Chapter 1

    "Are you moving in?"  When I open the door, she's
    standing there with what must be half of her apartment
    in tow.  Not that I would necessarily have a problem
    with her moving in, you understand.  It would certainly
    make the whole me-telling-her-how-I-feel thing a much
    simpler prospect.  Did I mention I'm nervous about
    that?  Yeah, I am.  

    "Very funny.  It's all stuff we need for dinner.  Take
    this."  She shoves some cylindrical-appliance-looking
    contraption in my hands, picks up a box from the floor,
    and walks past me through the door.

    "What is it?"

    "It's a crock pot," she states as she begins to divest
    herself of the myriad of belongings that she's carted
    over to my house this morning.

    "Are we making crock?"

    Hey, that was funny.  But she doesn’t even react, let
    alone laugh.  I think I should get points, or at least a
    courtesy smile, for being able to crack a joke at 6:30 in
    the morning. You heard me; she's here at SIX – THIRTY
    in the morning.  On our day off!   Not that I would
    complain that she was here at 6:30, had she, say, spent
    the night… with me. And, yes, I suggested it last night
    and, yes, she just blew the suggestion off while
    explaining that cooking Thanksgiving is pretty much an
    all-day thing.  I did not know that.  All those years, I
    didn't realize that my mom was up cooking at the crack
    of dawn while I was sleeping in.  I definitely owe my
    mom a phone call today.  But right now my attention is
    captured by something else.

    "You need an overnight bag for dinner?"  I ask, eyeing
    her things suspiciously, most of which are now lying
    scattered around my front door.

    "No, I needed an overnight bag for later," she answers
    as she kicks off her snow-covered boots and hangs up
    her coat. As I watch her, I note with a slight tugging
    sensation in my chest that even at 6:30 in the morning,
    with no make-up and her hair in a ponytail, she is
    absolutely beautiful.  I really hope that someday soon
    she'll be at my house at half past six in the morning for
    reasons… well, for reasons other than early cooking.  

    "The clothes that I cook in will undoubtedly be a mess
    by the time dinner rolls around… especially with you
    helping-"

    "What do you mean, especially with me helping?"  I
    interrupt as I follow her into the kitchen and set the
    crock pot down on the counter.

    Now she laughs… frankly, a little excessively.  "Nothing,
    I meant nothing.  I certainly didn't mean you have a
    tendency to create a mess wherever you go.  And I'm
    certainly not alluding to the condition I found my
    kitchen in after you tried to make pancakes."  

    Donna ignores the scowl I'm giving her and just keeps
    talking.  She's good at that.  "When it gets close, I'll
    have to shower here and then dress for dinner."

    A shower. Of course she's going to shower here.  More
    naked-Donna-bathing at my house.  This woman is
    going to kill me yet.  "We have to dress for dinner?"

    She's walked back into the living room from setting
    some more items in our kitchen… I mean, my kitchen.
    "Yes, we have to be dressed for dinner.  I realize you're
    obsessed with naked people, but this is not going to be a
    soft-core Thanksgiving.  There will be no nude dining
    here today."

    Nude dining with Donna, now that is interesting.  "I
    don't know… a nude Thanksgiving doesn't sound so bad
    to me."

    She shoots me an inquisitive look.  "With guests?  You
    want to eat naked while sitting next to Toby?"

    Talk about a bucket of cold water.  That image does the
    trick. No more talk of naked holidays from me.  Except,
    it suddenly hits me that the only objection she seemed
    to have to nude dining is that we have guests coming…
    interesting.  "So if we didn't have guests, you'd think
    about it? Because I can make a call…"

    "Josh…"  She just groaned at me.

    I snicker at the cute expression on her face.  She's
    already exasperated with me and it's only 6:35 in the
    morning. It's going to be a fun day.   "You're the one
    who brought up naked people in the first place. You
    knew what I meant; why do we have to dress up for
    dinner?"

    "Because it's a special occasion. It's what you do on
    special occasions.  Don't worry; I brought you something
    to wear."

    She what?  "You did?"   I'm sure I look as confused as I
    feel.  She brought me something to wear?  We're at my
    apartment.  All of my clothes are here.  Did she go
    shopping?  But I dutifully follow her back to her bags at
    the door, and that's when a terrifying image hits me.  I
    stop in my tracks.  "It's not some sort of festive vest, is
    it?  Because I won't wear a festive vest."

    She stops as well and turns to face me with a bemused
    expression. "Festive vest?"

    "Yeah, you know, something colorful with sequins and
    glitter out of the Siegfried and Roy holiday collection."  
    I'm still shaking my head with trepidation.

    "Josh, it's too early.  What are you talking about?"

    I just lift an eyebrow at her.  She knows what I'm
    talking about.  There's a picture.  I've seen it in her
    apartment.  It's of her whole family and her dad has on,
    I'm not kidding you, a festive Thanksgiving vest.

    It takes her a second, and then I see understanding pass
    across her features and she rolls her eyes to the
    ceiling.  "It was 1981, Josh… and there were only a
    couple of sequins… on the pilgrim's hat and buckles."  
    She motions to her own chest as if she were wearing the
    vest herself.  "My dad only wore it because I picked it
    out and gave it to him."

    "Exactly my point. You picked it out. And you gave it to
    him.  So when you say you brought me something to
    wear on Thanksgiving, what am I to think, but-"

    "I was eight!" she exclaims loudly.  I just cock my head
    at her and she turns back to her bag.  "I didn't bring you
    a festive holiday vest."

    I breathe a sigh of relief.  That was a close one,
    because, believe it or not, I might just be far enough
    gone to wear a vest, if she asked me to.  "What did you
    bring me then?"

    She reaches into her overnight bag and then holds up
    my favorite sweater.

    "My sweater."

    "Your favorite sweater."

    "It's not my favorite.  I don't play favorites with my
    clothing.  That's something Sam would do, not me.  Why
    do you have my sweater?"

    "You already admitted to me in the hospital that it was
    your favorite sweater."  I did?  I must have been really
    rattled by her accident to say such a thing.  "You
    remember the hospital, Josh?  I fell off a horse. That's
    when you loaned it to me." She bites her lip and if I'm
    not mistaken, turns slightly pink.  It's hard to tell since
    she just came in from the cold. I nod my head.
    Obviously I remember the hospital and I remember
    giving her my sweater; how could I forget?  Okay,
    maybe I forgot she still had my sweater, but I
    remembered everything else.  "I had it cleaned… so you
    can wear it today if you want."

    "I can?"  

    "Sure, why not?"

    "Well, when you said dress for dinner, I was picturing
    something more formal like…"

    "Like what?  A ceremonial festive vest?  Don't tell me
    that you secretly wanted to wear the vest and are now
    disappointed that I didn't bring you one," she asks with
    a mischievous quirk of her lip.

    "No, I wasn't picturing a festive vest until you told me
    you brought me something to wear. Before that I
    thought you meant dressy, like…"

    "Like what?"

    "I don't know, like black tie."

    Now, Donna is just outright giggling at me as she leads
    us back to the kitchen.  "You thought we were going to
    dress in formalwear to have dinner with CJ and Toby in
    your dining room?"

    Isn't that what 'dressing' for dinner means?  I shrug.  
    "You said it was a special occasion."  

    "Yes, a special occasion… a holiday with friends, not a
    State Dinner.  You can wear this black sweater and any
    pants that aren't jeans.  That's special enough."

    "Oh…"  

    "What?"  She eyes me curiously

    "I was looking forward to you in something low-cut that
    maybe, I don’t know, showed a little leg.  I suppose if
    I'm not in a tuxedo… then you won't be wearing that,
    either?"  That was me flirting with her.  Did you get
    that?  Do you think she got it?  I mean, I even wagged
    my eyebrows and everything.

    She just rolled her eyes at me.  Is rolling the eyes good
    or bad in this case?  I'm not sure if she got the flirting
    vibe I was sending or not, because now she's back to
    business. "We need to get to work if we're going to have
    dinner at two."

    "I'm all yours.  Do with me what you wish."  Just for the
    record, that was also flirting.  I decided last night,
    during the movie, that since I know this is the woman I
    want to spend the rest of my life with, that I should
    probably start laying it on a little thicker.  Maybe that
    way she'll notice and make my job of actually telling her
    easier.  Or, you know, just do it for me.

    "Let's see…" She's started taking things out of boxes and
    bags and laying everything out on the counters.  
    "…while I tackle the turkey, why don't you get the china
    out?"  

    "China?"  I furrow my brow to the point where I'm sure
    they are knitted together.  "Did you bring china?"

    "Nope."

    "Then what are you talking about?  I don't have china.  I
    have plates.  Plain white plates.  And they're right in
    that kitchen cabinet there."

    "You have china, Josh. And since this is a special
    occasion, if you have it, we're going to use it."  

    "I don't think so."  Is she crazy?  The mere notion is
    ridiculous.  "I'm a single guy.  Why would I have some
    frilly china?"

    "Your mother says your grandmother's china is in a blue
    crate in your storage area in the basement of the
    building. She says she packed it and put it there herself
    when she moved out of the house in Connecticut."

    "She told you all this yesterday…"

    "Yes."

    "Why would she have brought china here?  I don't want
    or use china."

    She's shaking her head at me.  "True.  But your
    grandmother left it to you and as unlikely a scenario as
    it seems…"  She's grinning broadly as she talks, even
    though she's looking down at the sink where she's
    unwrapped the turkey, "…one day you might actually
    find some lonely woman who, shockingly, is willing to
    marry you.  Obviously this woman will be slightly insane
    and not a little desperate, but she'll be thrilled you have
    china and then you'll have a use for it."

    When she glances up at me, it's with a self-satisfied
    smirk. I just smirk back at her in a very adult manner
    and announce that I'm going to the basement.  To look
    for my china.

    Someday I might find some woman willing to marry
    me?  Was that an insult?  Just wait until she finds out
    that she's the slightly-insane, obviously-desperate
    woman I have in mind for the job!  Should I just say it?  
    Go right back up to my kitchen and announce at 6:45am
    on Thanksgiving that she's the one. Ask her to marry
    me?  

    No? You're right, probably not a good idea.  First, it's a
    little too soon for that.  We still haven't kissed yet.  And
    if I polled a hundred people, I think I'd get a high
    positive response that you should kiss a woman before
    you ask her to marry you. But I'm not sure, because if
    you polled a hundred Joshs you'd get a high positive
    response that it's not necessary to have kissed a woman
    in order to know that you're in love with her and want
    to spend the rest of your life with her.  And if I
    proposed, I think we'd get to the kissing part really
    fast… if, of course, she said yes. But that's kind of a big
    if.  Hmmm… if I called Joey Lucas, do you think she
    could put a poll in the field and have hard numbers for
    me by dinner?   Yeah, probably not.  Besides, kissing
    isn't the only problem.

    Prior to a proposal, I'm thinking that two people
    probably should have at least gone on a date.  Although,
    I'd argue that last night at the movies was date-like.  
    Don't you think?  I mean, I asked her to a movie.  I
    drove us to the movie.  I paid for everything.  There was
    sharing of popcorn.  And I flirted with her during the
    movie.  And at the end of the evening I drove her
    home.  Walks like a date, talks like a date… it's a date!  
    You think both parties have to know it's a date, before it
    can be considered a date?  Well, that's a stupid rule.

    Besides, that's not all.  When I took her to Fat Phil's
    after Eric the affianced exterminator cancelled on her,
    that was date-esque.  What about bringing her Sweetest
    Day presents?  That's something a boyfriend would do.  
    And just a couple of weeks ago we had a nice cozy
    evening watching movies at my place.  Of course we
    were watching porn, but it was nice all the same.  My
    point is that even though we haven't dated, we've dated.

    In any case, I know it's too soon to propose and I know
    it's too soon to tell her that I love her.  So today, my
    mission is to flirt.  I'll just continue on with my flirting
    plan for now and see if she catches on.   By the way… is
    it true that having my grandmother's china makes me
    more of a chick magnet?  Is that something I should
    have been advertising all these years?

    ***

    "Do I have to peel the whole potato?  Or can I, you
    know, just get the highlights?"  

    He was assigned potato duty just moments ago after I
    found him in the living room watching the Macy's
    Thanksgiving Day Parade.  He claimed he was watching
    for the Kermit the Frog balloon so that *I* wouldn't
    miss it.  I think he was just dodging the cooking, but we
    still agreed to turn up the sound so we could hear the
    parade, and Kermit's appearance, from the kitchen.  

    "How do you just get the highlights?" I ask, the
    amusement plain in my voice.  He holds up the potato
    for my inspection.  The majority of the potato is peeled,
    save for several haphazard strips.  I don't even know
    exactly how he missed them; poor guy has zero potato-
    peeling technique.  

    I press my lips together to keep from laughing and
    shake my head. "The whole potato, Josh."

    "You're tough.  You're like the Iron Chef."

    "Do you even know who the Iron Chef is?"

    "Nope, but he/she sounds tough."

    "You'll thank me when the mashed potatoes don't have
    skins in 'em… and I'm not tough."  I shake my head, but
    grin while I do it.

    "You are, you're a… a taskmaster.  A Thanksgiving
    taskmaster.  What will you do to punish me if I don't
    peel fast enough?"

    "Get my whip," I deadpan and go back to dicing.

    "Okay, but only if you promise to use it."  His eyes
    sparkle as he arches his brow at me and then goes back
    to peeling.  What was that?

    Would you think I was crazy if I told you that Josh has
    been flirting with me all morning?  I mean FLIRTING,
    with a capital FLIRT.  At least, I think he has been.  
    Sometimes it's hard to tell, because Josh is a flirt by
    nature, but I know him.  This is different. And it's not
    just this morning.  Over the last few months, well, really
    all fall, things have been different with us.  A little more
    intense, a little more intimate.  And now a little more
    flirty.

    Well, two can play at that game.  I walk over to where
    he's sitting sideways on a kitchen chair, leaning forward,
    peeling potatoes into a paper grocery sack on the floor.  
    Only a couple errant peels have been flung and are now
    stuck to the kitchen tile, so he hasn't been missing his
    target too badly.  Standing behind him, I lean down and
    reach my arms around him, so that I'm covering each of
    his hands with my own.  I grab his wrists in order to
    stop his peeling movement, which was probably
    unnecessary because I think he froze the second he felt
    me lean over him in the first place.  Yup, he's frozen; in
    fact, I'm a tad concerned… he may not be breathing at
    all.

    My cheek is just grazing his temple and I can't help but
    notice how warm and cozy it feels to be wrapped around
    him.  Finally I feel, rather than hear, him exhale and he
    turns his head just slightly so more of his cheek is flush
    against mine.  That feels… really, really nice.

    "Like this."  After taking a deep, calming breath, I grip
    his hands tightly and show him how to peel the potato
    from end to end in long, wide strokes.  I can feel my
    heart thumping in my chest. Why is it thumping?  We're
    just cooking!  Yeah, I know… I know why it's thumping;
    it's just that if I'd realized I was going to have this
    strong of a physical reaction to just being near him, I
    might have re-thought this little peeling demonstration.  
    Because my chest is pressed tight up against his back
    and that probably means he can feel my heart thump,
    too.  Kind of a dead giveaway, isn't it?

    "Got it?" My voice is a little hoarse as we finish peeling
    one potato.  I've got to tell you, I don't think peeling
    potatoes has ever elevated my heart rate or made me
    lose my voice before.  I guess there's always a first time
    for everything.

    "Um…"  His voice is a little breathy.  Is this having an
    effect on him as well?  "I don't think so, we better try
    another one."  He reaches over and picks up a potato
    and even though I can't really see his face all that well,
    I know he's wearing a big, cheesy, dimpled grin.

    His quip and suggestive tone immediately snap me back
    to reality.  And I hastily stand all the way back up.  
    Immediately, I miss his warmth… and the feel of his
    broad shoulders pressed underneath my chest… and the
    way his hair lightly tickled my earlobe… and the tingle I
    felt in my palms when I touched his skin… but these are
    all things I'm not going to feed his ego with right now.

    "No… I've, uh… got some… uh… cooking to do, so
    you're… uh… on your own." How does that work?  I try
    to give him a little of his own medicine, and he still ends
    up turning me into an incoherent babbler.  What am I
    doing?  This is my boss! Even if I've realized that my
    feelings go deeper than that, there needs to be some
    distinct line between us.  I can't go draping myself over
    him, doing some sort of sexy potato peeling dance!  
    That's not appropriate!  I walk towards the sink, trying
    to look like I have a purpose while I struggle to
    remember what I'm supposed to be doing.  Stuffing!  I
    was working on stuffing.

    Suddenly, I realize that Josh is saying my name.
    "Huh?"   Apparently, he's been talking to me while I was
    attempting to remember what I was doing.  "Sorry, what
    did you say?"

    "I asked how everything else is coming."  Cripes, he's
    still wearing the same gigantic, cheesy grin from a few
    minutes ago.  It's awfully cute.  And the fact that he's
    wearing it after whatever it is that just happened makes
    me feel a little warm and gooey on the inside.

    "Oh… oh."  Thanksgiving, right.  I'm cooking
    Thanksgiving, I remember. "Good.  I think we're on
    schedule.  Stuffing is looking good."

    He's watching me, and now his expression has gone
    from goofy to perplexed.  "I thought stuffing was
    supposed to be stuffed and cooked, you know, inside the
    turkey?"

    "How do you know it's not?"  I take a deep breath and
    swallow hard.  Talking about the cooking. Excellent.  
    That is a good, safe topic.

    "Because the turkey is already in the oven and you're
    still making the stuffing. Do you put it in later?  How
    does it work?" One thing I know for certain is that Josh
    doesn't really want to be acquainted with the intricacies
    of how stuffing is made.  I know him well enough to
    realize this.  When I seasoned the stuffing with the
    turkey's… uh… parts this morning, I made sure he was
    not in the room.  

    "Okay, you caught me. I suppose some people cook it in
    the turkey.  But that was the one thing my mom and
    Grandma Moss agreed on.  Easier to bake it in a pan and
    then put it in the crock pot."

    "Crock pot!?"  Okay, he said that very loudly.  I look
    over at him in question.  "That's what the crock pot is
    for? Oh, I see what's going on…"  Now Josh is shooting
    me an accusatory look.  He manages this while still
    smiling, because he's that good.  But don't worry, he's
    also still on task. Still peeling the potatoes, just like I
    touched him, I mean *taught* him.

    I might be blushing.  But I'm going to blame it on the
    heat from the oven. Not on the heat from… anything
    else.  "You see what's going on?"  Does he know he
    made me overheat?

    "Well, if it's not stuffed into the turkey, then it's not
    really stuffing, is it? At least that's what the President
    said over and over and over again on Monday."  I spot
    the gleam in his eye.  "Is this a Canadian thing?  The
    President was also complaining about a guest chef from
    Montreal who didn't believe in stuffing birds."

    "What?"  I stop what I’m doing and put my hand on my
    hip.

    "Is this your way of showing solidarity with your
    homeland today?"

    "It's not my homeland.  But, if I was showing solidarity
    with Canada today, then I'd probably be at work like any
    other Thursday, seeing as Canadian Thanksgiving takes
    place on a Monday in October."

    "Ah-ha!"  He points the potato peeler at me.  "Just the
    fact that you know that, proves my point."

    "What point?"

    "That you're cooking the stuffing the wrong way.  The
    un-American way."  

    Leaning over the counter, I rest my weight on my hands
    while shooting him what I like to call my 'warning
    glare.'   It includes narrowed eyes and a pronounced
    frown. He is *this* close to me telling him the actual
    ingredients that go into stuffing.   "And who says the
    way I'm cooking the stuffing is the wrong way?"  

    "I… not me?"  His eyes go wide. Apparently, he's
    heeding my warning glare.  "No matter what the
    President of the United States of America says… uh, the
    right way to cook stuffing is whatever way you are
    currently doing it."

    "Good answer."  I look up at him with a smirk. "You
    were this close to me leaving this entire kitchen for you
    to clean up by yourself."  I hold up my thumb and index
    finger in demonstration and then squeeze them even
    tighter together when I add, "And this close to me not
    making your favorite."

    "What favorite?"

    "Your mom's very special green bean casserole."  I
    watch his face twist into an expression I can't quite
    read.  I decide it must be joy.

    ***

    "COMING!"  I holler when I hear the second knock.  
    Pulling my sweater over my head, I quickly make my
    way towards my front door.  I'm fully dressed, but just
    barely, since Donna showered first and I've only been
    out for about five minutes or so.  Even so, I'm still
    quicker than she is.  She made some crack about her
    needing more time because she actually has hair.  It
    wasn't funny.  And I'll have you know that I have hair,
    so much hair that it's even still wet.  A little.

    We took it to the very last minute, but we're in good
    shape for dinner and we got the kitchen pretty well
    cleaned up.  Turns out, Donna and I are a pretty messy
    cooking team.  And yes, I was part of the team. Not
    counting when I was watching for Kermit.  Donna likes
    Kermit; I just wanted to make sure she didn't miss him.  
    Okay… I was also hiding from the work, but while I was
    hiding from the work, I was simultaneously watching for
    Kermit.  

    Besides peeling potatoes and setting the table, I was
    also put in charge of something that had to do with
    yams.  Even though I'm not really sure what I did to the
    yams, I boldly predict that yams are going to be the big
    winner today.

    When I open the door, I find Toby’s and CJ's smiling
    faces. Well, CJ's smiling face.  Toby has his... well, his
    Toby face on.  

    After I greet them and motion them in, CJ looks around
    me, but doesn't enter.  "Where's Donna?"

    "She'll be out in a minute.  She's just getting dressed."

    I saw that!  CJ just shot Toby an inquiring, what-the-
    hell-is-going-on-here look.  I better explain.   "Things
    got a little messy during the cooking, and she didn't
    have time to go home and shower."

    "Ahhh…"  CJ nods her head and holds out a large, fancy
    paper bag to me.  "I come bearing pie."

    Toby motions with his chin down to his much less fancy,
    but also large, brown paper bag and mumbles, "And I
    come bearing booze."

    "Excellent."  I take the bag from CJ and look inside. "You
    mean pies."

    "Yes, pies."

    "CJ, you do know that it's just the four of us, don't you?"

    "Four?  Are you sure?"  CJ asks with doubt in her voice.

    "Yes, there are just four of us.  And you brought…"  I
    glance back in the bag, "Four pies! Did you think we
    each were going to need our own pie?"

    "Variety, Josh. We've got pumpkin, pecan, chocolate,
    and mincemeat. Something for everyone."  I make a
    face when I hear the word mincemeat. What the hell is
    mincemeat anyway, and who would want to eat it?    
    "And besides I'm pretty positive that there will be more
    than four for dinner."

    "I don't think so.  Donna said…"  I look back up from the
    bag of pies and see three, not two, people standing in
    my hall.  

    A familiar voice asks, "Room at the table for one more?"

    TBC…
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