Josh couldn't decide whether he liked holidays in Palm Beach better or worse than holidays in Connecticut. Weather-wise, it was no contest: Florida was balmy, sunny, and smelled like the ocean; Connecticut at this time of year was cold and gray and dotted with dead trees whose branches stood out starkly against the colorless sky. Standing on the beach, sand between his toes, his jeans rolled up so they wouldn't get wet as he strolled along the water's edge, it was easy to imagine that Palm Beach was the hands-down winner in every respect.

But Connecticut did have something that Florida lacked: memories. Memories of his dad, and his sister, and the highs and lows of growing up. Florida didn't have the maple tree in the backyard that he used to try to climb (he never did make it more than halfway up the trunk); it didn't have the sparse patch of grass near the garage where Butch, their first dog, was buried. It didn't have the mahogany dining room table where four people used to sit down to eat.

His mother's two-bedroom Palm Beach condo wasn't haunted by ghosts.

It had just been the two of them for Thanksgiving dinner this year; mealtime conversation had been steady but occasionally awkward. As usual he regaled her with tales from work, and she expressed as much interest as she was able; as usual he didn't respond to her veiled inquiries about his love life, or lack thereof. When they'd finished eating, he'd helped her clear the table and load up the tiny dishwasher. His mom had then announced she wanted to take a nap, and Josh had taken the opportunity to slip outside and walk down to the beach, about fifteen minutes away.

It was all very civilized, but it didn't feel like home. And there were too many gaps in the conversation that his father would have filled with his firm, deep voice as he helped himself to more mashed potatoes.

Without really knowing why he was doing so, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed a number. He listened to the ringing against his ear as he stared out at the gently swelling waves of the ocean.

"Hello?"

"Hey," he said. "It's me."

"Josh?" Donna's voice betrayed her confusion at his calling her on a holiday. "Is something wrong?"

"No," he said quickly. "Nothing's wrong. I'm standing on the beach right now."

"That must be nice," she said dryly. "I'm looking out the window at banks of snow."

"In November?"

"In Wisconsin? Yes, Josh, snow at the end of November is not unusual."

"The perils of life in the dairy state," he said.

"I guess. Did you need something?" she asked, still sounding puzzled.

Was he really that bad, that she would assume he had to be calling her for a reason? "No," he said again. "I uh...just wanted to wish you a happy Thanksgiving."

There was a pause on the other end. He could imagine her brow crinkled, could see her blonde hair reflected in a storm window pane. "Happy Thanksgiving," she said.

"Yeah."

"How's your mom?"

"She's good," he said.

"Tell her I said hello."

"I will," he promised.

"How are you doing, Josh?" she asked pointedly. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Absolutely," he said with a conviction he didn't feel. "Things are great. Dinner was good, it's 75 degrees outside..."

"And you miss Connecticut," Donna finished for him.

He blinked at the phone. How did she do that? He thought about denying it, then figured if he was bothering her on a holiday he probably shouldn't lie to her, at least. "Yeah," he said with a sigh. "Being here is...weird."

"I can understand that," she said sympathetically. "It's good for you to be with your mom, though."

"Yeah. No, it is. It's good for both of us, I think. I just -- there aren't any maple trees here," he said lamely.

"Palm trees aren't cutting it, huh?" she said, and he could hear the amusement in her voice.

"Not hardly. Look -- I didn't mean to interrupt your evening. I should go."

"You're not interrupting much of anything, believe me. In fact, you're probably saving me from my Aunt Barbara's annual inquisition into the state of my spinsterhood."

"Ah," he said knowingly. "I already got a similar interrogation from my mother."

"So it's not just women who get that, huh?"

"If only that were so," he said.

"I suppose that's reassuring. Although if you had a womb it would be even worse, believe me."

"I'll have to take your word for it." He watched as the tide came in, brushed tantalizingly against his toes, then receded. "Well, I really should go -- Mom's taking a nap, but she'll probably be awake soon. I think I've been hoodwinked into watching Jeopardy with her later."

"Don't shout out all the answers like some obnoxious know-it-all," Donna advised.

"What makes you think I would even do that?" he asked defensively, not sure whether he was more perturbed by the thought occurring to her in the first place -- or by the fact that she was right.

"I know you, remember?"

He smiled into the receiver, glad she couldn't see his face. "Yeah. Yeah, you do."

"Happy Thanksgiving, Josh. I'll see you Monday."

"See you Monday," he echoed, and disconnected the phone.

He put the phone back in his pocket, and took a deep breath of salty air. He felt lighter somehow, as if by talking to Donna he had purged some of the melancholy from his psyche. Which, he supposed, he had. He pictured her again in his mind's eye, deftly dodging her aunt's questions against a backdrop of crystal snow and ivory moonlight.

Hanging on to old memories doesn't mean you can't create new ones, he mused.

He took one last look at the sea, then turned around and began walking back to his mother's condo. She'd be waking up soon, and then they would watch some television, together.

End.