Harriet wailed into the wind. She wailed for the father she had lost. She wailed for Sam, so young his memories of his grandpa were doomed to fade until they were as insubstantial as the incoherent words the wind snatched from her lips. Most importantly, she wailed for herself and the irresistible urge to bake scorching through her veins, the same urge that had killed her father.

Strong arms wrapped her in an embrace. "It's not your fault, babe," Frank said.

Harriet buried her head in his shoulder. What a pair they were, sitting on the cold pavement. Frank stroked her back gently while making soft shushing sounds, the same way she soothed Sam when he had a nightmare.

"If I hadn't gotten him involved..." Harriet whispered.

"Then that would have been one less thing he got to do with you," Frank said. "I'm sure he appreciated every minute of the time you spent together. I know I sure feel lucky to spend even a second with you."

He kissed her tears away. She brought up a hand to wipe the matching moisture off his cheeks. "I am so sorry for making such a scene, honey."

"Hey, when you've gotta let it out, you've gotta let it out. That's what funerals are for."

"You don't say?" Nia said jokingly. "I could have sworn they were for bottling everything up until you feel as miserable as a cat in a thunderstorm."

Harriet looked up in surprise. Her mom's eyes were puffy and Sam was clinging to her leg as if he was terrified he'd lose her too, but other than that they looked okay by funeral standards. "Would you mind keeping my favorite grandson busy while I have a chat with his mom?" Nia asked Frank.

"I'm your only grandson," Sam said with a chuckle.

"Thank goodness for that," she said. "I don't think anybody else could even dream of competing with you!"

After giving Harriet a quick kiss on the forehead, Frank dragged himself to his feet. "Come on, buddy. Let's go check out that dessert table."

Nia watched them go with a warm smile. "Turns out that husband of yours isn't a complete disappointment," she said. "I've never seen a man run that fast in my life, and I've seen how Elijah gets— used to get— whenever you'd call. Guess we both love men who'd drop everything for you at the drop of the hat."

Harriet stood up and wiped off the dead leaves clinging to her dress. "Not quite everything. He's heading off on another business trip in a couple days."

"Right before Thanksgiving?" Nia shook her head. "Lord, next thing you know he'll be working through Christmas. Nobody can say he's a slacker."

"Or assertive. I swear he might as well call himself the Chief Doormat and call it a day. Or Ryan's Doormat, considering how things have been going lately."

"Ryan's the one who got a divorce, right? Something about his wife caring more about her catering business than him?"

"That's the one. He's a nice enough guy, but man am I sick of him shoving his work off on Frank. It just isn't right!"

"It's not right for you to be parenting for two, either. I know you love that man, honey, but he's not the only one who needs to put his foot down."

"I know."

"Good. And for heaven's sake, try to relax every once in a while! I swear every time I see you I half expect you to have more wrinkles than I do."

"I'm trying," Harriet said. "I've been getting into baking lately, which has been nice. After what happened to Dad though..."

"He died doing what he loved," Nia said with a sad smile. "You had absolutely nothing to do with it aside from giving him the nudge he needed to do what made him happy. And now I'm giving you that same nudge. So, are you going to make yourself happy, or am I going to have to enlist a whole army of nudgers until you finally start listening?"

"I can't say no to that now, can I? Are we still good for Thanksgiving at your place?"

"As always. Just you wait until you get a taste of my mashed potatoes! I swear they're so creamy you'll have a hard time leaving room for anything else."

"We'd better make sure to save room for dessert though," Harriet said. "I've been dying to bake!"

Harriet wasn't sure which hurt more, her choice of words or the fact even after everything that had happened baking still felt like the only way to find any kind of solace.

"I bet, honey," Nia said. "Everything you brought today looks absolutely delicious. You'll have to tell me your secret."

"A pastry chef never shares her secrets, except with her sous chef," Harriet said, dutifully repeating what Carol had told her, Patricia, and Vicky every time they'd asked her about the desserts she'd spoiled them with.

"I guess I'll have to ask Sam, then," Nia teased.

Harriet laughed. "No, he's the chief taste tester. The position of sous chef is still vacant."

"In that case, I'd like to apply."

"Let me just review your resume."

"I'm your mom! That's the only resume I'm ever going to need."

"You sound overqualified to me," Harriet said, "but I think there's a good chance you'll stick around. You're hired!"

"Thank you so much! I'm honored."

The pair of them shared a long laugh. It felt good to indulge themselves in a little silliness, if only for a moment.

"So, what's the first thing on our menu?" Nia asked.

"My menu is so long we'd still be reading it on New Year's Day. I'm good with pretty much anything these days."

"Well, we could make a traditional pumpkin or pecan pie, I guess." Nia took a shaky breath. "But I was thinking of doing something different this year. Elijah always loved butterscotch pie, said it was the sweetest, most amazing thing anyone could ever eat. He could never quite get it right himself though, so we always had to order one whenever we wanted to indulge. Do you think we could try making one?"

"Absolutely! We can always bake a couple backups in case it doesn't work out, too. Sam loves dessert as much as the next kid, but, bless his heart, he is getting picky."

"Woof, I think I just grew another wrinkle. You know they're getting old when they stop scarfing down literally everything sugary. Next thing you know, he'll start bringing girlfriends home. Or boyfriends. Whoever he wants as long as they make him happy."

"Now you're making me feel old! And he's got a long way to go before he can handle anything much more complicated than tying his shoes, and even that's still hit or miss."

"Do you think he'd be up for helping us out in the kitchen? It couldn't hurt to have an extra set of hands."

Oh, he'd be up for it alright, but Harriet? No. No way in hell would she allow her son to get involved, especially not after what had happened to his grandpa. Not after what she had done to him. "Not unless you want to end up having the kitchen somehow end up flooded and on fire at the same time. Trust me, he's not ready to do much other than taste test."

"Not even crack some eggs? Oh well, it's probably better he's not around to hear us yammering away anyhow. Grandma might end up saying some words he'd better stay out of earshot for if things don't go well."

"You and me both. We can have him help set the table or something. That much he can handle, I hope."

"As long as he gives us plenty of space to let loose, I'm sure we'll be fine. Provided we don't accidentally get his apple juice mixed up with the sparkling apple cider, that is. Something tells me you'd have a lot of explaining to do if Frank missed his son's first experience with alcohol."