This brings us to the first Thanksgiving in our new home outside Copenhagen. Henrik and I had worked hard to afford it, and I was determined to host a holiday that felt warm, polished, and entirely ours. The table was set with linen napkins, I had practiced my pie crusts for weeks, and the scent of roasted turkey filled the air. Even my famously difficult Aunt Beatrice sampled a spoonful of stuffing and muttered, “Not dreadful,” which in her language was high praise.
For a moment, I thought I might survive this holiday intact. Then Margot arrived.
Her arrival was impossible to miss. The crunch of her boots on the gravel drive sounded like a drumroll. She flung open the door without knocking and swept inside, holding a gleaming silver tray covered with foil as though she were unveiling the crown jewels.
“Good evening, darlings!” she declared. “I thought I’d rescue the day with a turkey of my own. One can never be too careful.”
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