Free With Love from the Inside by Angela Pisel Page B

and somehow the sprinkling of honesty made the “already dead” part of her deceit seem like a smaller infraction.
    All of their efforts did make her feel at home, and Sophie genuinely enjoyed her holidays spent with the Logan family. Everything from the blue Willow–patterned china to the bacon-wrapped scallop appetizers served promptly at 5:30 p.m., and the dinner that followed at 6 p.m. on the button.
    This Thanksgiving, like all holidays, Dr. Logan sat at the head of the long dark-stained table. Margaret still made place cards even though everyone sat at the same spot every time they gathered for a meal: Carter and his family on one side, Thomas and Sophie on the other. Margaret took the end closest to the kitchen. All the chairs had high carved backs and didn’t scoot very well. It took at least three moves before you could escape—that was what Sophie had been thinking the first time she joined them for a formal meal.
    After Dr. Logan blessed the food, he scooped up a big helping of mashed potatoes. As he passed the bowl to Thomas, he said, “You have a birthday coming up. Turning thirty, I hear.” He didn’t make much small talk, but when he did, Sophie listened. His deep, commanding voice intimidated her.
    â€œUnfortunately, you heard correct,” she replied as Thomas passed her the seven-layer salad. She took a small spoonful and handed the salad to her mother-in-law.
    Dr. Logan poured some gravy on his mashed potatoes and directed his next question to Thomas. “Don’t you think it’s time for you two to give this old man some grandbabies?” The word
babies
sounded much louder.
    Sophie swallowed three times to get down a bacon bit while waiting for Thomas to answer a question that felt more like an order.
    He handed her a glass of water and said, “We’ve been practicing, but not quite ready for the big leagues.”
    His father laughed loudly, seeming satisfied. She and Thomas did want to have kids, but with the demands of his job, Thomas decided it’d be best to put it off a little longer. Sophie didn’t argue, especially with her gene pool. Motherhood was best kept in the distant future.
    Margaret changed the subject and asked Vivianne, Carter and Caroline’s only child, if she wanted some cranberry sauce.
    â€œNo, thank you, Grandma Margaret,” the five-year-old said with impeccable manners. “Aunt Sophie, will you color with me later?”
    After the last couple days, Sophie couldn’t wait to pick up a crayon. “There’s nothing in the world I would rather do.”
    â€”
    A FTER DINNER , the men retired to the TV room while Caroline, Margaret, and Sophie cleared the table and talked about the after-Thanksgiving sales. Vivianne sat cross-legged on the floor, waiting patiently for them to finish.
    Sophie tried to pay attention to Caroline’s ponderings about how all the “top designers” were cheapening their names by bringing their lines into discount department stores such as Kohl’s and Target, and threw in an occasional comment like, “I love Vera’s Lavender Label flats,” but something about her was off. She felt susceptible and out of place.
    â€œAunt Sophie, are you almost done?” The excitement in Vivi’s voice reminded her of Max. Max, all alone, eating his creamed peas and processed turkey slices.
    â€œAlmost done, Vivianne.”
    Maybe it was the letter looming in her purse with words warning herof a past that hasn’t gone away. And a mother who, no matter what she had done, still sat alone on Thanksgiving in a place no one would choose to be.
    â€œYou feel okay, Sophie? You look kind of pale,” Caroline asked.
    â€œA little queasy,” Sophie replied as she excused herself and headed to the restroom. She closed the door and slid down the wall to sit on the floor.
    Relax, snap out of this funk, forget about the letter—
but nothing she told