Drowning In Christmas Part 7

Nine.

Christmas Eve morning, and my nose was in Strutter's cookbook once again. This time, I was seeking roasting instructions for the turkey sitting in my sink. I had already dealt with the, eww, giblets, rinsed the thing, and patted it dry. The cavity had been salted, peppered, and stuffed with pieces of carrot, onion and celery. Now I was instructed to "place the bird on a roasting rack in a shallow pan, and roast at a temperature of three hundred twenty-five degrees for twenty minutes per pound or until the juices run clear when a knife is inserted between the leg and the body."

Besides being totally grossed out by all this talk of cavities and juices and bodies, I had no idea in the world what a roasting rack might be. Any chicken that had ever had occasion to find its way into my oven had been plopped straight into a roasting pan, thanks very much. As for poundage, all I knew was that I had asked for a turkey weighing between twelve and fifteen pounds, which Strutter had told me was the smallest I could expect to find. That was just before she hung up on me the previous evening.

"Charlie and Olivia came down with the flu," she had moaned, "and I don't feel so good myself, to tell you the truth. Sorry, but you're on your own. Good luck." And she was gone.

On her advice, I had abandoned the goose idea as being too tricky for a beginner to manage. With apologies to the wild birds who even now bobbed in a cautious parade across my lawn, I had driven straight to the Bliss Market first thing this morning and stood in line at the butcher counter for the better part of an hour. I was convinced that every matron in Wethersfield had pre-ordered the meat for her Christmas dinner here, and today was pick-up day. It was enough to make a vegetarian out of anyone.

"Believe me, Miss, this is the last fresh turkey available in Connecticut," the hara.s.sed butcher informed me when at last it was my turn. "I can only let you have it because the customer who ordered it is down with ..."

" ... the flu," I finished for him. "Yes, there's a lot of that going around."

"It's a little bigger than you want." He held it up for inspection. Its naked wings flapped obscenely.

"Wrap it up," I said, more to get it out of my sight than anything else. Now here it was, taking up most of my sink. The question was, how many pounds const.i.tuted "a little bigger" than I had asked for?

After staring bleakly at the thing for several minutes, I called Margo. As usual, she had the answer.

"Weigh yourself on the bathroom scale while carryin' it, Sugar. Then subtract your weight, and bingo. You doin' okay with all of this?"

"I'll manage," I a.s.sured her. "If Strutter can deal with a sick son and baby, I can roast a d.a.m.ned turkey. Thanks for the tip."

Grimly, I wrapped the carca.s.s in a kitchen towel and traipsed into the bathroom, where I stepped onto the scale. My heart almost stopped at the figure on the display. Either I had gained several pounds since Armando's departure, or this was one major turkey. I put the bird on the vanity and stepped back on the scale. The good news was, I hadn't put on any weight. The bad news was, the turkey weighed eighteen pounds. At twenty minutes a pound, that was six hours of roasting. I hoped I could afford to pay my utility bill at the end of the month.

While attempting to execute the approved wing tuck maneuver, whereby the skinny ends of the wings were bent unnaturally behind the body of the bird, I distinctly heard a bone snap. I knew it was the turkey's, not mine, but it was still enough to make my stomach lurch. I scrabbled through the lower cupboards in search of something that might serve as a roasting rack and came up with the one on which I had cooled cakes and cookies twenty years ago when I still made such things for the kids. Reasoning that a rack was a rack, I fitted it into the bottom of the roasting pan and dropped the turkey on top of it. By the time I had wrestled the whole thing into the oven, I was ready for a gla.s.s of wine and a nap. Since it was only nine-thirty in the morning. I settled for a cup of coffee and dialed Emma's number. I was going through this torture for her. Why should she be allowed to sleep in?

"He's on his way!" she greeted me cheerfully.

"Santa and his sleigh? I thought that only happened after the kiddies are all asleep," I countered with forced silliness. "Oh, you mean Jared, don't you?"

"You know perfectly well I do. According to his text message last night, he'll be on the highway by noon. The drive is four to five hours, depending on the traffic, so he should be here by five o'clock at the latest."

"He sent you a text message? You mean, you haven't talked to him? What happened to actual conversations, or am I just hopelessly behind the times?"

"He just didn't have enough time to call. All the kids were being picked up by the parents yesterday, and there was a farewell thing in the afternoon. It was just one thing after another, you know," Emma dismissed my questions a shade too brightly for my liking.One thing after another, or one girl after another? I wondered uncharitably. I mean, there's a whole evening unaccounted for here. Somehow, I held my tongue.

"Have you talked to Joey today? I don't even know when he and Justine are getting here."

"Umm, yeah, we talked." Now she was really hedging. "I don't know about their plans, though. He said Justine wasn't feeling very well."

I groaned. "If I hear about one more case of the flu, I think I'm going to scream, but I'll give them a call to see what's going on," I promised. "Somebody had better show up to eat this great hulking turkey."

"Turkey? I thought we were having roast goose?" Emma had the nerve to sound dismayed. "Turkey isn't as traditional as roast goose, is it?"

My temper rose dangerously close to the red zone. "What with one thing or another, Em, the goose thing didn't work out, so Jared will just have to make do," I managed after mentally counting to ten. "So who's bringing the chestnuts to roast on the fire?"

She forced a laugh. "I guess that's another thing we'll have to do without. Sorry, Momma. I know I'm being a pain about this, and you're a saint to put up with me. It's just that it's so important for everything to be perfect."

I knew it would be wiser not to pursue this unlikely line of reasoning from my usually level-headed daughter but found I could not resist. "I don't understand why it's so important, Emma. Why does everything have to be perfect for this guy? You've never given a fig about this sort of thing before. You've always been a take-me-as-I-am kind of person, and there have been plenty of fellows willing to do just that. Frankly, I find this whole thing a little alarming." I struggled to soften my tone. "You're just not acting like yourself, Sweetie."

She was quiet for several seconds. Then, "I know what you're saying. I wish I had an answer for you. I know I'm acting weird, and you're right, it isn't like me to care so much, but I do. I just can't help it, Momma. I guess it's just hormones," she added, baiting me a little.

I was so happy to hear her say something that reminded me of the old Emma that I capitulated. Is there a woman alive who hasn't been irrationally besotted at one time or another? If my down-to-earth daughter was having her turn, then I would do what I could to support her. I just wished this Jared person didn't sound like such a jerk.

"Probably is," I agreed equably, "but I guess you're ent.i.tled to be in l.u.s.t at least once. See you later, Dearie."

I sat over my cooling coffee for another ten minutes and then got up to shower off the smell of raw turkey. The hot spray felt wonderful, and I stood under it until it started to cool, a sure sign that the hot water heater had reached its limits. Quickly, I lathered up and sluiced off the suds.

After blowing my hair dry and donning a presentable sweater-and-slacks outfit, I felt restored enough to call my son. The call went immediately to voice mail, which wasn't unusual, considering Joey's odd work hours. When he needed to sleep, he just turned off his cell phone. Justine had her own phone, which I tried next with the same result. Well, it was Christmas Eve, so both she and Joey probably had the day off from work. Perhaps they were both sleeping or doing a little Christmas shopping. I reminded myself that whatever they were doing, it was none of my business. I just hoped they were happy doing it. Unlike Emma's present romantic relations.h.i.+p, I was optimistic about Joey and his live-in love. She seemed to be a strong, intelligent young woman, capable of handling whatever nonsense my irrepressible son dished out, and I wished the two of them well.

By mid-afternoon, I had prepared enough food to feed a small village. Margo stopped by after some last-minute shopping for a restorative cup of tea. She parked her slim haunches on a stool at the pa.s.s-through counter between my kitchen and dining room and surveyed my handiwork with something akin to awe.

"How many people did you say you're feedin'?" She gazed at a pan of sausage-and-apple stuffing, ready to go into the oven, another of candied yams, and a covered green bean ca.s.serole. Then she flicked her eyes toward the table laden with pumpkin and apple pies, plates of cookies, and a coconut layer cake.

"Don't know," I said dully. I slouched in exhaustion in the big easy chair in the living room, a mug of tea on my chest. "The way it looks right now, it could be just Emma, Jared, Joey and me. He called a little while ago to say Justine's down sick. Armando's among the missing. He hasn't answered his phone all day."

Margo picked up her tea and came to join me. She gestured at the fireplace, which was dark and cold. "What, no cracklin' blaze on the hearth?"

"I know, I know. I still have to drag in the firewood, and the table has to be set, which means ironing a tablecloth, a.s.suming I can find one."

"This is one h.e.l.l of a lot of work for dinner for four people," Margo sympathized. "I hope Emma appreciates what she's puttin' her mama through."

"Oh, I'm sure she does," I said, although I had my doubts. "What are you and John doing tonight?"

She hugged herself in antic.i.p.ation. "Well, since John's parents went to their final reward some years back, and I'm happy to say mine are more than a thousand miles south of here in Atlanta, John's takin' me to dinner at Spris. It's that wonderful Italian restaurant on Const.i.tution Plaza that has floor-to-ceilin' windows overlookin' all those twinklin' lights." The Hartford Festival of Lights was a mainstay of the local holiday season. At dusk on the Friday after Thanksgiving, huge crowds gathered on the plaza to sing carols and watch as thousands upon thousands of tiny white lights were lighted, transforming the scene into a winter wonderland.

"It sounds perfect," I said, meaning it. "How's Strutter doing? I haven't talked with her since yesterday, and things weren't looking too good then."

Margo smiled. "Don't you worry about Strutter. Her mama arrived this mornin' from the island, sized up the situation, and took charge. I'm positive that at this very moment, everyone at the Putnam household is bathed, fed, and tucked up in clean sheets, and Mrs. Tuttle is havin' the time of her life."

In the way that words sometimes do, the phrase "time of her life" sent my thoughts skittering to poor Mary O'Halloran, who had planned to be having the time of her life on a glorious cruise right about now. Instead, she waited alone by her phone, praying for news of her missing husband.

"Still nothing on James O'Halloran?" I asked Margo.

"I almost forgot to tell you. The police traced that Roberta gal, the one James had his unfortunate affair with. She actually lives in California, and yes, there is a son, Patrick, as a result of that relations.h.i.+p. He's about seven and cute as the devil."

I stared at her. Even for Margo, this was information gathering elevated to an art form. "Now how would you know what the child looks like?" I wondered aloud.

"Oh, there are pictures, you know," she said evasively. "They come in for the file, and John sometimes brings work home with him and leaves things lyin' around." She busied herself looking for a tissue in her purse.

"Uh huh. So I gather the police have questioned Roberta about James' disappearance. Was she the woman who called him last Thursday morning?"

"She was," Margo picked up the story eagerly, "but not because she was lookin' for James." She paused for full dramatic effect. "She wanted to know if James had heard from Joseph."

"She knows Joseph O'Halloran?" In my fatigued state, I seemed unable to grasp the meaning of what Margo was trying to tell me.

"Way better'n that, Sugar. She and Joseph O'Halloran are married, or were married, I guess I should say. Roberta is Joseph O'Halloran's widow."

"Wow," I breathed, stunned by this unexpected turn of events. "Does Mary know any of this yet?"

"All of it," Margo a.s.sured me. "Gentleman that he is, my John went over there and told her himself. See, James is Joseph's next of kin, legally speakin', and since James can't be located, it falls to Mary as his sister-in-law to make the final arrangements for Joseph. But now that Roberta has been identified as Joseph's legal wife, Mary is off the hook."

I blinked at Margo as my tired brain reeled. I finished my tea and struggled to my feet. "I have no idea what to make of everything you just told me about the O'Hallorans, but I'm glad to hear that Strutter is being looked after by somebody else for a change. I guess some women really do enjoy all this fuss. Personally, I do not see the attraction of cooking all day to produce a meal that will be eaten and forgotten in twenty minutes, then spending two hours cleaning up the kitchen." I looked at the array of edibles before me and felt a wave of revulsion. "I am sick of the sight of food and the smell of food. It's in my clothes. It's in my hair. At this moment, I don't care if I never eat again." I trudged to the sink mutinously. Then I had a thought. "Maybe I could tell Emma I've got the flu. There's so much of it going around."

Margo b.u.mped me aside good-naturedly to rinse her mug out under the faucet. "Then you would have gone through all of this for no good reason. Besides, what would you do with that eighteen-pound turkey?"

"I don't know what I'm going to do with it now except hope that the kids take home lots of leftovers."

Margo washed my mug and added it to hers on the drainboard. "Cheer up, Sugar. It's just one evenin', and your man will be home soon."

"You think?"

She nodded. "I have a good feelin' about it. She gave me a hug and shrugged into her stylish pants coat. "It'll all be over soon. Go take a nap."

I took Margo's advice and joined Jasmine on my bed for a nap. I lay on my side and cuddled her to me for maximum warmth on her old bones. To be sure I wouldn't oversleep, I set the alarm clock for four-thirty. That would give me time to finish up the food and build a fire in the fireplace. I eschewed the table cloth idea and decided to go with a buffet. In five minutes flat, I was sound asleep.

Thinking that the alarm had awakened me, I sat up with a start. Jasmine snored on, oblivious, as I stretched across her to look at the clock. Four-fifteen.

"Momma?" Emma stood wavering in the doorway of my bedroom, having come in through the garage as I slept. She looked absolutely ghastly. My first thought was that she was ill, and I rushed to her. I looked closely at her face and was appalled by what I saw there. She had obviously taken pains with her appearance, but no amount of mascara or eyeliner in the world could disguise her red-rimmed eyes and the dark circles beneath them, much less her bleak expression. Her skin was papery, her hands clammy. I pulled her to the end of the bed and sat down next to her, holding her cold hands in both my own.

"What is it, Emma? Tell me."

The empty eyes lifted to meet mine. "He's not coming," she said. "Jared's not coming tonight or any other night, for that matter. He sent me an email a couple of hours ago. There's another girl, someone local. He's sorry, he said, and I should try not to hate him."

I was devastated for my strong, beautiful daughter who had never before experienced this particular sort of pain. When it came to love affairs, Emma had always called the shots. I had never before seen her heartbroken, and it was terrible to see. There was no worse pain, I knew, and I was filled with rage for the arrogant young stud who had done this to my daughter. Helpless to a.s.suage her grief in any real way, I did what we always did in tough spots, she and I.

"Well, at least he didn't break up with you on a Post-it," I said.

It took Emma all of two seconds to connect my non sequitur to an episode of "s.e.x and the City," a television show we had both followed avidly, in which the heroine's latest swain had done just that. Her lips twitched, and a small gleam enlivened her glazed eyes.

"Jacka.s.s," I said.

"Sc.u.mbag," she agreed.

"Weasel."

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d." I let her have the last word, and we both burst into laughter. That, in turn, triggered the tears she still needed to shed. I held her head and rubbed her back as she sobbed, the age-old comforts of touch and shared experience that a mother could offer a daughter. There was really nothing else I could do.

While I patted and cooed and pa.s.sed fresh tissues from the box on my bedside table, my thoughts drifted back to a painful love affair of my own back in the day, when I had lived in California for a couple of years. It had been intense, all-consuming, and when he told me it was over, it was the end of my world. Not knowing where else to go or what else to do, I returned to New England to lick my wounds, where I met and married Michael and raised a family with him. Although we grew apart and eventually divorced, I had been fortunate enough to have Armando come into my life. So instead of ending my world, my California lover had freed me to have loving, long-term relations.h.i.+ps with two strong, decent men.

I wished there were some way to communicate that experience magically to Emma, whose sobs were subsiding to sniffles and gulps, but I knew she couldn't possibly hear me now. The gut-wrenching grief must first be endured. Only time could give her the necessary perspective to understand the gift she had just been given by the jacka.s.s/sc.u.mbag/weasel/b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

"Oh, Christ," said Joey from the doorway, where he stood surveying the sad little scene with obvious disgust. "Let me guess. The sports stud dumped her."

Ten.

By the time they reached their late twenties, Joey and Emma had fallen easily into an adult sibling relations.h.i.+p. Joey was a mere seventeen months older than Emma, but they were very different people. They didn't hang out together. They had different friends and interests, but they were genuinely fond of one another and took pride in each other's accomplishments.

It had not always been that way. Past toddlerhood, when they had been pals and playmates, their relations.h.i.+p had been volatile, to say the least. Both were outspoken and opinionated, traits that inevitably led to contests of will. When they were teenagers, their quarrels were frequent and loud. It was the rare week that didn't include yelling and door-slamming. Occasionally, their brawls got physical. Emma had speed and agility going for her, but Joey had stealth and size on his side.

Watching them now from where I still sat on the edge of my bed was like traveling fifteen years back in time. Joey howled insults at his sister for being so stupid and naive, and Emma screamed at him to go away and leave her alone. As I had then, I sat back and let them vent, waiting for the best opportunity to step in and separate the combatants before they came to blows.

I was overcome with an inexplicable la.s.situde. In the face of the very real misery I had witnessed over the past week, this venomous exchange over something as inconsequential as a misguided crush filled me with sadness. Then, suddenly, I had had enough. I stood up and stalked to where they stood at the bedroom door, nose-to-nose, hurling epithets at each other. I put one hand on each of their shoulders to get their attention. They turned to look at me, their eyes blazing.

"That's it," I told them quietly. "That is the last straw. I want you both to leave."

They blinked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language.

"Which word didn't you understand? Go. Right now." I turned them toward the kitchen and hustled them, none too gently, down the hallway.

At this interesting juncture, Armando appeared in the doorway from the garage. The first thing I noticed was that he looked exhausted. The second was the dainty, ginger-colored cat struggling to free herself from the confines of his TeleCom windbreaker, which was zipped firmly beneath her chin. Armando's eyes sought mine, as they did whenever we were reunited after an extended absence, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Emma and Joey continued to quarrel at top volume, oblivious to Armando's arrival.

"You made it," I finally managed, overwhelmed with love, grat.i.tude and, yes, relief. After days of feeling the emotional sands s.h.i.+fting beneath my feet, I felt solid footing blessedly returning. "Who's your friend?" I pulled him into the hallway and scritched the cat's head gently.

"It is as if our conversation on the phone last evening was overheard. I know you are not ready yet for another cat, Cara. You have not finished grieving for your Simon, but this one cannot wait. She needs us now. Also, Jasmine very much needs a new companion. Can you not open your heart for her and for this little one?"

"Where did you find her?"

"I did not. She found me. Someone abandoned her in the airport parking lot. When the shuttle bus dropped me off near my car, she came out from under an S. U. V. and wrapped herself around my ankles. She chose me to help her, and I could not refuse."

A choppy purr emanated from the pumpkin-colored mite, and her eyelids drooped over eyes the color of amber. Armando was correct. I wasn't ready for another cat, but what was I to do? Emma and Joey finally exhausted their sibling rhetoric and gazed at the newcomer silently, then at me. It was clear that I had quickly been outnumbered.

"Welcome to the family," I told the little hairball with resignation. "I sure hope you like turkey."

"Make that extremely well-done turkey," Joey commented, wrinkling his nose at a suspicious odor seeping from the oven. "How long has that thing been roasting anyway?"

"Too long," I replied, not particularly caring. "It doesn't matter now. I really don't care for turkey."

"Well, I do, and I'm starving. At least let me take some home to Justine." Before I could warn him not to, he yanked open the oven door, releasing a cloud of greasy fumes. As I had known they would, all five smoke alarms in the house went off simultaneously.

"The windows!" I shrieked at Emma and Joey after a moment of stunned silence. "Throw open as many as you can while I get rid of this thing."

Armando fled upstairs with the terrified cat, presumably to shut her into his room while we dealt with this latest catastrophe. I slid my hands into oven mitts and grabbed the heavy pan holding the smoking turkey carca.s.s.

"Open the back door, quick," I begged, and Joey sprang to oblige. He held the storm door wide as I eased by him with the ruined bird and deposited it, hissing in the wet snow, on the back deck.