I keep going back to how the book looked when I pulled it out from behind the peaches. The spine was a little bent from being squeezed in there and the title was almost faded in one spot.

I had not looked at it in years but I knew exactly where it was.

The kitchen smelled like the stuffing I had put in the bird earlier that morning. Sage and onion and a little bit of the sausage I always add. Derek was still talking but his words were slowing down when he saw what I had in my hands.

“Wait,” he said. “Is that yours?”

I set it on the counter next to the bowl of peeled potatoes. The counter top was still damp from where I had wiped it and the book left a little ring of moisture around the bottom edge.

My daughter stopped in the doorway with the plates. “What is that?” she asked. She came closer and looked at the cover without touching it.

“It is from when I did the cooking segment,” I said. The oven timer went off right then and I turned to check the turkey.

Derek followed me with his eyes. “You never said anything about that,” he said. His voice was not slow anymore.

I opened the oven door and the heat came out in a wave that fogged my glasses for a second. The turkey was perfect, skin brown and the juices running clear when I poked it with the fork.

“I did not think it mattered,” I told him. I closed the oven and set the fork down on the counter.

My daughter was flipping through the pages now. “Fourteen thousand copies,” she said, reading from the back cover. “In the Piedmont.”

Derek leaned against the counter. “I was explaining brining to you,” he said. “For eleven minutes.”

The number hung there again. Eleven minutes of him talking and me listening like always.

The gravy I had made earlier was still on the stove and it had a skin forming on top because it had been sitting.

I stirred it once with the spoon. The lumps he had mentioned were not really there but I did it anyway.

“You could have stopped me,” Derek said. He looked at the floor then back up at me.

I told him it was fine. My daughter loves him and that has always been enough for me to keep quiet about little things.

The light was coming through the window in a long slant across the floor. It hit the edge of the book and made the old paper look almost new for a minute.

My daughter closed the book. “All this time,” she said. She did not say anything else.