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“Jude, check the list, have we gotten everything?”
“Just need to grab some potatoes,” Jude says, looking down at his notepad, “You go ahead to the register, I’ll go grab them.”
The chatter of other shoppers and the sound of carts rolled through aisles surrounds them. The Thanksgiving rush is busier than usual this year and Jude feels some sympathy for the harassed-looking employees, who wander about the store as they’re pulled this way and they that by demanding customers.
Jude grabs one of the plastic bags, tearing the top and shaking it until it opens up. He carefully selects enough potatoes to make a good batch of roasted ones, picking the spuds that look the best to him. Though, with how last-minute their shopping is, he’s been left with the remnants that others didn’t want. He limps back to the front of the store, where he quickly spots Harold at one of the registers, pulling items from the cart and onto the conveyer belt.
“Ah, there you are!” Harold says, taking the potatoes from him.
Jude pushes the cart loaded with their bags as they leave the store, Harold walking alongside him, looking at the receipt, his eyebrows scrunched.
“God, since when did prices get this high?” Harold huffed.
The snow crunches below their feet, a much thicker layer than there was in the morning when he and Harold shoveled the driveway. Jude mentally groans at the thought that the driveway is likely filled up again, making their efforts useless. Harold seems to have had the exact same thought as he frowns at the audible crackles, “Didn’t we shovel the driveway this morning? What was the point of that?” Jude only sighs in agreement, pulling out his keys to unlock the car.
As he puts away the bags in the trunk, his mind wanders to the main reason for this last-minute grocery trip. Beef Wellington; Harold’s latest thanksgiving ambition. A notoriously difficult dish to make, Jude knows. When Harold had told Jude of his newest annual Thanksgiving ambition, Jude had humoured him, secretly expecting it to fall through yet again, and they’d have their usual turkey dinner instead.
A few days before Thanksgiving, he and Harold had finally finished shoveling the driveway, a task that took them far longer than it should’ve since the snow had hardened and practically froze. Jude had stumbled into the living room, collapsing on the couch, eager to finally rest. Instead, Harold had made him get up and corralled him out to the car. Since the morning, they had gone from the butcher’s (which was packed, the line of customers stretching out to the end of the block) to the grocery store for supplies to make Harold’s latest idea.
“I’m telling you, Jude, this is the year!” Harold says, as he gets into the driver’s seat, “I can feel it.”
“Mhm,” Jude says, absentmindedly as his focus was adhered to turning on the heat, his cheeks feeling numb from the cold exposure.
“You don’t believe me,” Harold says, turning towards him.
“I didn’t even say anything!”
“But you were thinking it, I can tell from the look on your face.” Jude makes an incredulous face at Harold, raising his eyebrows.
They sat in the car for a few minutes, letting the interior heat up. Harold had yet to even take off his gloves, which were too thick to properly hold the steering wheel, until he was certain that his fingers wouldn’t freeze and fall off. Finally, some feeling returned to their faces as the car became comfortably warm, and Harold turned on the ignition, slowly backing out of the parking lot.
As they drive down the street, the roads packed with cars as people run their Thanksgiving errands, Jude stares out the window, taking in the sight of it all. The glistening lights, the icy snow on the ground, the sales promotion posters hung in the windows of stores. Despite the pervailing chill in the air and the piles of snow clustered on the ground, the sun was still beaming intensely as ever, casting the faintest blanket of warmth over the city, and making everything seem all that much brighter.
“You know, I was thinking, Harold,” Jude begins, tentatively, “Why don’t we make the dish together?”
“Huh, what do you mean?”
“I’m helping you make the Thanksgiving dinner anyways so why don’t we make the main dish together? The Beef Wellington, I mean.”
“Do you really not believe in me, Jude?” Harold squints his eyes at him, eyebrows scrunched in hurt.
“Oh, come on, Harold,” Jude says, “I’d just like to help! That’s all. Please?”
“Fine, we’ll do it together,” Harold finally says, and Jude mentally cheers, “But I’ll be the one to do most of the cooking. You can, I don’t know, chop vegetables or something.”
“Okay,” He laughs, shaking his head, “Maybe this time you’ll actually be able to fulfill your thanksgiving mission.”
“Don’t be cheeky, Jude,” He scolds, huffing.
They eventually pull up to their street, the house coming into view, a thin layer of snow on the roof shingles. Jude mentally groans as he takes in the sight that appears as they turn the corner. What was just this morning a clean, prim-looking driveway, was now blanketed by such a thick layer of snow you could no longer tell where the main pathway starts.
“Fuck…” Harold breathes, putting a hand to his head, and Jude can only nod in disdainful agreement.
The day of Thanksgiving soon arrived, along with its preparations underway. The house had been thoroughly cleaned, vanilla-scented candles lit on various tables, filling the air with a sweet aroma. The weather had only grown colder from the past few days, and the snow layering thicker, mountains of it piled up outside the house. Julia had left that morning to run errands for the day, procuring whatever last-minute items they needed. This left Harold and Jude at home alone, along with the impending cooking preparations for their annual Thanksgiving dinner.
“Good luck, boys!” Julia had called out before she closed the door behind her, her tone jesting. Jude tried to hold back his grin as Harold looked rustled.
“Now, remember, I’m going to be the one doing the cooking,” Harold says, wagging a finger at him, “You can help with some of the little bits.”
“Right, of course,” Jude smiles, thinly.
“Now, wh-“
“Oh, hold on a second,” Jude says, before he ducks out of the room, leaving Harold standing in the kitchen confused.
Jude skids to a halt in front of the tall, skinny bookshelf in the corner of the living room. He looks through the packed shelves before his eye catches the sight of a grey, wicker basket. He sifts through the basket, his fingers moving swiftly as he eventually finds, and plucks out, the record he was looking for.
He walks over to the antique wooden vinyl player, seated on one of the corner tables. He lifts the top and places the vinyl down carefully, pulling the stylus onto its grooves. A soft melody wanders through the air, filling the warm silence from before.
“Schubert?” Harold hums as Jude returns to the kitchen, the former walking over to the fridge, tugging open the freezer. He pulls out the large cut of beef tenderloin that he had stashed away, the chill from inside wafting into the kitchen. “Right, I’ll cook the tenderloin,” Harold says, staring pointedly at Jude, who raises his hands in faux surrender.
“I’ll make the duxelles, then,” Jude replies, opening the cupboard to find the food processor.
Harold places the cut of meat down carefully onto the board, searching through the drawers for his spices. Jude began chopping the mushrooms into bite-sized pieces, tossing them into the food processor, before moving on to chopping the shallots.
“Harold,” Jude asks, making him look up, “How do you feel about a mushroom risotto? For a side dish?”
“I think that sounds lovely, Jude,” Harold smiles. He knew that it didn’t matter what Jude made, so long as Jude was making it, the dish would be delicious anyways.
“I think Willem said he’s bringing dessert, so we’re good on that front,” Jude continues, taking a pause in speaking to turn on the food processor, “And Mal’s bringing some wine he got from his parents vineyard.”
“That’s good,” Harold replies, “We’re just saddled with the main and the sides, then.” Jude nods, turning on the food processor again, crushing the mushrooms and shallots and thyme into one amalgamation. As he inspected his duxelles, Jude glanced in the corner of his vision and saw Harold staring, dispassionate, at the recipe book, which was flipped to the page on Beef Wellington. He was studying the page intently, with an expression on his face as if the book owed him money.
“Harold?”
“I mean, how hard could it be?” Harold seemed to be losing his resolve a bit, and Jude mentally calculated what store to go to and how long it would take to get there to get a Turkey, “What’s so difficult about cooking a beef tenderloin to medium rare?”
“I think Savenor’s might still have some leftover turkeys,” Jude says, putting down his chopping knife.
“Jude…” Harold began, warily, “I made a commitment and I’m going to follow through with it.”
“Everyone would be fine with a traditional Turkey dinner, Harold,” Jude comments, “I don’t understand why you’re pushing yourself so hard to make a really complicated dish.”
“Such hyprocrisy, Jude!” Harold admonishes, turning towards him.
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“Says the one who once made seventeen different kinds of pastries for a simple New Years get-together,” Harold waves the tongs at him.
Jude flushes, looking down at the duxelles, “Who told you that?”
“Willem, of course.”
“I don’t think it was seventeen, Harold,” Now it’s Jude’s turn to grumble. Damn you Willem.
“Still, as it stands, I’m not the only one here who likes to make grand culinary efforts for holidays,” Harold says as he accentuates his points with the tongs, “So I’ll hear no judgement from you, Mr. Ten Tupperwares Of Gingersnap Cookies.”
“Again, I don’t think it was ten,“ Jude pouts
“My point still stands!” Harold pokes him with the salad tongs, grinning.
“I suppose we’re both sort of excessive in our holiday preparations,” Jude finally admits.
“Exactly, and I think we should embrace this quality!” Harold says, “What are the holidays for if not to dazzle and amaze?” He waves around the tongs in a jazz-hands-like gesture.
“But,” Jude started, “You can only dazzle and amaze,” he’d copied the same gesture, only with his chopping knife and not tongs, “if your goal actually goes through.”
“And it will!” Harold maintained.
“Then how come you haven’t started cooking the beef?”
“I’m getting to that,” Harold stares.
“Sure, you are.”
“Quiet, you.”
“I’ve finally finished the outline for my next book, I think this one’s going to be a real kicker,” Harold said, proudly. Jude turned on the skillet with a clicky hiss, melting a piece of butter on the surface before adding in his duxelles. He listened to Harold talk about his newest book idea, that was still in its beginning stages, evidently. The Happy Promise had surpassed the success of its prequel, prompting Harold to begin a third instalment in the series. Another legal interpretation book, only this time about the International Bill of Human Rights, with some comparisons to the previous sequel, which focused solely on the American constitution, including the American bill of rights.
“Have you recruited any research assistants?” Jude asks.
“A few upper year students of mine,” Harold shrugs, “But, none of them are you,” Harold curled his lip, “Or at least, not nearly as brilliant as you.”
“I’m sure they’ll do great, Harold, don’t discredit them so flippantly.”
“At least they make for good conversation, sometimes,” Harold muses, “One of them was telling me about the oddest family Thanksgiving tradition that he’d been doing since he was a kid. They do this thing called a turkey toss. If the name wasn’t already ridiculous, you wouldn’t believe what they do in it. They dress up turkeys in baby onesies and lob them as far as they can. I mean, what is even the point of that?”
“Well, it’s just like any tradition, there’s usually a point to it, but you eventually forget but still continue the tradition,” Jude shrugs.
“What were your thanksgivings like as a kid? Did you have any odd traditions?” Harold asks.
“Oh, I didn’t really celebrate it,” Jude answers, the familiar chill of anxiety prickling over his skin, “Didn’t really celebrate any holidays,” He’d added, when he saw Harold’s bewildered face.
“Hm,” Harold answered, “I suppose not everyone’s all gung-ho about the holidays.” And that was that, and although he knew Harold wanted to, he didn’t pry further.
Over the years, he had gotten more used to, more comfortable with Harold’s relentlessness in his questions, in his pointedness whenever he was so downright curious to figure out something about someone.
Although before it had made him uncomfortable (and to a degree, it still made him uneasy when the questions veered too close to topics Jude didn’t want to acknowledge, let alone speak about), he’d come to be fond of this attribute of Harold. His doggedness wasn’t out of some need to judge or mock, or some insensitivity towards the other person. Rather, it was a testament to how much Harold cared so deeply for others.
Although he was hesitant to admit it, because admitting it would make it all too real, and he still lived in the after-haze of the adoption process uncertainties. But, he knew, to a degree, that he belonged to that tribe of others that came under Harold’s care and love.
He only asked because he wanted to know more about Jude, not because he was suspicious of him or interrogative, but because he cared enough about to Jude to simply want to know things about him, regardless of what they were, regardless of how boring they were, or mundane. He soaked up every little detail, every little tidbit that Jude would hesitantly reveal.
He even remembered all of the things Jude would tell him, things that even Jude himself often forgot of. Was that not a testament of love itself, how important every aspect of Jude was to Harold?
He was cared for so deeply by this man. By his father, Jude would think, and he would feel that same, lightheaded, dizzying mix of giddiness and anxiety blossom in his chest. His father. His father. Even years after the adoption, it still all feels so incomprehensible to him.
“Look at that, Judy!” Harold exclaims. Jude turns to see Harold pulling the cooked beef off the pan, setting it down carefully on the wooden board.
“Wow, that actually looks really good,” Jude says, “Smells fantastic too.”
Harold excitedly grabs the large knife, preparing to cut into a section of the meat, to check it’s middle. Jude returns to his duxelles, pushing them around as they cook, their moisture slowly oozing away.
“Shit,” Harold sharply hisses, putting the edge of his finger in his mouth.
“What happened?” Jude asks.
“Cut myself.” Alarmed, Jude abandons his duxelles, turning off the stove, before running over towards Harold.
“Are you okay?” He says, looking at Harold’s hand.
“Ah, it’s just a little nick, Jude,” Harold says.
“It’s bleeding quite a bit for a nick,” Jude says, “You should bandage it, just in case.” Jude looks around for the First Aid kit, ducking into cupboards and tugging open drawers. He feels a odd tinge of panic as he scrambles to find the kit, but tries to calm himself down. It is really just a nick after all, Harold would live. He still couldn’t help but feel frazzled.
“It’s in the cupboard above the coffee machine,” Harold guides him, holding his injured finger in his other hand.
“Right, thanks Papa,” Jude says, pulling the cupboard open. When he turns back to Harold, the latter is looking at him, eyes wide, his finger frozen, still between his lips. They stare at each other in silence, the warmth in the air thickens into something heavy and almost suffocating.
“You just-,” Harold’s voice is quiet, “Did you just call me…Papa…?”
The realization of what slipped from his mouth comes to him all at once, and he can’t help but slightly back away. What had he been thinking? He can feel his cheeks begin to burn with embarrassment, the shame filling up inside him, “I’m sorry, I-“
“Jude,” Harold interrupts, holding up his non-injured finger, “Whatever are you apologizing for?”
“Well- I shouldn’t have-,” Jude looks down, his throat feeling constricted with unshed tears, “You don’t want me to call you that. I’m sorry.”
“Why wouldn’t I want you to call me that? You’re my son,” Harold smiles, “If anything, I’ve been waiting for the day you’d call me that.”
When Jude doesn’t look up, Harold slowly steps towards him, his taller frame gently leaning over Jude. He reaches up a hand to cup Jude’s cheek, tilting his face up to look at Harold. He rubs his thumb gently over Jude’s cheek, both of them silent, though Harold’s mouth is pursed in a thin line. He wraps his arms around Jude, tucking his face into his chest, one hand running through the curls on his head.
Jude tentatively puts the First Aid kit down on the counter beside them, his hands coming up behind Harold to hold him back, fingers gripping the fabric of his sweater. He nestles his face into Harold’s chest, inhaling the familiar warm smell of old books and ink that always follows his father. He can feel Harold’s face buried in his curls, his lips planting small kisses on the top of Jude’s head, murmuring something Jude can’t quite understand. His arms completely envelope Jude, pulling him closer, and he feels so warm, so safe.
“You have no idea how happy this makes me, dearest,” Harold whispers into his hair. Although Jude can’t see his face, the choked tone of his voice lets him know Harold is close to crying. He’s holding back his own tears, but the endearment nearly makes them fall. He swallows thickly, hugging Harold back tighter. They stay like this for what feels like an eternity, though it is not tiring but blissful, neither one of them wanting to let go.
“Besides,” Harold clears his throat as they eventually pull away, “Calling your father by his name should be a phase reserved only for angsty teenagers.” Jude laughs, the tightness in his throat loosening, though a single tear manages to escape, rolling down his face.
“Oh, don’t cry,” Harold muses, rubbing the tear away with the pad of his thumb. The soft, quiet tone of his voice is enough to make Jude tear up again. He places his hand on the back of Jude’s neck, bringing their foreheads together.
“We still haven’t bandaged your finger,” Jude whispers, his voice hoarse. Harold chuckles, a low vibration in his chest that even Jude can feel, before he pulls away, lifting up his finger for Jude to take.
He cleans the wound, pressing the cotton balls to the open skin, letting it soak up the blood. He unravels the small roll of gauze, carefully wrapping it around Harold’s finger. Harold flexes his bandaged finger with a satisfied hum. He turns back to his tenderloin, picking up the bloodied knife and dropping it into the sink. He takes out a pair of scissors and snaps off the twine, taking a second to admire his work. Jude can’t help but watch him as he coats the tenderloin in mustard, a faint tenderness in his movements, before picking it up carefully and stashing the meat away in the fridge to chill. Jude closes the First Aid kit with a faint ‘snap’, opening the cupboard, but stops for a moment.
“Haro- I mean, Papa,” The corners of Harold’s lip quirk upwards, and he can’t help but smile himself, “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Why do you always try to make something outlandish for Thanksgiving? I mean, besides wanting to rebel against traditionalism, what’s the reason behind it? Because that surely can’t be it.” He can see Harold’s thinking hard, trying to find the right words to explain himself,
“You’re a fine cook, Jude, I hope you know that,” He finally says, looking at Jude.
“Thank you, but that doesn’t explain anything?”
“You’re always making these elaborate, wonderful dishes for us,” Harold explains, toying with the collar of his sweater. “So, I thought,” Harold clears his throat, “I wanted to do the same for you. I suppose I wanted to impress you, because you’re so skilled in the art of cooking, so I just kept thinking of the most elaborate, difficult dishes to make, things that might wow you.”
“Really?” Jude muses, a giddy warmth spreading in his chest, tinging his cheeks pink once again, “Willem was right after all.”
“Huh?”
“I’d asked him why he thought you did this, years ago,” Jude smiles, as he restarts the stove, “He said you’d wanted to impress me somehow. He was right on the nose with that.”
“Willem…” Harold grumbles, making Jude laugh.
“But, you know, Papa,” Jude says, “You impress me all the time anyways.”
“Do I now?” Jude nods, “How so?”
“Well, you’re a brilliant professor, to start. Some of my colleagues back at the U.S Attorney thought so too.” Jude thinks back to the conversations his colleagues would have amongst each other, Harold’s name occasionally making an appearance. He’d always known Harold was well known around these parts, especially for his books, but was surprised at just how many people knew of him and knew enough of him to have entire conversations about him. He distinctly remembers the feeling of pride flower in his chest, for Harold, for him knowing Harold, and for being friends with him (Though back then, Jude found it hard to fully comprehend and accept that he and Harold were friends. If only he’d known back then how much more than friends they would become).
“I’m impressed with your work as an author,” Jude says, “I think your books are brilliant.” He’d hadn’t told Harold yet, but he was genuinely anticipating his next book with a great fervour. He’d read all of his previous ones, and even worked on one with Harold himself, and had found another sapling of pride planted in his garden when he’d realized just how talented and ingenious of an author Harold was, how perceptive and insightful his writings were.
“I’m impressed at how well you play Tennis, even at your age,” Jude says, holding back a grin.
“At my age?” Harold gapes, “now what is that supposed to mean? I’m not that old!”
“And,” Jude continues, ignoring Harold’s indignance, “I’m always impressed by how much you love and care about others,”
“Is that so?” Harold quirks an eyebrow, his previous quip all but forgotten, “What do you mean by that?”
His face suddenly felt warm, “I wouldn’t know how to really explain it, just that- you care a lot, I suppose.”
“I don’t see how that’s exactly impressive.“
“I guess it’s because it’s always in a way that is so limitless and unrelenting,” Jude says, hiding his reddening face, “It has no bounds, and as much as people like to say they love or care endlessly, I think a lot of people do have bounds or lines where that care stops. I don’t think it’s at all an easy thing to care beyond the scope of what people generally contain theirs to, so it’s impressive to me how you easily care so much, how naturally it comes to you to be endlessly affectionate and considerate.”
“Well,” Harold says, after they are silent for a few beats, Schubert still playing softly in the background, “isn’t that just about the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.” He puts his hand on the space between Jude’s shoulder blades, smoothing his fingers over the exposed skin of his nape.
“It’s the truth,” Jude insists, with a light shrug.
“Mhmm,” Harold leans his head on Jude’s shoulder, his nose pressing into his hair, “I’m still griping with you about that tennis comment,” Harold mutters.
“I haven’t a clue what you mean,” Jude teases, feigning innocence. Harold pulls away, squinting his eyes at Jude, who only unsuccessfully bites back a smile, “I think they’re done, the moisture is all gone.”
“Those duxelles smell incredible,” Harold praised, “You never fail to outdo yourself.” Jude pours the duxelles into another container, seasoning them before putting them away in the fridge, next to the tenderloin.
While they waited for their main dishes to chill in the fridge, Jude and Harold began on cooking their side dishes. They roasted the potatoes until they were oozing with fat, running down the container and pooling around the spuds, topped with herbs that gave them an enticing scent. They used the remaining mushrooms to whip up a creamy, starchy risotto, filled with a savoury symphony of seasoned vegetables. Harold took out some asparagus, coating it in lemon juice and salt, and quickly grilled it.
After it has been some time, Harold goes to take out their chilled items, starting with the beef and then the duxelles, setting them down on the counter. He takes some cling wrap, stretching it out and placing it down on the board. He takes out the prosciutto, layering strips of it until it nearly covers the entire surface area. He takes the bowl of duxelles, scooping out a heavy spoonful and spreading it evenly over the prosciutto, before placing the beef carefully down over top. Harold rolls the entire thing up, making sure it’s packed neat and tight.
“How does that look?” He asks Jude.
“Perfect.”
“Do we have some red wine vinaigrette? I think I’ll toss an Arugula salad as well,” Harold asks as he puts away the Beef Wellington in the fridge, double-checking again to make sure that it’s wrapped tightly.
“There should be in the fridge, I made some last night.”
Harold takes out a bag of pine nuts, tossing them into a pan and roasting them, the aroma mixing in with all of the other enticing scents, making both of their mouths nearly water. The front door suddenly swings opens, bringing in the biting chill from outside.
“It’s absolutely freezing out there! And the Thanksgiving rush is ridiculous! I must’ve been nearly trampled at least twice!”
At the sound of Julia’s entrance, Jude’s suddenly got an idea, though the very thought of it makes him slightly dizzy with anxiety. Just go for it, he tells himself. It went well with Harold, Papa. Stop being afraid all the time. Take the step.
“It smells wonderful in here,” Julia comments, walking into the kitchen, “What have you boys done?”
Jude turns around to greet her, “Mom, welcome back,” he smiles, trying to smother his nervousness.
Julia froze the same way Harold had, her eyes widening. She stood there shocked for a moment but didn’t say a word as she suddenly ran towards Jude, enveloping him into a tight embrace, the bags in her hands left abandoned in the kitchen doorway. He hugged her back, arms wound tight around her shoulders. In the corner of his eye, he could see Harold looking at them both, a similar smile on his face to match Jude’s.
“My boy,” Julia whispers into the shell of his ear, and she sounds so happy, it takes every ounce of strength within Jude to not burst into tears right then and there. “Did you two actually make it?” Julia asks, pulling away from Jude to look at the amalgamation of dishes on the counter, “I mean, I can understand Jude, but you, Harold?”
“Why doesn’t my own family believe in me,” Harold sighs, tossing the pine nuts sadly. Julia laughs, coming up beside Harold to press a kiss to his cheek.
“I think it all looks incredible,” She smiles, “Smells amazing too.”
“I did do the main cooking, you know,” Harold pouts.
“I know you did, dear. Never doubted you for a second,” She says, winking at Jude, who smothers a laugh.
“I did…” Harold grumbles, “Tell her, Jude.”
“He’s right, he was the one who actually cooked the beef,” Jude admits, “And that’s one of the main hard parts of making Beef Wellington.”
“Well, colour me impressed,” Julia raises her eyebrows, “We might actually have an interesting Thanksgiving dinner this year.”
“Jude, stop adjusting the silverware, it looks fine!” Harold scolds him, as he re-adjusts a fork for the umpteenth time. Jude sheepishly smiles, shuffling away from the dining table when the doorbell shrills. He goes to open the door, and there is Willem, with his easy grin and a German Black Forest cake in his hands. Willem pulls him into a one-armed embrace, which he returns. He kisses Julia on the cheek in greeting, moving over to Harold to greet him as well. Willem walks into the kitchen, putting the cake away in the fridge. He looks over at the amalgamation of dishes set out, ready to be served.
“No fucking way,” Willem gapes, looking between the fridge and the counter, “No turkey this year? Am I dreaming? Am I in the right house?”
“You boys need to tone down your sarcasm,” Harold grumbles.
“Jude helped him,” Julia explains.
“That explains it,” Willem grins at Harold, who only glares back, huffing.
“Well, I know you actually did a lot of the hard work, Papa,” Jude says and Harold smiles triumphantly.
“See?” Harold preens, “I told you so.”
Jude shakes his head at Harold’s antics, before he turns to see Willem looking at him, bewildered for a moment before his face breaks out into a grin. He pulls Jude into a tight embrace, pressing his cheek against Jude’s own.
“About fucking time, Judy,” He whispers and Jude laughs, half out of humour and half out of trying not to cry again.
It isn’t long before the doorbell rings again, with JB and Malcolm appearing at their door, both of them covered in snowflakes, bristling from the cold. Malcolm was carrying a glistening bottle of Tuscan wine, which he handed to Julia as he greeted her.
“No turkey!” JB exclaims as he walks into the kitchen, “Is the world ending?” Harold throws his hands into the air dramatically, grumbling to himself as he walks out of the room.
“Papa, don’t leave,” Jude chuckles, watching Harold huffs away petulantly, muttering something about how ‘no one ever believes in him’, or something along those lines.
“Papa?” JB asks, “What are you, a Victorian chimney sweep?”
“JB,” Malcolm glares.
“Hey, I didn’t say it was a bad thing. I think it’s sweet,” JB shrugs, looking back at Jude, “I’m happy for you, Judy.” And he smiles back at JB, pulling him into a rare hug.
“What is our turkey-substitute this year, anyways?” Willem asks.
Harold pops into the room again and only says, “It’s a surprise,” with an almost giddy expression stretched along his features. Willem looks over at Jude, raising an eyebrow, but the latter only shrugs back, making a zipping motion with his finger over his lips.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the last of the guests arrived, Laurence and his wife Gillian.
“Sorry, we’re late,” Laurence said, taking off his scarf, “The traffic is horrendous out there.”
“No worries, you’re just in time,” Harold says, going over to hug Laurence, “We’re about to start dinner.”
“That doesn’t exactly smell like turkey cooking in there,” Laurence says, squinching his nose, “Are you sure it isn’t burning?”
“It isn’t turkey,” Harold replies, a smug look on his face.
“Harold Stein…” he gapes, “Don’t tell me, you’ve actually managed to achieve your little Thanksgiving miracle this year?”
“Yep.”
“Well, what’d you make?”
“You’ll just have to find out.”
“Oh no, that’s always comforting to hear,” Laurence grimaces.
The sky has completely faded to dark, speckled with a blanket of stars that serve to illuminate it. The wind continues to howl outside, fierce and unrelenting, the tree leaves bristling with the force.
They’re all seated at the dining table, which is decorated with bright, tall candles in glistening candleholders, adorned with strings of plastic, burnt-orange leaves and shiny berries. The chandelier light shines low, casting the room in a warm ambience. Some of Jude’s Schubert records still play in the background, occasionally interrupted by rounds of Mozart and Mahler, providing a soothing background buzz that adds to the already cozy atmosphere.
The appetizers went around, bits of them plucked off their trays and onto plates, pierced with forks and spoon, the cacophony of aroma’s faintly circulating in the air. The Arugula salad, which Harold had topped with the roasted pine nuts and grated parmesan cheese. Slices of sourdough bread that Jude had baked many days prior, the one that both Harold and Julia adore, with a thick hummus spread and sprinkles of herbs on top. Savoury artichokes stuffed with breadcrumbs, flavoured with lemon juice squeezed over top and bits of cheese. And of course, some of Jude’s infamous gougeres, which elicited a whoop from JB as they were brought out. He really did love Jude’s baking.
Jude brings out the wine that Malcolm brought, popping it open with resounding cheers (mostly from JB). He begins pouring the wine for everyone. When he gets to Malcolm’s glass, the latter shakes his head.
“Can’t, I’m driving tonight,” Malcolm says.
“I thought JB was going to be the designated driver?”
“We flipped a coin,” Malcolm rolls his eyes. From across the table JB cackles, making everyone laugh but Malcolm, who just flips him off. The oven timer shrills as it goes off, eliciting incessant beeps as it demands the table’s attention.
“I’ll go get that,” Jude says, almost jumping from his chair. He shares a glance with Harold, who winks at him, making him grin back before ducking out of the room.
“I’m guessing the main dish is being brought out?” Laurence drawls, “The turkey substitute, whatever it may be.”
“You’re gonna eat your words, Valeigh.”
“I didn’t even say anything,” Laurence deadpans.
“No, but you’re thinking them,” Harold retorts, to which Laurence only rolls his eyes. Jude soon comes out with the dish, a wide grin stretched across his face.
“Is that Beef Wellington?” Laurence gapes as the dish is brought out, its aroma of spices wafting through the air.
“Jude and I made it together,” Harold beams, watching Jude set the dish down.
“You mean Jude made it and you helped?”
“This Arugula salad is incredible,” Willem interrupts before Harold can splutter, “I’m not usually too into salad, but this is great.”
“Hah!” Harold says, his attention successfully diverted, “That’s the one thing I made completely on my own.”
“But, Papa,” Jude begins, a coy smile growing on his face, “I was the one who made the vinaigrette for it.”
“Jude!” Harold looks offended, “I thought you were on my side?”
“The opposing counsel has made some convincing arguments. That, and you just tried to take credit for my vinaigrette.”
“Look at what you’ve all done,” Harold shakes his head, “You’ve corrupted my boy, turned him against his dear old dad.”
“Well, dear old dad,” Laurence teases, “Let’s put this Thanksgiving miracle to the test, shall we?”
Harold eagerly cuts the Beef Wellington into even, thick slices, each one oozing with the flavourful juices of the tenderloin cut. Each person takes a slice, carefully placing it onto their plates, the aroma thick in the air. The table chatter falters into silence, the only sounds in the room being of forks and knives scraping against porcelain plates, the crunch of the prosciutto layer as it’s broken into. Jude and Harold glance at each other, both with anticipatory looks, hiding their smiles behind the palms of their hands.
“Wow!” The first reaction comes, from Willem, as he swallows back his first, hesitant, bite. “That is incredible!” The rest of the table chirps their agreements and praises, the silence falling into jolly conversation and laughter.
“It tastes amazing, you two really outdid yourselves,” Laurence says, “And by you two, I mean Jude. I don’t believe for a moment this was your doing, Harold.”
“I’m being abused on Thanksgiving,” Harold laments, “By my own friends and family, no less!” The table erupts into laughter as Harold folds his arms, sliding down in his chair.
It’s nearly midnight when the guests eventually relent and decide to leave, farewell kisses and hugs and promises to visit more often at the doorway. The dishes had been cleared and put away in the dishwasher, the tablecloth folded up and neatly put away. The candles were all blown out, save for a few that still burned in the living room, their wicks licking the small piles of wax. Julia had decided to retire early, kissing them both goodnight before she headed off to bed. Harold had gone into the living room, leaving Jude behind in the kitchen, clearing away the last of the crumbs and grit left on the counters.
“Bring out that scotch, you know the one,” Harold calls from the living room, “Two glasses as well.”
Jude searches around in the drinks cabinet, before he finds the scotch Harold was referring to. He grabs two short glasses from the cupboard, balancing them in his one hand, before heading into the living room.
“Come, sit with me,” Harold says, and Jude obliges, collapsing on to the couch next to Harold, setting the scotch down on the coffee table. Harold pours two glasses of scotch, handing one of them to Jude, who takes it with a quiet thanks.
They sit there, together, in a comfortable silence, only broken by their occasionally sipping at their drinks. Jude recounts the days events in his head, the warmth in his chest growing as he ponders over each conversation, each bout of laughter, each loving moment.
Jude had always cooked alone, and thought he thought he preferred it that way (things got done more efficiently, he could be alone with himself, he could sing as he worked), now he can only think of when he’ll get to cook with Harold next. He doesn’t care whatever it is they decide to make, he only yearns for the time spent together, the peaceful domesticity of it all.
But the moment that really made him feel fuzzy with an thrilling giddiness that bordered on hysteria, was when he’d finally made the leap towards his full acceptance that Harold and Julia were his parents and to his relief, they truly, wholeheartedly believed the same, being over the moon over him shedding the habit of calling them by their names, and instead calling them by a title to which no one was entitled to refer to them, except for him, their son.
There was still much he wanted to tell them, that much he knew. But tonight, he felt a little more secure, a little more certain that perhaps Andy’s assurances were indeed correct. He could tell them about everything that happened to him, everything he had done and everything that had accumulated throughout his life, and they would still love him, he would still be their son. Nothing would change except for hopefully an aching weight lifted from Jude’s shoulders.
But that would have to wait, for another day, not for a day like this, which has been so wholly serene and honeyed, that he hadn’t even thought much of everything else.
Feeling utterly content, Jude leans his head into the crook of Harold’s neck, nestling up against his side. Harold puts his arm around Jude, leaning his head on top of the latter’s. He runs his hand through Jude’s curls, placing a small kiss into his hair. The flames of the fireplace dance before them, coughing little sparks every few seconds, adding to the warmth already present in the room.
“I think next year we should try that duck a l’orange idea I had before,” Harold says, breaking the silence, “I’m confident we could pull it off this time.”
“Papa.”