Blame It On The Mistletoe - A Novel of Bright's Pond (13 page)

"I am too. It should be a great time."

"I plan on bringing apple pie and maybe a berry or two, pumpkin, of course. You think that will be OK?"

"I can't wait. I think your pies will be the only normal food there—well, your pie and Zeb's—if he comes."

"If he comes?"

I looked at my feet and wondered if I should say anything personal to this woman. I hardly knew her but there was something easy in her countenance and body language that invited me to speak. Agnes always made me feel drawn out, like chewing gum, when we spoke.

"You know he's my—gee, what would you call him—boyfriend? It sounds so high schoolish to say."

"I didn't know that. I only ate at the café once, maybe twice. I'm not sure if I ever met Zeb."

"He'd be the one with the paper hat. The chief cook and bottle washer as he calls himself."

"No, sorry. I don't remember. But I hope he comes." Charlotte looked down the street. "Boris Lender was supposed to meet me. Guess that's why I seem so . . . distracted."

"He'll be here. I've never known Boris to miss an appointment."

"Oh, good. Anyway, is everything OK—with Zeb and you?"

I shook my head. "Not really. He's very jealous."

Charlotte took a step back. "Jealousy is never a good sign. It's sad when a man can't let a woman be herself without going all nuts. Tread softly. And just be very sure."

That was when Boris arrived, wearing his usual gray suit with the striped tie. He carried a thick cigar cradled between his middle and index fingers.

"Afternoon," he said flicking the ash in the gutter. He looked first to Charlotte and then me. "Are you with Charlotte, Griselda?" he asked.

"No, no I was just saying hello."

I touched her arm. "I guess I'll see you Thursday."

"Looking forward to it."

"Be ready for anything," I said.

"Well, Charlotte," Boris said. "Shall we look inside? I have a good feeling you will soon be our newest shop owner."

I headed back across the street with Charlotte's words, "tread softly" ringing in my ears.

Thanksgiving morning I woke early, 5:00 a.m. No matter what Ruth might have said, I knew she was going to need some help. So I fed Arthur his Thanksgiving meal and headed over to Ruth's. It was cold and icy, as frost had etched the windows and my truck wouldn't start. But that was OK. I walked the few blocks to her house.

I pushed open the front door. "Ruth," I called, first in whisper and because I thought there was a small chance she was still asleep. But then I heard a crash, like pots and pans falling from a cabinet in the kitchen and went running. "Ruth. Are you all right?"

She was sitting in the middle of the floor, sobbing.

"What's wrong?" I said.

"If I ever say I'm making Thanksgiving again, just hit me over the head and put me out of my misery. I just plain didn't think that cooking for eight people, nine including myself, ten, including making a plate up for Agnes would be so cottonpicking hard."

"How can I help?" I took her hand and lifted her up.

"Well, for one thing I really don't know what to do with that bird. How long it takes to cook, and that six-bean tropical salad I was making has been demoted to three beans. And I can't find my macadamia nuts."

"They're probably still in your handbag. That's where you put them Tuesday."

"Oh, that's right. I hope they're still there."

Ruth looked around her kitchen. "Have you ever known me to make such a mess? I don't understand."

"It's a lot to do, Ruth. Don't worry. You have plenty of time, and I'm here to help now. Just tell me what to do."

"I appreciate that but I don't really have plenty of time. Folks are arriving at three o'clock. Must take ten hours for a bird that big to cook through."

"No, no, it will take half the time. You don't need to even pop him into the oven until ten o'clock or so. You'll want him to set a while after cooking."

"Will you do it? Will you take care of the turkey? I think I can handle the rest—especially mashed potatoes. Now
that
I know I can do."

"You mean you're making regular mashed potatoes? The white kind?"

"Well, yeah. I thought about it and I just don't have the skills needed to make something exotic. I keep trying and I keep falling flat on my face."

"I'm sorry Ruth. Maybe we can do a little traditional mixed with a little exotic."

"That's true. It certainly doesn't mean we still can't use all the decorations and hand out leis, and I'm still making my pineapple upside-down cherry surprise cake."

"What's the surprise?"

"I ain't gonna tell you. It wouldn't be a surprise if I did."

I tied a yellow apron with white trim around my waist and washed my hands in the kitchen sink. "OK, Ruth," I said drying my hands on a terry towel. "What can I do?"

Ruth looked around at the mounds of food and bags and cans scattered on the countertop and the small round kitchen table. "I don't rightly know. It's early to prepare the veggies, and the hors d'oeuvres can wait.

"What about the turkey? I can get him stuffed and into a pan and ready for the oven."

"Oh, would you? Thank you."

It didn't take me too long to get old Tom ready for roasting. After stuffing the breast with Ruth's exotic mixture, which I must say smelled kind of tasty, I laced him up and plopped him into a roasting pan. Then I slathered his skin with butter and salt and pepper.

"Say good-bye, Ruth."

Ruth turned from what she was doing with the pineapple. "Good-bye, Tom. Roast well."

And then I got busy preparing the vegetables for cooking and even mixed up dough for biscuits. Almost before we knew it the kitchen had taken on that Thanksgiving aroma that had the capacity to warm even the coldest hearts. That nutty, brown, spicy smell with just enough savory to make your mouth water.

Later in the day, Ruth was busy making her pineapple surprise when the first guests arrived. She was up to her elbows in some kind of yellowish mixture in the stand mixer, even had a streak or three of it in her hair. The first to arrive were Charlotte, Rose, and Ginger Rodgers. I greeted them at the door.

"Welcome. Come on in and get comfy. Dinner will be about an hour or so."

Charlotte was carrying some kind of fancy pie-carrying bag. It was white with tiny red roses all over it. Embroidered on the bag were the words, "Nothing Like a Warm Pie Fresh from Our Oven to Your Affair."

"It's not mine," she said when she noticed me reading. "Herman brought it home for one day. Never did tell me where he swiped it from. Where would you like me to put these?"

I looked around. Just about every spare inch of table and counter surface had been occupied.

"I'll just take them into the kitchen."

Fortunately, I was able to set the pies on top of the refrigerator.

"Happy Thanksgiving," Ginger said when I returned to the living room. "And thanks for inviting us." She sat on the long blue sofa. Her feet barely reached the edge of the seat cushion.

"Sure thing," I said. I took their coats and hung them in the closet.

"This is a very nice house," Rose said. "Very spacious—and what are those? Palm trees?"

"Yes," I said. "These old Victorians have lots of room—and yep, palm trees. Ruth wanted a tropical Thanksgiving."

"Oh, how cool," said Ginger. "And look, I see tiki torches in the dining room. Is she going to light them?" "Oh, I hope not," I said. "I don't think the fire department would appreciate getting called away from their Thanksgiving to put out the fire."

That was when Ruth came from the kitchen. She was wearing an orange apron with a giant pumpkin appliquéd on the front and she carried a large mixing spoon.

"Hello," she said. "Happy Thanksgiving."

"Hi," the three women said at the same time.

"I'm so glad you all could come," Ruth said walking just a little ways into the living room. "Please make yourself at home. Griselda already brought out the hors d'oeuvres as you can see." She indicated the crowded coffee table. "We got those tiny sausages in tiny rolls, pigs in a blanket they call them, and some veggies for dipping, and I made a tropical dipping sauce also with honey and yogurt and chili powder."

"Take your time," Rose said.

"And oh, I have iced tea also. Made it fresh this morning— nice and sweet. Just the way my hubby used to take it. Oh—" she put her hand over her heart. "I miss him so much around the holidays."

"That sounds so nice," Charlotte said. "Thank you."

"You'll need to excuse me," Ruth said, "but I have to get back to my pineapples and cherries. But help yourself to some hors d'oeuvres."

"Yes, yes," I said. "We have everything Ruth mentioned along with cheese and crackers and cheese puffs with bacon and—you can see what else."

"Oh, and Griselda," Ruth said poking her head back into the living room. "Aren't you forgetting something?" She nodded toward the den.

I looked and then I remembered. "The leis."

"What?" Ginger said.

"Of course," Rose said. "We should all be wearing a lei."

"I have a pretty flowery lei for each of you to go with our tropical Thanksgiving theme," Ruth called.

Everyone but Rose who joined right in on the spirit of things choked back a chuckle as I went to retrieve them. I handed one to each. Ruth told me I was supposed to kiss everyone on the cheek also, but I vetoed that idea pretty quickly.

"This is nice," Charlotte said looking around. "It does look like a picture of a Hawaiian luau I saw in a magazine once. 'Course I never been. Herman was though, once. On a Fuller Brush Salesman Convention."

"I'd like to go someday," Rose said. "I think going down inside a volcano must be so thrilling. I hear you can get a tour to do that over there."

The conversation quickly died after that.

"So," I said. "Anybody want to watch football?" That was when I noticed Charlotte swiping tears away from her eyes. Then she blew into a yellow hanky. I noticed she looked a bit shell-shocked as I draped the flowery necklace over her shoulders but I didn't say anything then.

"Are you OK, Charlotte?" I said. "The holidays can be rough, I know." Charlotte wore a pretty blue dress with dainty white trimming.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's just . . . just that it's been a long time since I had a Thanksgiving like this."

I put my arm around her. "Well, we're just so happy you're here. Now how about enjoying some snacks before the men arrive and wolf them all down." I whispered in her ear, "But I suspect it's your pies that will be the hit of the day."

"Thank you, Griselda," she said. "It does smell good in here. But not exactly traditional although you can never mistake the savory aroma of Bell's Seasoning."

"You'll see," I said. "I think it'll be a little of both."

"Griselda," Ginger Rodgers said, "could I trouble you for a glass of water?"

"Certainly, be right back."

I went into the kitchen and grabbed a water pitcher that was on the kitchen counter right next to a bowl of Ruth's Ambrosia Salad—a mixture of shredded coconut and chunks of pineapple, mandarin oranges, marshmallows, pecans, and two cans of fruit cocktail folded into whipped cream.

"How's it going Ruth?" I asked. "Need any help yet?"

She looked up from her work. She was dropping cherries into the centers of pineapple rings. "No yet, but the turkey will need to be checked soon and then I guess we get the vegetables on the table."

The doorbell went off again. "That's probably the boys," I said. "I'll go let them in."

I poured Ginger a glass of water and brought it to her.

"Thank you," she said.

I opened the living room door. Boris, Studebaker, Asa, and Zeb stood on the other side. My heart began to pound as I looked past them just in case Cliff had decided to come— invited or not. And I wouldn't put it past Ruth to have invited him—just for the fireworks. I honestly had not expected to see Zeb and it was hard to hide my surprise.

"Zeb? I . . . I didn't expect you."

"I know. I . . . Stu talked me into it."

"OK, I hated the idea of you spending the day alone, anyway."

"Me too." He smiled wide.

"So . . . happy Thanksgiving," I said. "Come on in. I'm not sure who knows who so you can make your introductions as needed."

That accounted for all the invited guests except Ivy Slocum. She was often a hit-or-miss guest. Ivy marched to her own drum and if she woke up that morning feeling sour or sad or just plain bored with the whole thing, she would stay away.

Zeb hung back. He grabbed my hand. "Are you glad to see me, Grizzy?"

I looked into his chocolate eyes. "Sure I am. I've been missing you."

"That's good. I've been missing you." Then he gave me a quick peck on the lips.

Soon the conversation was flowing as the three guys found seats. Zeb and Boris got into a discussion about a needed stoplight on the corner of Filbert and Main. Studebaker had a hard time keeping his eyes off of Ginger. She seemed amused by it. I glanced out the window again half expecting to see Cliff.

The aroma of the turkey drifted into the living room. I went to the kitchen to baste the bird. It was nearly ready and smelled heavenly. The skin was golden brown and crispy. I drizzled juices over it.

"Smells good," Ruth said. "How much longer?"

"I think it might be ready." I checked the meat thermometer and sure enough it was perfect—one hundred and sixty-five degrees. "I think I'll take it out so it can settle while we mash the potatoes and get everything else on the table."

I lifted the turkey onto the stove top.

"Whatcha doing?" Zeb said. He had come into the kitchen. "Come on." He took my hand. "Come and join the group. We were just talking about the fountain up in Paradise."

"OK. Just a few minutes."

"Well, don't take too long," he said.

"Go on," Ruth said. "Join the others. I got everything under control out here."

"No, no, that's not right."

"I'd love to help," Charlotte said. "I heard you talking and thought I'd see what I can do."

"Go on," Ruth said. "Spend time with Zeb. Charlotte can help."

"OK. As long as you're sure."

She looked at me and twisted her mouth.

"OK, OK," I said.

Zeb and I rejoined the group in time to hear Asa say, "It was exciting. When that water turned on and everything worked and the water went where it was supposed to and everyone cheered it was almost as though I had made it myself."

"I still can't believe that strange fella built it," Ginger said. "He worked almost day and night for weeks. Sure was noisy, but worth it."

"Where is Leon Fontaine?" I asked.

Asa shook his head and exchanged looks between him and Rose.

"I heard he was spending the day at Greenbrier," Ginger said. "He said something about helping to serve Thanksgiving dinners to the residents who have no family today."

My heart sank as I was reminded of Agnes. Rose seemed to sense my sadness. She patted my hand. "Your sister will be all right," she said. "You're going up there later."

Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes. "I know. It's just that this is the first Thanksgiving we haven't spent together— all day long. It's weird."

"Try not to fret, Grizzy," Zeb said. "Agnes is a grown-up. She must understand the predicament she put you in."

"
She
put me in." I know I sounded incredulous. "It wasn't her fault. What Agnes became—I mean. She couldn't help it— leastways not early on. Not when there was all that bullying and talking going on."

"Calm down, Honey," Zeb said. "That might be true but you got to admit that she did have some say as she got older."

I took a deep breath and decided that Thanksgiving was not the day to air the Sparrow family laundry. "OK, it will be nice to see her later."

"Sure it will," Ginger said. "And believe me, with Leon Fontaine making the rounds up there, well—he'll keep them all happy." She sipped her water. "There's just something about that man."

Studebaker looked at Boris like the two of them knew something the rest of us didn't. I figured Mildred had told Boris all about the Fountain of Youth thing and what Vera Krug had said. And if Boris knew, then Studebaker knew.