“Start small—work on little piles before raking everything together. It’ll save you time,” I suggested helpfully.

Kate froze mid-swing of the rake, glaring at me with a look that could have shriveled a tree. “Didn’t you say your leg was bothering you?” she asked dryly. “Maybe it’s time you went inside and rested.”

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I straightened up, indignant. “I’m pushing through the pain to help you, and this is the thanks I get?”

Kate rolled her eyes, her hand instinctively resting on her rounded belly. “Stress isn’t good for the baby,” she muttered to herself before resuming her task.

Across the yard, their grouchy neighbor, Mr. Davis, shuffled into view. “Good afternoon, Mr. Davis!” I called out, forcing a cheerful tone. His response was a grunt before he retreated inside. “Typical,” I thought. “Grumpy, just like Kate.”

Inside, I frowned at the thin layer of dust gathering on the coffee table. Kate was home on maternity leave, so why wasn’t the house spotless for Andrew? Later, when she began prepping dinner, I offered my expertise. Instead of gratitude, she turned on me. “Please, leave the kitchen,” she snapped.

That evening, as Andrew returned home, I overheard their hushed conversation. “We agreed this would help everyone,” Andrew said firmly.

Kate sighed, sounding exhausted. “I know. It’s just not as easy as I thought it would be.”Curious, I peeked around the corner and saw him wrapping his arms around her, murmuring words of comfort. The sight irked me—she always played the victim, while I was the one bending over backward to tolerate her moods.

Over dinner, I couldn’t resist pointing out that her pie was underbaked. Kate didn’t get defensive, though. Instead, she gave me a sly smile and said, “Why don’t you bake a pie yourself and take it to Mr. Davis?”

I scoffed. “Why would I waste a perfectly good pie on that grouch? He can barely manage a ‘hello.’”

Kate’s smirk widened. “Oh, he’s not as bad as you think. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

I rolled my eyes and laughed it off, but her words lingered.

The next morning, there was a knock at the door. To my surprise, Mr. Davis stood on the porch. “Margaret,” he began hesitantly, “would you join me for dinner one evening?”

I raised an eyebrow. “It’s Miss Miller,” I corrected, crossing my arms.

“Miss Miller, then,” he said, clearing his throat. “Would you allow me to take you to dinner?”

Curiosity got the better of me, and by that evening, I found myself at his front door, feeling an odd mix of apprehension and excitement. Dinner was simple—roast chicken and mashed potatoes—but the conversation turned unexpectedly charming.

When I mentioned my love for jazz, his eyes lit up. “I’d play my favorite record for you, but my player’s broken,” he admitted.

“You don’t need a record to dance,” I replied before I could stop myself. Moments later, we were swaying in his dimly lit living room as he softly hummed an old melody. For the first time in years, I felt truly at ease.

Peter—he insisted I call him that—quickly became a central part of my life. We spent afternoons laughing, sharing books, and experimenting with recipes. My days, once tinged with irritation, now felt brighter. Even Kate’s barbs didn’t bother me anymore. Peter had become my anchor.

When Thanksgiving arrived, I invited him to join us. I didn’t want him spending the holiday alone. But as I passed the kitchen later that day, I overheard a conversation between Peter and Kate.

“Thank you for helping arrange the record player,” Peter said, his voice low. “You’ve made this so much easier.”

Kate replied softly, “You don’t know how much this means to us.”

My stomach twisted. I marched into the kitchen, my voice sharp. “So this was all some kind of setup?”

Kate jumped, her face pale. “It’s not what it looks like—”

“Then explain,” I demanded.

Andrew appeared, looking sheepish. “Mom, please don’t be upset. We just wanted to help. You and Peter were both lonely, and neither of you would have made the first move. The record player idea was just a way to nudge things along.”

Furious, I turned to Peter. “And you went along with this?”

Peter stepped forward, his expression calm and resolute. “At first, yes. But Margaret, what happened between us wasn’t because of their plan. It was because of you. You’ve brought joy back into my life. I’ve fallen for you—not because of a record player, but because of who you are.”

His words broke through my anger, though I wasn’t ready to forgive entirely. “Why should I believe you?”

“Because I love you,” he said simply. “Every part of you—your stubbornness, your sharp wit, and your kindness.”

Something in his voice made my defenses crumble. I sighed, nodding. “Fine,” I said. “But the record player stays. We’ll need it for all the dancing we’ll do.”

Peter laughed, relief flooding his face.

From that day on, Peter and I were inseparable. Thanksgiving took on a new meaning, becoming our favorite day to celebrate with music, laughter, and love that grew stronger with every passing year.