Mistletoe Reunion. Anna Schmidt

glanced over to where the food vendors and airline managers stood. They were lined up in a show of solidarity, their arms folded across their chests. Earlier they had marched down the concourse with Dave to where Norah and Tom were setting up for the evening’s meal and performance and made it clear—via Dave—that they had had it. “I’ll talk to them,” Dave said. “You’ll pay the difference?”

      Tom nodded. “I’ll need receipts and invoices, but yes, tell them if they will give us access to whatever food supplies they may have on hand, they will be fully reimbursed.”

      Norah watched Dave approach the others. “Tom, this could be a lot of money.”

      Tom shrugged. “Look at these people, Norah,” he said turning her away from Dave and his group to where groups of passengers were busy moving waiting-area benches into impromptu auditorium-style seating in front of the stage the children had created. “Look at their faces,” he said, his hands still on her shoulders. “Close your eyes and listen.”

      Norah did as he asked and she heard laughter and snatches of the kind of conversation that takes place when strangers are getting to know one another. From a distant corner she heard the soft strum of a guitar and from somewhere behind her she heard the younger children busy at play in the children’s area now dubbed Camp Stuck-in-the-Snow.

      And through it all she was most aware of Tom’s familiar strong hands resting on her shoulders, his deep quiet voice reverberating in her ear, and the rhythm of his steady breathing as predictable as her own. “We always were a good team, woman.”

      “Okay, you’ve got a deal,” Dave said having returned from his huddle with the others. “Get your people organized and follow me.”

      Half an hour later the food started coming—an unorthodox cornucopia of hot and cold sandwiches, pizzas, oversized pretzels, prepackaged salads, single-serving containers of yogurt, fresh apples, oranges and bananas, bags of chips, pretzels and nachos, and bottled water, soda and juices. The “guests” lined up on either side of the buffet and without anyone so much as suggesting they be mindful of the numbers of people to be fed, limited their selections so there would be plenty for everyone.

      “Mom, over here!”

      Norah saw Isabella waving to her from the position she’d staked out near the stage. Tom was sitting on the floor next to her.

      A family Thanksgiving, she thought as she made her way to them.

      “Pull up a piece of floor and join us,” Tom said with a grin. He started to bite into his sandwich when Isabella stopped him.

      “We haven’t said grace,” she reminded him.

      Norah could see by Tom’s expression that saying grace was not exactly a regular thing for him. The truth was that if it weren’t for Isabella’s devout faith, saying grace probably wouldn’t be a regular thing for Norah either.

      “You say it, honey,” she suggested.

      Isabella held out one hand to either parent and then indicated with a nod that they needed to complete this little circle by taking hands with each other. When they hesitated, Isabella sighed impatiently. “We’re giving thanks,” she said, “not making a lifetime commitment.”

      Tom laughed and grabbed Norah’s hand. “Good point, Bella.”

      Isabella closed her eyes and bowed her head and her parents did the same. Norah could not help noticing that nearby, other small groups of passengers had observed them and paused to put down their food and join hands as well.

      “Thank you, God, for this food we are so blessed to receive. Millions of people are starving tonight and we ask for your help in showing us the way to relieve such suffering even as we celebrate this day of giving thanks. Amen.”

      “Amen,” Tom and Norah murmured together.

      “That was lovely, Bella,” Tom said as he released Norah’s hand and leaned over to kiss his daughter’s cheek. “Thank you.”

      “You can eat now,” Bella instructed, every bit as shy about receiving a compliment as Norah had ever been.

      “Kid gets more like you all the time,” Tom whispered as he reached past Norah for a packet of ketchup.

      “So how did we spend our first Thanksgiving together?” Isabella asked when conversation among them faltered.

      “You didn’t eat much—you were still a little peanut inside Mom’s tummy.” Tom tweaked Isabella’s nose.

      “We were still in that tiny little studio apartment,” Norah added and saw Tom frown.

      “It wasn’t that tiny.” Tom had always been especially sensitive about the material environment he had provided for Norah and Isabella. Even though when they split they were living in a McMansion in a gated community with hired help to tend the grounds, the pool and clean the house, Tom had wanted more.

      “Cozy,” Norah amended, not wanting to open the door to old wounds and arguments. “It was our first home together.”

      Appeased, Tom laughed as he continued the story. “Your Mom had bought this turkey—what was it, forty pounds or something?”

      Norah blushed. “Twenty,” she murmured.

      “Frozen,” Tom added as they both started to laugh.

      “And it wouldn’t fit in the oven,” Norah said, snorting with giggles and the memory.

      “Your mom had invited the immediate world to come for dinner.”

      “Just a few neighbors and people from work who had nowhere else to go that day,” Norah protested.

      “Twenty people in all,” Tom reminded her.

      “Where were you going to put them all if the apartment was so small?” Izzy asked.