Her Christmas Legacy

Scars

"Hey Marge, Rebecca, Tim. Sorry we're running a little late. We had a minor crisis to avert at Bob and Jill's."

"No problem," said Tim, the only male volunteer awaiting us in the circular driveway of the Hound and Sparrow Inn. He started unloading boxes before either myself or Jordan got out of the truck.

"Well, I there's at least no problem with you being late," said a young woman with dark curly hair and a toothy smile, "but do we have a problem with the food?" Tim passed over a turkey, which the young woman then handed to a middle-aged woman with wavy brown hair and a hardened face. Then the young woman took the second turkey from Tim to carry herself.

"Thankfully not," said Jordan, who hopped up into the bed of the truck and passed boxes down to Tim. "Lyn here is going to save the day." He paused for a moment to gesture towards me as I stood some distance from the others. As much as I wanted to grab a box and get things moving along, I didn't actually know where the kitchen was.

"Oh?" asked Tim, casting me a glance over his shoulder while he took another package from Jordan.

"Apparently, the pies are on back order, but unlike Gina, her grandniece apparently knows how to bake."

"That's great!" The young woman shifted the weight of the turkey in her arms so she could offer her hand in greeting. "Hi, I'm Rebecca, this is only my second year doing this, so I'm kind of new, too."

"Hi." I took her hand for a second before spotting my box of baking ingredients. "Shouldn't we get those birds inside?" I snatched up the box and then turned my gaze to Rebecca and Marge.

"Sorry," sighed Jordan, "she's lacking Gina's disposition."

"Well, I don't see a fault in that right now," said Marge in a rough, low timbre. "We need to get started. We're already running behind."

I tossed Jordan a victorious smirk before following Marge's march towards the house. Rebecca came quick upon our heels. With the older woman leading the way, we made it to the kitchen and began unloading the night's dinner.

Marge, I learned—thanks to Rebecca's running commentary and not from Marge herself—was the chef and owner of a local restaurant specializing in comfort food. Rebecca joked Marge was only this stern and quiet while she's working and that she was capable of comfort when she's not in front of a stove. I, however, ignored her two cents. Of all the people I'd met so far, Marge's silent, stoic determination was a treasure.

That's not to say I didn't appreciate Rebecca's incessant talk of the town. While Tim peeled potatoes, Jordan set the table, Marge cleaned green beans, and I folded pastry dough, Rebecca took it upon herself to detail every little thing I may have ever wanted to know about Hereford Hills and the trio of volunteers that had arrived to spread some Thanksgiving cheer.

Apparently, Marge had been a waitress vying for a spot as a line order cook back in the eighties when she started helping my aunt with this Thanksgiving tradition. Tim, a store manager by day and karaoke fiend by night, had become friends with Georgina sometime in the mid-nineties and though he isn't much of a cook, he always enjoyed coming over to do what he could. Rebecca, however, was a sophomore in a small college close to town. She was home for the holidays and simply enjoyed helping others. She admitted she was studying hospitality services in school and had hoped volunteering with Gina might eventually lead to her employment at the Hound and Sparrow. Especially since she knew the day-to-day chores were wearing down my aunt.

"I suppose there's no hope in that now," she sighed as she sliced up apples for one of my pies. "With Jordan's help, I'm sure the two of you can handle this place just fine without hiring on an additional hand."

Jordan peeked around the corner from the dining room and then sauntered in at the sound of his name. As Rebecca lamented her lost opportunity, he cast his eyes over to me, daring me to offer that hostess position right then and there. I, however, broke his gaze and made my way to the refrigerator to get my dough chilling for the next few hours. Although Rebecca's droning on would have sent me through the roof, I wouldn't have been around to hear it if I hired her. So my disinterest in offering her the job was nothing personal.

The problem was I valued a good education. My grandmother insisted on her deathbed that I not fall back into that pit of misery once she passed. If I dropped out of school, who knew if I could find my way back. I had no marketable trade skills, so my only hope for supporting myself was to get a degree in a competitive field and never let go. I wouldn't allow Rebecca to risk her education for a job that would very likely disappear in a few months when a new owner took over.

"Still, there are lots of inns around here," she continued with a sigh. I glanced over to Jordan, whose brow raised with interest and his lips quirked into a smirk before setting to work husking the corn. The rest of the kitchen kept on, ignorant to our silent stand off. "I just loved Christmas at this place, so it has always been my top choice. I suppose I could go to the Snow Stag resort. They have big displays too, but they kind of lack the heart Georgina had..."

"Thank you for taking care of the apples." I grabbed Rebecca's bowl full of sliced fruit and sat it next to my pot, which was already melting some butter. "Could you grab me cinnamon and sugar?"

"Sure thing," she said with a cheery bounce to her voice. "So I have to ask, where did you learn to bake? Gina always bought her breakfast pastries from Derrick's bakery. She couldn't even make a cake out of a box without burning it. Must have got the talent from the other side of your family, huh?"

"I learned from my grandmother," I answered, dumping the apples in and mixing it with the sugar, cinnamon and water. "She was married to Georgina's brother. We would make pies together every year for the holidays."

"That's a lovely tradition to have." She leaned against a nearby cabinet and watched how I stirred the pot.

"It was, but my grandmother died seven years ago and she was the last family I had since my parents died when I was four. As far as I was aware, there was no one left to keep the tradition with."

I didn't realize how noisy the kitchen was until everyone stopped working. No more rasps of corn husks, thuds of a knife against a cutting board, or scraping of a spoon against a bowl. Now only the hum of the dual ovens and whir of the refrigerator filled the space.

"I'm... I'm sorry, I didn't..."

"No reason to be sorry. I still seem to remember how to do it." My words cut through the silence with mechanical precision. "If you want to learn, I'll show you." I handed her my spoon and stepped away from the stovetop. "Just keep stirring occasionally for another five minutes. Turn off the heat and let it sit. You will need to mix some cornstarch with water and then pour it in. Make sure you stir it in good so there's consistency in the thickness."

"Oh, okay." Rebecca gave the pot a lazy stir as she bit her lower lip. "Listen, if you need..."

"I'm going to check on how Jordan did the table settings. Might be good to know for later." I headed out of the kitchen and into the dining room.

I knew exactly what they were thinking. The same thing everyone thought about whenever I stepped away after mentioning my history. They'd give each other a look, wondering if anyone should go comfort me because I must be crying my eyes out. Really, though, it was just too awkward to hang around. It was easier to let them think I was coping out in another room so they could rally their spirits and pretend nothing happened once I came back.

I didn't want to take part in that dance routine anymore. At some point, a scar is simply a scar and nothing more. The wound had healed and, though a shadow of it remained, it was just as much a part of my body as any other piece of me. I'll never be able to make it go away, but I could accept it as a part of who I am. The problem was making everyone else do the same.