Punchline by Jacqueline Diamond

she’d agreed to his suggestion. “The point is, we should celebrate Thanksgiving as a family.”
    “You’re not my family,” she said.
    “I’m part of your baby’s family,” he countered. “And I always will be.”
    That remark stopped her in midstride. She sucked in a couple of long breaths.
    Darryl, too, recognized that he’d hit on a basic truth. He really was going to be linked to Belle for the rest of their lives. Even if they married other people and lived far apart, they would always be this child’s parents.
    Someday that might be him sitting alone in a bedroom, talking on the telephone about a Thanksgiving celebration of which he wouldn’t be a part. He tried not to dwell on the possibility that he had glimpsed the ghostof Thanksgiving future. The present was all he could handle right now.
    “Sweet potatoes would be all right’ he said. “And you could serve the broccoli with the cheese sauce on the side. Let’s really have fun with this. Let’s invite everyone we know.”
    “Greg and Janie would kill each other,” she protested.
    “They can put aside their petty squabbles for one day,” Darryl said. “And so can we.”
    Belle’s chin tilted upward as if she were about to dispute that possibility, but she must have seen the sincerity on his face.
    “All right, I guess we can fix Thanksgiving dinner together.” Suddenly she grinned, and he could have sworn her red hair perked up. “If nothing else, it’ll shock the hell out of everybody.”
    B ELLE GROANED INWARDLY when she returned from some last-minute grocery shopping and watched Darryl pry open the oven and baste the bird. Darryl, who wore jeans and a turtleneck beneath a spotless white apron and chef’ hat, had managed to clean himself up but hadn’t bothered with the kitchen.
    It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that the kitchen was a mess, it was two o’clock, the guests were due to arrive at four and she had four items to make. Still, he had prepared the turkey, and stuffing to serve on the side, claiming it had less fat that way.
    And the bird smelled terrific. Belle’s morning sickness had finally subsided, and she could appreciate delicious scents again.
    She had to admit, the past two weeks hadn’t gone as badly as she’d feared. Darryl had made one attempt to reorganize her CD collection, but he’d given up under pressure. Otherwise, their contact had been limited to blearily sharing the breakfast table, ordering take-outfood after returning home late from work and politely taking turns at the remote control.
    The hardest part had been dealing with her friends’ reactions. Issuing invitations for Thanksgiving had given Belle a chance to tell them about the living arrangement before they discovered it for themselves.
    The response had been primarily disbelief. Eventually, though, everyone claimed to have accepted the explanation that Darryl was researching an article. And they’d almost all promised to come for the holiday dinner.
    “Good, you’re back,” he called as he slid shut the oven door. “I’ll get out of your way and let you cook.”
    Belle stayed where she was, deliberately blocking the exit. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
    “What?” He gazed around innocently. “I don’t think so.”
    Slowly and as obviously as possible, she eyed the grease drippings on the floor, the spatters and plastic wrap in which the turkey’d been encased on the counter and the cookbook sprawled on the table. “Try again.”
    Recognition dawned, followed by a shrug. “What’s the point of cleaning up now? I figured we’d do it when you’re finished cooking.”
    “Before or after I slip in the grease and suffer a miscarriage?” she asked.
    He studied the area around his feet. “Gee, I didn’t notice that. Do you have a mop or something?”
    “Try the closet. I’ll come back when you’re done,” she said.
    Half an hour later, she was able to start cooking. Everything sounded easy: instant mashed