But Jen cast the fancy trappings on the floor and eagerly opened a box. “Oh ... it’s a doll.”
I hoped neither Phil nor Bonnie picked up the disappointment in her voice. With the exception of stuffed animals, Jen had lost interest in dolls around the age of nine. I leaned over her shoulder to see it and wondered what they’d been thinking. The doll wore a red dress with a matching red bow perched in stiff blond curls that gave the effect of a puffy-faced madam in the Wild West. Even worse, the doll’s eyes crossed.
“Take it out and show everyone, dear,” said Mom.
Reluctantly, Jen removed it from the box and held it up.
Bonnie didn’t seem to notice the stunned silence. “Now that’s not a doll for playing with, Jen. You put her on a safe shelf in your room because she’s an antique.” As though she thought we all knew about antique dolls, she glanced around at us and proudly declared, “All bisque.”
I could tell Jen was about as excited as I would have been to receive the ghastly doll as a gift, but she had the sense and manners to thank Bonnie and plant a big kiss on Phil’s cheek.
Bonnie made her way to me. “What a nice child. Now, about that business proposition. In January, everything is about organizing. I was over at your website recently—you’ve done such a lovely job with it—and I thought, why don’t Sophie and I make some organizing videos?” She beamed at me. “If we do them right, you might just get your own TV show. I have a few connections. Wouldn’t that be fantastic?”
Momentarily speechless, I tried to absorb her suggestion. Organizing did lend itself to videos—and it would be great promotion for both of us.
Someone rapped on the front door and opened it. Ginger glided in, carrying a platter bearing a large brown mound with a holly sprig perched on top.
“My, doesn’t that look delicious!” raved Bonnie. She placed her hand on my arm and whispered, “Think about it and get back to me.”
“Steamed plum pudding, just like the Cratchits ate,” declared Ginger.
Edward stuck out his tongue and pretended to insert his forefinger into his mouth. I gathered he hated it.
On seeing Jen’s gift, Ginger let out a small cry. “A vintage doll! Is it German? How beautiful!”
Bonnie beamed and the two of them launched into a conversation about dolls and antiques. Forrest and Edward seemed as uninterested as the rest of us. Forrest had wandered over to the window and appeared to be keeping an eye on the street. I joined him to see what he was watching.
“It’s nice to see the kids having fun in the snow. Do you think it’s just adults who are so miserable at Christmas?” Bags hung under Forrest’s sad eyes and his lips pulled tight.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I guess Christmas is never quite as magical when we grow up.”
Forrest stared into his drink. “You can’t imagine what it’s like to get up on Christmas morning knowing there’s nothing under the tree for your kid. I know Edward is old enough to understand, but it’s still a disappointment for all of us. Next year, I’m getting involved with one of the drives for gifts for underprivileged children. No one should have to go through this.” He looked up at me. “You’ve been involved with crimes before. Do you think it’s true that the culprit returns to the scene of the crime?”
“Is that why you’re watching the street?”
Forrest grinned. “Partly. It can’t hurt.”
He was right about that. But the thief would have to be incredibly stupid to show up on Christmas Day.
“It’s the Thorpe boy.”
I turned to find Ginger standing behind us.
“Who?” I asked.
“Walter Thorpe. The kids call him Dasher.”
“Like the reindeer?” I joked.
“He was a nightmare as a child.” Ginger’s tone left no doubt about her dislike of Dasher. “He was like a bee on legs, dashing every which way, bumping into things and knocking them over. His father finally put him on a leash, but the name stuck. Too bad he’s not on a leash anymore—we’d have our Christmas gifts.”
An angry tinge laced Forrest’s tone when he said, “Why can’t you ever give anyone a break? The kid made a mistake. That doesn’t mean he’s responsible for every crime forever after.”
To me, she said, “Dasher vandalized the high school and had to be sent away to reform school.”
“It was a military academy. He graduated last summer.”
“And he’s home for Christmas. Unemployed, I hear. Figures. What would you expect from a child whose father has the garish taste to blow up a Grinch big enough to be seen from planes landing at Dulles Airport?”
“At least
he
came home for the holidays,” Forrest snarled.
Clearly in the middle of a private squabble between Forrest and Ginger that I didn’t understand, my skin crawled and I wanted to slink away.
Thankfully, Marnie finally made an appearance. She wore enough makeup to cover an eight-day crying jag. Holding her head high, she announced, “Dessert is now served. Please come and help yourselves.”
Someone had changed the tablecloth to a bright red weave with green trim. Highly polished red and green apples formed a pyramid on a silver platter in the center of the table. A stack of elegant Spode Christmas Tree dessert plates waited for use, next to red and green napkins, folded on the diagonal and layered decoratively, so they overlapped. A bowl of vanilla sauce sat next to Ginger’s Steamed Pudding. Cookies of all shapes and types nearly overflowed on their platters, and at the far end of the table was a glamorous Red Velvet Cake. A piece had already been cut, showing off the red cake inside.
The twelve-year-old sophisticate’s eyes nearly bugged out. She and Edward wasted no time loading plates and popping cookies into their mouths. A hopeful Daisy followed them, wagging her tail, and waiting for crumbs to fall. I held my breath as Phil and Bonnie approached the dining room, where Marnie stood.
Cool and distant, Marnie said, “Hello, Philip. How nice that you could bring your little friend.”
I thought Bonnie might lash out but she said calmly, “So nice to meet you, Marnie. Are you responsible for the lovely centerpiece?”
“Laci made it, inspired by Natasha’s show.”
Bonnie acted like she was chatting with a new friend, not the woman whose husband she was dating. “Natasha is so talented. No wonder she has such a loyal following.” She helped herself to a thumbprint cookie.
“I so envy you living in Old Town.” Ginger glanced over her shoulder and whispered, “I’ve looked at a house for sale one block away from Natasha’s house! Some old professor died, so they have to sell it. It’s overpriced if you ask me, but it’s my dream house. I’m hoping Forrest might get a promotion so we can swing it.”
“I know that house. It’s gorgeous. Well! I’m the envious one if you can afford that place.”
Shawna sidled up next to Bonnie and helped herself to a generous piece of Red Velvet Cake. “Do you need a hand with anything for your party tomorrow, Bonnie?”
I squelched a snort. Would Shawna be more helpful to her potential future mother-in-law than she had been to her sister?
Bonnie flashed a broad smile at Shawna. “You’re an honored guest. You don’t have to do a thing but show up in a pretty outfit. I’m just so pleased that you and Beau will be there.”
Marnie shifted from one foot to the other, and what I thought was meant as a smile wrinkled her lips like she’d licked a lemon. Who could blame her? Clearly she hadn’t anticipated attending a party for her daughter in which her husband would be the date of the hostess.
The doorbell rang, and even though it wasn’t my home, to be helpful, I answered the door. A young woman with a ring hanging in her nose and wild hair the color of coal said, “I was told my dad might be here?”
I didn’t think so, but before I could say anything, she cried, “Daddy!” and launched herself at Forrest.
“Pumpkin! You came!” He embraced her in his arms like he might never let go.
Edward walked by and punched her in the arm.
“When’d you get so tall, rug rat?” she asked.
“Emma?” Ginger held her dessert plate in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. “How nice of you to join us after all.” She regarded Emma stiffly. “Honestly, I hate these modern fashions. You look positively pregnant. Maybe we can go shopping at the sales tomorrow and get you something a little nicer.”
Mom whispered into my ear, “The next time I say something about your weight, I want you to remind me of this.”
I was glad Mom realized how awful Ginger was being to her daughter, but Emma
did
look pregnant.
“Shopping for little teeny clothes might be more appropriate, Mom.”
“You mean ... ?” Forrest beamed and hugged his daughter again.
But a shadow crossed over Ginger’s face. “I know you like to torture me, Emma. Never mind all the things I’ve done for you, beginning with hours of painful labor, but that’s not funny.”
Emma placed a proud hand on the top of her tummy. “I’m not joking.”
Ginger sat down and primly sipped coffee. “At least tell me that you have a husband and a job.”
Emma borrowed her dad’s fork and took a big bite of the slice of Red Velvet Cake on his plate. Her mouth full, she said, “We’re selling our art at craft shows.”
“We? My sister found a guy who didn’t dump her after the first date?”
“Edward!” Sitting so straight it made
my
back hurt, Ginger daintily ate a bite of her steamed pudding.
Forrest raised his eyebrows in fatherly alarm. “Emma,” he said gently, “you’re not traveling around to craft shows with some stranger?”
“Of course not. It’s Dasher.”
Ginger’s plate of steamed pudding tumbled to her lap, and she grabbed her throat.
FIVE
From
“Ask Natasha”
:
Dear Natasha,
I’m so inept at decorating for the holidays that my friends make fun of me. I can’t afford life-size Santas, animated figures, or a forest of poinsettias, and small decorations just go unnoticed. Any easy decorating suggestions that won’t leave me broke?
—No Partridges in Peartree, Tennessee
Dear No Partridges,
Do you have pears? Fruit makes beautiful Christmas decor. Especially pomegranates and rosy pears nestled among pine greens. If that’s not your style, pop colorful Christmas candies into glass bowls and use them to decorate. Or take a walk to collect pinecones and nuts, spray paint them gold or silver, and cluster them in glass bowls and vases for an understated elegant look.
—Natasha
Phil, Marnie’s estranged husband, grabbed Ginger from behind, lifted her, and squeezed in a Heimlich-maneuver fashion. She coughed and waved a hand at Phil. Wheezing, she said, “I’m okay. Just can’t get air.” Beet red, she rasped, “I’d like to go home.”
“Maybe you should rest a moment,” my mom suggested, rather reasonably, I thought.
But Ginger shuffled toward the door, bent forward and coughing, with her husband on her heels. Their son, Edward, followed, but Emma calmly finished the piece of cake she’d been eating before trailing after them.
When the door shut, George said, “That was quite a scene.”
“All families have problems, dear.” Mom bustled off to the kitchen, and the rest of us were left facing the other problem—Marnie, Phil, and his love bunny, Bonnie.
When I cut a piece of Red Velvet Cake for my dessert, Mom was covering Ginger’s steamed pudding with plastic wrap. “Sophie, would you take this next door to the Chadwicks? They’ll want it later.”
“Sure.” I savored a dollop of cream cheese frosting on my fork and dipped my finger in a tiny bit of the sweet icing for Daisy to lick. “Marnie recovered from her shock fast.”
Mom groaned. “Wait until Phil leaves. I bet we don’t talk about anything else tonight. Poor Marnie. I don’t know how I would react if your father pulled that kind of stunt.”
Daisy wagged her tail, and I realized that Jen stood behind us. “Can I go home with you and Hannah tonight?” she asked. “I can walk Daisy for you.”
“That’s not a bad idea.” Mom handed me the pudding. “Bonnie’s Boxing Day party tomorrow is in Old Town anyway.” She pursed her lips. “I wonder if Marnie and Laci will still want to attend?”
She handed me the plum pudding and fed Daisy a cookie crumb that had landed on the tablecloth.
Since I was only going next door, I didn’t bother with a coat. But I wasn’t wearing boots and didn’t want to tromp through the snow, so I walked down George’s driveway to the street and turned up the Chadwicks’ drive. I could hear screaming before I reached their front walk. I stopped and debated whether I should return later. But before I could decide, the door opened and Emma blasted out onto the porch. She turned and shouted into the house, “Why can’t you be like other mothers? I will never be the perfect child you wanted. Why can’t you ever be happy for me?”
She stomped down the sidewalk toward me. “Are you okay?” I asked.
Emma peered at the steamed pudding. “What’s that? Oh no! Not the witch’s Olde English Cratchit dessert.” She laughed heartily. “We all hate it. Edward and Dad will spend the next couple of days trying to figure out how to get rid of it. Dad is such a fantastic baker, but the witch won’t let him in the kitchen. She knows he’ll show her up. It’s so much more important to her to have something authentic that matches her Olde English Christmas theme. Never mind if it’s edible. We had to pressure her for years to make a turkey. Can you imagine—one year she made a boar’s head. The head, for heaven’s sake!”
Emma appeared to have calmed down. “At least she won’t be pushing that vile pudding at me. If I didn’t hate it so much, I’d take it with me just to spite her.”
“Emma!” Across the street and one house down, a young man waved at her. From a distance, he looked like he hadn’t bathed in a while, but then I decided it might just be several days worth of beard growth.
Emma waved back at him. “Well, see you around. If my dad asks, we’re staying with the Thorpes. Maybe she’ll have to go out for a while, and he can bake Red Velvet Cupcakes for me—my favorite!” She flickered her fingers at me and glanced back at her parents’ house before striding off.