape of majestic mountains carved off in the distance. Thickets of pine trees belted out from the range, leading right up to the small cabin tucked away in the hills. The ceiling of the loft was low and slanted. It was rather small as well. The bed alone nearly covered all the floor space. The quilts and goosedown pillows were dishevelled and tangled. After the door thunked shut, there was a moment of quiet and solace in the cabin. And then the bed creaked and the quilts lifted as a groggy head peaked up from beneath the warmth of the covers. It was still dark outside as the occupant of the bed mindlessly grappled about, feeling an empty warm space beside them. They sighed, their face sinking back into the pillows. The birds were beginning to tweet. The world was coming alive yet again. The dewey sunlight fell against the wet glass. The loft was illuminated in soft golds as finally, morning began to unfurl. Red tangled hair poured out the hemming of the quilts as finally, a slender creature stretched upwards and rolled her shoulders. She scrunched her toes up against the cotton sheets, relishing in the warmth that protected her from the nip that seeped through the thin window panes. She hugged her silky slip close to her thin frame.
At nineteen years old, Rose Dawson had quite the glow to her person. It eminated from her skin as she russled her unruly hair, watching the condensation streak down the window panes. In one swoop, she grabbed her robe and hurriedly tied it around her body as she came to the windows. Furiously, Rose rubbed with her sleeve at the glass, gazing out at the winter wonderland that greeted her once again. Giddiness spread through her, like the first time she had seen real snow this time last year. In Philadelphia growing up, it had always been a mix of awful charcoal gray sludge. In the mountains of Colorado, in the peaceful unstirring morning, the snow beautifully coated the landscape, carved with nature's artistic touch.
Carefully, she navigated down the narrow and steep stairs that lead from the loft situated above the tight kitchen with a rather nice sitting room. Jack had already drawn the curtains to allow the first morning light to bathe the lounge area. He knew how much Rose wanted all of nature to invade their living space. Rose grinned when she saw the coffee kettle had been left with a low burn on the pilot. She brushed a dangling pothos from the loft ledge away from her face as she came into the narrow kitchen. Rose poured herself a cup of coffee, holding her face over the steam to fight off the chill. The deep aroma enticed her greatly. She didn't feel inclined to add cream or sugar- Rose simply divulged in the strong black coffee that simmered over the open flame. She sighed with content as she wandered towards the front door, flipping the curtain back from the dewey glass. Deep footsteps travelled away from the cabin.
Growing up in Chippewa Falls, Jack Dawson was relatively unaffected by the blistering winters of Colorado. He often bragged to his young bride that they were like a summer vacation compared to Wisconsin. Rose usually gave him incredulous looks during his bolstering as she lay huddled in quilts, nearly wanting to leap inside of the furnace. He had found promising work in Colorado. He worked in a facility that received scrap wood from deforestation projects. To reduce waste, they turned it into art. It certainly wasn't an art medium Jack was hesitant to jump into- he did so head first- and Rose admired that for him. She took up embroidery and needle work in the cold months. In the warmer months, she grew a small garden and had even been part of the local Market Days a few times. For the first time in a long time, Rose had been incredibly happy in that small cabin.
Rose headed towards the living room and grinned knowingly at each creak in the floor boards. As she crossed the large rectangluar threshold towards the lounge room, draped with tapestries, decorated with large velvet chairs, and covered in books and candles, a small chirrup caught her attention. Lounging on the short sill of the window was the elusive gray tabby Jack had spent days trying to coax out of some piping at work. When he finally managed to with a small bit of fish, he brought the cat home on his shoulders, and the couple delightfully referred to him as Tuna. Rose gave Tuna a gentle brush between the ears before she settled into a recliner, holding her mug against her chest. Every morning was so quiet and despite occupying the cabin for nearly thirteen months, Rose wasn't entirely used to it. She still expected to hear a car horn sound across the landscape. Or even the muted sounds of maids heels to the carpet, already raring to go for another fourteen hour shift in the DeWitt Bukater Estate. But there was none of that. Silence pentrated the window panes. Only the chime of the grandfather clock and Tuna's purrs resonated in the cozy cabin.
Rose gingerly sipped her coffee as she lounged backwards in the recliner. She wondered about what she would do that day. They needed a few things from the market, the basics like flour, eggs, tea bags, and rice, but the snow was tall that day. Rose was certain it was waist high. She wondered if Jack would find a miracle in the pantry for dinner if she didn't go to the market. He was quite good at turning nothing into something. Her eyes flittered across the lounge room. There was a new book about the history of Colorado Rose was interested in reading. A coworker had given it to Jack. But she pursed her lip following the thought. What about her needlework? She was painstakingly embroidering a Colorado landscape in fall, with bright bursting colors, and she wanted to give it to Jack for Christmas. That needed to be worked on, as well.
She was nearing the end of her coffee so she got up, her barefeet padding over the long, slightly crooked Persian rugs they had found at a cheap flea market. Rose headed back towards the kitchen, her robe drifting behind her slender legs. It was beginning to warm up in the house as the furnace slowly woke up with Jack's gentle nudge before his dark, cold walk to work. The golden sunlight drenched the narrow kitchen and Rose grinned as she poured the black coffee into her mug. Her blue eyes gazed out the dewey window at the still landscape surrounding her. Not even a stir. When she turned away from the stove, the sleeve of her robe sent a small folded notecard off the counter, catching Rose's attention. It had still been blue and dark in the kitchen when she first came down. Her eyes had missed it. Rose knelt down, plucking the card up and slowly unfurling it. It was Jack's beautiful handwriting.
Rose- I wanted to tell you this yesterday, but I didn't want to ruin the mood. I will have to work late tonight. There's a new school opening in Denver and they need wood scupltures for their building. I was hoping to be home with you to spend the holiday together. Remember last year when we made a ham instead of a turkey? And we used cranberries we saved from your garden to make sauce. Darling, those are my favorite times with you and I'm sorry we will only get to spend a few hour together in the evening of Thanksgiving. I know we never give much thought or planning to occasions like this... but somehow we manage to make it happen and every time, we create a new tradition. I love you, Rose. And I'll see you tonight.
Jack
Rose's eyes were glued to the sweet card for a few moments before her eyes suddenly shot up and her face contorted in utter shock and realization. "Oh shit," Rose whispered. "It's Thanksgiving." She slapped her hand to her forehead. "How could I forget?!" Rose was to her feet now. She carelessly disregarded the entire cup of coffee, draining it down the sink. She flung open cabinets and pantries and peaked into the ice box to see what they had.
She hauled a bag of potatoes to the counter. Only a few had the beginning sprouts from the skin. They would do. She saw asparagus in the ice chest. Not too wilted. She found some canned vegetables, too. Not ideal but she would use them. Altogether on the counter, however, it made for a poor vision of a Thanksgiving dinner.
Rose whirled upstairs in the next moment and stumbled about in the small loft as she put on three layers of garments to protect from the wind. She slid thick wool stockings up her legs. And she pulled a long brown leather jacket from the closet, slipping it around her thin frame. She wound a woolen cream scarf around her head, pressing her wild curls against her. She laced ankle boots on, finally, before collecting a few bags to go to the market a mile and a half away. She hoped it was open at least for the morning. She had no way to phone ahead and ask. With gloved hands, she locked the meager door on the cabin and braced herself as she stepped into the mountanous snow surrounding her house. It was hip high, thankfully. It still slowed her down as she skipped forward in the snow, breaking in the opposite direction as Jack's trail that morning. She glanced back at it, as if she would see Jack coming around the bend.
Overhead, the sky was brilliantly clear and bright blue. Faint, thin clouds drifted by. The wind was relatively minimal that morning. A large bird squawked overhead, spreading its wings and turning upwards into the cold, wet sun. Twigs and branches shook with small creatures darting about. Rose held her bags close as she hurdled through the snow. Her breathing rate had picked up as she foraged a path for herself. Even as she felt her stockings grow damp and cold, her leather jacket dripping, she couldn't help but think how lucky she was to even be here. She'd have it no other way. Rose Dawson was someone entirely new; a woman who had emerged from the darkness, who had been hidden away for years. But she was finally free to do what she wanted when she pleased. Her mother would persist, even probably to that day, that Rose had made a mistake. She had "crossed" her. But Rose Dawson didn't care. She grinned upwards into the cold, refreshing sky. It wasn't her burden to bear. She didn't belong in the concrete jungle of Pittsburgh or Philadelphia or New York City. She didn't deserve to be packed away in a museum sized house, left to wait on her dear husband for dinner. She'd only be brought out a few times a year, to be perched on an arm at a ball or a gala or a fundraising event. She would have been a nobody. A carved out human being. Destined to do nothing but bleach her teeth and tease her hair for the rest of her life.
Rose let it roll off her shoulders as she came to a crest in the hill. A forceful gust of wind greeted her and she nearly lost the scarf woven around her head. Hurriedly, Rose fumbled down the hill, relieved to see the trust corner store. If the snow had melted, the roads would have forked, creating the perfect little space for a general store to settle. She prayed beneath her breath as she hurried to it, like it was a beacon in a wasteland. Please be open, please be open. Rose cursed as she banged her knee into a fence post that was completely hidden in the snow. She plowed up the incline and nearly fell, catching herself on the doorknob. Cautiously, she turned it and it opened to a lit and warm place. Rose sighed in relief and shook as much snow off as she could before she came in, shutting the cold out. The bell echoed through the spacious and rather empty market. After a moment of rustling, a familiar elderly man came out from the back. He grinned as Rose pulled her scarf back and her windblown curls floofed in all directions.
"Mrs. Dawson, good morning and Happy Thanksgiving!"
"Thank you, Mr. Carter," Rose replied politely. He and his wife, Margaret, had started this little shop nearly twenty-five years ago. The shop was as stable as their marriage, Mr. Carter would often joke. He had a soft spot for making people happy. 'People Over Pennies' was his slogan. "I have the funniest thing to tell you," Rose stepped towards the counter and he arched his bushy eyebrows in anticipation.
"What's that?"
"I forgot it was Thanksgiving today, Mr. Carter," Rose told him. "It completely slipped my mind because Jack went to work, as usual. I'm in hot water if I can't find the last few good ingredients to make a proper Thanksgiving meal."
"Well," Mr. Carter shuffled his feet, glancing behind him at his wares. "What's at home in the pantry?"
"Not much," Rose admitted. "But I know what I'd like." She reached into her coat pocket and unfurled a small handwritten note. "Do you have cranberries or cranberry sauce?"
"Cranberries, no. No good way to get 'em here in the winter," Mr. Carter shook his head. He reached towards a shelf. "I got it in a can, though." Rose pursed her lips for a moment before she nodded in resignation. He thunked it on the counter.
"What about... oh, gravy powder?" Mr. Carter fetched it for her. "Cream? A box of rice? Eggs? Flour? Nutmeg?" All were brought to her. "Any kind of produce?"
Mr. Carter went towards the back part of the market, where it was a little chillier with a vented window and constant droning of fans. He came back with a wicker basket that didn't have much at all. Rose picked out a few radishes that didn't look bruised. Some parsley and basil. A head of lettuce with only a few wilted ends.
"What else, Mrs. Dawson?"
"Hmm... any stew bases left?"
"I got powder to make it taste like meat stew."
"Sure, I'll take that," Rose nodded, looking back to her list.
"Uh, Mrs. Dawson?" Mr. Carter looked over her arrangement on the counter. "Have you ever cooked a Thanksgiving meal yourself before?"
She blinked as she lowered her list, a rather dumbfounded look on her face. "No, sir."
After a moment, the elderly shopkeep grinned paternally, his eyes gleaming in the lighting. "Well, you seem smart as a whip, to be frank, ma'am. I'm certain you'll have no trouble at all figuring it out. But... don't you think you're missing the most important part?"
Slowly, Rose looked over the groceries she had gathered on the counter. "I thought it'd be useless to ask on the day of," Rose looked to him. "Do you actually have a turkey left?"
"Well," Mr. Carter placed his hands on his hips. "It's no turkey... it's actually a ham."
"I'll take it," Rose said without a moment of delay.
He went to fetch the large pink hunk of meat, placing it with the rest of her goods. "It will be a fine meal, I'm sure, Mrs. Dawson. Albeit, a little untraditional." Rose grinned. The word to define every aspect of the Dawson marriage. Mr. Carter helped Rose bag the groceries up into manageable bags to hoist around her shoulders. He then reached under the cabinet, placing a rather dusty cloth box on the counter infront of Rose. "Take this with you to help you today. It's Margaret's recipe box from generations back. Clever things in there, if you wanna give 'em a shot."
"Mr. Carter..." Rose said gently, taking the box into her hand. "Thank you. Is there a recipe in here that you recommend?"
"The ham glaze," Mr. Carter grinned fondly, as if memories of it were coming back to him. "You have everything you need in your bags."
Gingerly, she tucked it into the top of one of her bags. "Thank you. I'll bring it back promptly before the weekend is over."
"Happy Thanksgiving, Mrs. Dawson," Mr. Carter called as she headed for the exit. "Say hello to Jack for me!"
Rose grinned, gripping the doorknob. "I will. Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. Carter."
...
The trek home was even more back-breaking than the last. With the weight of all her ingredients, she sunk waist deep in the snow. She kept the ham pushed infront of her as she made the tiring mile and a half walk home. When she finally saw her little cabin come into view, she could only sigh with relief. As she kicked off her snow caked shoes in the lounge room, Tuna came and rubbed his face up against Rose's chilled cheek. With big curious green eyes, he hopped down to the ground and began poking his head into bags. Rose grinned, scooping the bags off and nearly dancing to the kitchen.
"Sorry, Tuna, none of this is for you!" She said as she arranged everything neatly along their small wood smoothed counters. She reached for the recipe box that Mr. Carter had so graciously given her. The small notecards inside were dainty and frail. Some of the pencil markings were smudged and faded. With delicate fingers, she sifted through the cards until she found the ham glaze. She lifted it towards the light, relieved it was still in fair condition. From the counter, lanking between all the groceries, Tuna chirruped at her again. "Maybe you can have some ham when it's done," Rose told him, giving him a curt pat on the head. "Let's hope I can do this without, Jack..."
1912
Rose rubbed her groggy eyes as she stumbled down the steep staircase from the loft. She yawned widely, her robe falling over her wiry shoulder. When she reached the bottom, she stopped in the archway of the kitchen that was concealed behind twisty pothos leaves. She blinked rapidly. Jack was already racing about the kitchen, fully dressed, with every counter top covered in pots, pans, utensils, and food of all kind. Rose glanced towards the grandfather clock on the wall. It was barely after nine in the morning. Carefully, she swished the vines from her path and entered the kitchen.
Jack glanced up, flicking his boyish hair from his forehead. He was dicing tomatoes at rapid speed, but grinned when he saw Rose in the kitchen. "Mornin', sleepyhead!" He quickly cleaned his knife and shuffled the diced tomatoes into a bowl with dices onions and pickles. "Want some coffee?"
"Please," Rose nodded, as she inspected what was happening in the kitchen. Jack went to the stove, pouring them both a fresh mug. He handed her the coffee and she paused before taking a sip. "Am I missing something? What's all the cooking for? Was there a community potluck I forgot about?"
"You're joking, right?" Jack laughed as the steam of the coffee licked up his prickly jaw. After he saw her unwavering look of expectedness, he paused. "Oh, you're being serious? Rose, it's Thanksgiving."
"Oh, is it really?" Rose glanced around the kitchen now, like it all made sense. "Oh my goodness, Jack, I'm so sorry. I forgot. I've never seen it in the making... I'm..."
"Rose, darling," Jack wrapped his arms around her with a big comforting smile. "That's why I'm up so early and doin' so much. It's a special day. It's our first Thanksgiving together and I want to show you how it's really done. The food on Thanksgiving tastes so much better when it's cooked with love."
She looked to him like she had stars in her eyes. The simple way he was able to take the smallest details and make them so meaningful resonated within Rose's being. He had a magical route to her heart. Rose looked at the counters again, looping her arms around Jack's neck.
"Well... what can I help do?"
Jack smiled, placing a big kiss on her cheek. He tossed her an apron and together they came to the counters. "How're your knife skills?" Jack asked. Rose looked to him with arched eyebrows. "Yeah, probably not a lot of experience there. Well, hey, I got a great task for you, then." Jack took her to the stove. "Follow this recipe on the back of the soup packet to make an onion stew. Measure, mix, and keep it stirring above the heat."
Rose grinned. "Got it, chef."
Together the two had fallen into rather harmonious beat around each other in the kitchen. They slid around one another, sometimes stealing kisses or a portion of the food they were working with. Laughs resonated against the cold dewey window panes. Jack eventually dragged the radio from the lounge room into the kitchen and as Rose waited for her stew to boil, they danced around each other like fools. Soon enough, Rose was peeling, cutting, and mashing potatoes. And she watched Jack tensely babysit the ham for the perfect cook. Rose bent over Jack's shoulder, peering into the oven with him.
"A ham, huh?" Rose asked. "I thought turkey was the normal thing."
"Well," Jack closed the oven door. "My family could never afford a turkey. We always had ham."
Rose grinned. "I've always opted for ham over turkey, anyway." He shared in that grin with her.
The day waned on rather quickly, and soon enough the sky was twisted in the colors of sherbert. Rose was surprised just how long everything took in the kitchen. In Thanksgiving's past, usually it was a large gala with a mixture of friends and family; mainly associates of Rose's father. The DeWitt Bukater's hosted every year until the patriarch's death. And usually sixty people attended. Rose couldn't believe how much she and Jack had slaved over a meal for two. On Thanksgiving in the past, Rose had never thought twice of how the meal had been prepped and delivered to her place at the table. She typically had to have her face waxed, eyebrows pruned, and nails painted in the hours leading up to the dinner. As she checked the consistency of the mashed potatoes with her sore arm, she shook away what she once knew.
"The ham's almost ready!" Jack declared, standing up from where he had been eyeing it. In the background, the jingles of festive holiday music rang out from the radio. "I've got one more surprise for our first Thanksgiving together."
"Another one?" Rose asked as he reached in the pantry. He extended two flute glasses out towards her, presenting a bottle of champagne. "Jack, where did you get this?" Rose grinned as she took the chilled bottle in her hand, admiring the foiled label.
"I got it in town," Jack grinned.
"Well," Rose sighed with smiling. "I'm certainly thankful for you, Jack."
"It goes double for me, too, darling." He leaned forward, meeting her lips firmly.
...
The window panes howled and creaked in the quiet cabin. Rose lifted her eyes from mashing potatoes, noticing the wind outside was picking up. Distantly, clouds were on the horizon. Rose twisted the masher in the bowl and sighed, rubbing her sore arm. She went to the lounge room and grabbed the small mahagony table with the radio. With some effort, Rose dragged it towards the kitchen and slowly adjusted the ears to find a station.
"... coal mine in Northern Colorado collapsed due to rotten infrastructure. It is suspected up to two-hundred are dead..."
Rose wandered back to the kitchen, dashing some salt in her potatoes and giving it another whisk. The sun was sinking away behind the mountains and Rose couldn't help but feel lonely that Thanksgiving. The dreadful news droning in the background. The quiet house with one lone person, mixing, dicing, and mashing all by their self. But she kept going on the chance she could capture even a fleeting half hour of the warmth and love they had drowned in last Thanksgiving. If she could make something memorable of it for Jack, it was worth it to her. Rose bent over, checking the stove. The ham was getting there. But it still had some time to go. Rose set the salad bowl beneath the window so it could stay chilly. She wiped her hands on a dish towel, falling against the counter. She gazed around the kitchen she had made an absolute mess of. She hoped Mr. Carter was right about her being able to figure out. She felt rather directionless in the moment.
Jack did a lot of the cooking in their household. And he really seemed to enjoy it. If people saw how the Dawson's operated behind closed doors, their names would never leave the eternally spinning rumor mill. Rose could only curse the life she had grown up in. She knew absolutely nothing of importance. How she craved to be as knowledgeable and worldly as Jack. Slowly, but surely, Jack was helping undo all the nonsense wrapped up in her mind. She was feeling more confident by the day and she felt the rose colored shades fading away.
Rose checked the ham again and sighed, her confidence slightly wavering. What if the glaze was too much? Was if the ham came out raw? Even worse, what if it was dry? Rose was in over her head, she was convinced. In the next moment, a softness brushed against her with sweet little chirrups. Rose lifted her head, greeted by two wide open green eyes that searched her face.
"Oh, Tuna, I wish you could talk," Rose told him as she tickled beneath his chin. "You would tell me if I was going about this all wrong, wouldn't you?"
Rose walked around the kitchen. A veggie salad with not the best or many of produce, but it was something. Boiled asaparagus. Garlic mashed potatoes. Bread crumb stuffing. Rose wrung her hands. And hopefully a delicious ham. She checked the faux meat stew boiling on the stove and gave the thick browning gravy a whisk. She could only hope it all tasted good. She was jumping in absolutely blind. Rose crossed her arms over her chest, nearly spinning in circles in her kitchen.
"... Denver, Colorado can expect a snowstorm to blow in through the middle of the night. To the residents of Denver, keep your sink faucets running if you'd like your pipes to keep working."
Rose glanced towards the radio. She figured Denver would be buried that year with the amount of snow they were receiving. Compulsively, Rose checked the ham again and sighed in frustration. It's not like it would tell her it was finished by holding up a little sign. She felt like nothing was changing. Rose gripped the warm oven handle, lowering her head. She imagined right at the moment, her mother was most likely sitting down to a fine meal with her new husband's lavish family. Joshua Banks. And boy, did he live up to his name. They were probably gathered in their dining hall with dedacdent little treats, carved intricately for only a moment of observation. And there wasn't a narry a thought to the food. It always lead to what was happening on the curbsides. Rose ground her teeth together. Eighteen years down the drain. But this wasn't the hill she wanted to die on, laying side by side with a dry ham.
Rose closed her eyes, knelt before the oven. "Please cook, please cook... Whatever Ham Gods are listening, please show some mercy. I just want to do this one thing right... even if all the rest is wrong."
"I think the Ham Gods answered your prayers."
Rose whirled to her feet, her cheeks burning intensly. Standing in the archway of the kitchen, still clad in snow dusted winter gear, was Jack. He was grinning in his boyish crooked fashion, his sandy blond bangs windblow across his face. A backpack dangled off one of his shoulders as he looked around the kitchen.
"Rose, have you been in the kitchen all day?" Jack asked, pulling his woolen hat from his head. Sheepishly, she nodded. "You did all of this for me?"
"You made Thanksgiving so wonderful last year. I wanted to try to do the same for you," Rose twiddled her apron tails in her fingers. "Though, to be honest, I had no idea what the hell I was doing."
Jack set his backpack on the counter and wandered around the kitchen. Rose was hot on his heels as he looked over the plates with gentle ease, his smile never faltering. He stirred the ladel through the gravy before taking a curt sip. He smacked his lips together and refrained his best from recoiling.
"What's wrong with it?" Rose asked.
"A little too much flour," Jack told her. "Has a kind of... glue consistency." They looked to each other and in the next moment, they both began to break into laughs.
"This is going to be a disaster," Rose grinned. "Try the meat stew"
Jack turned on the pot and took a slow sip. He took another before furrowing his brow. "It tastes like meat but there's literally nothing in it. It's just broth."
"Oh, I can't call it a meat stew, then, can I?" Again, they shared a laughed and Jack wandered over to the salad.
"Well, it certainly looks like a winter Colorado salad," Jack nodded, inspecting a slice of raddish.
"Maybe try this?" Rose held up a bowl of jiggly cranberry sauce. Carefully, Jack used a spoon to take a small piece. He smacked his lips together and grinned. Rose was already holding in the laugh as he swallowed.
"Tastes like a tin can," And again, laughter resounded off the window panes.
Rose sighed, her shoulders still bobbing with laughter, as she slid the jiggly sauce back onto the counter. "Alright, so everything is terrible. That only leaves the ham." Jack removed it from the oven and looked over the shiny skin. "Mr. Carter gave me a recipe box and I made a Carter Family Garlic Glaze for the ham."
"Well," Jack looped his arms around Rose's waist, tugging her against him. "There's a reason you're a Dawson, darling. You can cook a hell of a ham. It's perfect, Rose."
Rose's blue eyes lit up. "Really? I did it?!"
Jack dipped down, pressing his warm lips to her's. "You did it."
"Throw everything else out," Rose told him, gazing around the kitchen from his arms. "Throw it all in the trash."
Jack's husky laugh resounded against the walls of the narrow room. Rose just about melted in his arms. "Well, hold on," He said between his chuckles. He went to his backpack and rustled about in it. "We can still eat some of it after a few glasses of our traditional champagne." He revealed the bottle from his bag and Rose felt her eyes grow wet. He poured the bubbly bronze drink into the flute glasses used only once a year. As the foam threatened to spill over the top, Jack held the glass out to Rose with his radiant smile and wind tossled hair. "Happy Thanksgiving, Rose. I'm thankful for you."