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Jake’s mother came in talking.

“Don’t hug me, I’m carrying. Jacob, I swear people forget how to drive in even the smallest amounts of snow. Is that the—oh.”

She had a pie box in each hand but stopped in the foyer and gazed past me into the dining room. The table, with the light hitting the cherry just right, rendered her speechless.

“Mom?”

“Yes.” She didn’t take her gaze off the table. “Hello.”

She was small and quick. Jake towered over her. Her silver-blond hair was stylish, and her hands kept moving as she talked, even while they held two pies. Jake got his eyes from her.

His father came in next with a huge warming bag that strained its handles. I reached out and took it before I could overthink doing it. He was built like Jake, gone gray, reading glasses shoved up on his head as if he’d forgotten they were there. His weathered hands reminded me of my grandfather’s. He gave me a once-over, unhurried, before he spoke.

“It’s heavy,” he said.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s a big bird. She roasted it before light and packed it away so it’d still be warm. Does one every year like the entire neighborhood is coming to dinner, when it’s usually only us.”

“It’s good for leftovers, though,” I offered, and got an approving nod from Mr. Sullivan. “Does it need to go in the oven or stay out?”

“No idea,” he said with a shrug. “I just carry what she tells me to.”

“Fair enough. I’ll get it in the kitchen and we’ll find out what she wants.” I carried it to the counter by the stove.

Across the room, Jake was getting a handshake from his father while his mother continued to talk about the drive.

I opened the bag to find the turkey wrapped in foil and still in a roasting pan. I found a trivet, moved the pan onto it, and squared everything to the edge of the counter.

When I turned around, all three of them were staring at me.

“You must be Nico,” his mother said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.” She set the pies down next to the turkey. Then she came to stand in front of me, looking at me as if she were deciding whether I was right for her son.

“He’s not going to stop,” Jake said. “He calls the mailman sir.”

“The boy is polite,” Mr. Sullivan said. “Leave him alone.”

“Kathleen is fine,” she said. “And you can call him Dennis. You’re with Jacob, so you’re practically family.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said as Jake gave me a smirk that was adorable. It wasn’t lost on me that she said you’re with Jacob. Had he told them already, or had they just figured that out?

“Come here, Nico.” I didn’t move, but she closed the space between us and pulled me into an embrace that was everything a mom hug should be. I returned the hug.

Kathleen and I busied ourselves in the kitchen for about an hour. She got the turkey settled into the oven to warm and made gravy from the pan drippings. I worked on the side dishes, with occasional help from her. We made a good team, and light conversation flowed between us as we got to know each other.

Once we announced that dinner was ready, everyone helped carry dishes to the dining room. The bare half of the table shimmered with both afternoon light and the overhead pendants illuminating it. Dennis and Kathleen kept checking out the exposed cherry, and I sensed they approved.

Jake offered his mom the good chair at the end of the table.

“Nico should have it,” she said. “He made it.”

“Which is exactly why he doesn’t need to sit in it,” Jake said, and I silently agreed with him. “It’s yours today. Sit.”

She sat. On the way down, she ran her hand along the underside of the seat, front to back. I’d expect that from his father because of the woodworking Nana Mary had done. Did Kathleen pick that up from her, too?