Every year my wife is a basket case trying to make everything perfect for the holidays. Do you have any advice to help her?
—Anxious in Alexandria
Dear Anxious,
Thanksgiving is one of those holidays when people want traditional fare. Your wife doesn’t have to knock herself out coming up with new gourmet twists. Turkey, cranberries, stuffing, and pie. The basics are what most people yearn for. And a lot of those can be prepared in advance.
Besides, no one will remember the perfect Thanksgiving anyway. Five and ten years from now, family and friends will be laughing over the time the turkey burned and you had to order in Chinese food. Or the impossibly hard biscuits Aunt Beth insisted on making every year. All the perfect food will be long forgotten.
Your wife should relax and enjoy herself. It’s the mishaps and the funny incidents that create the best memories.
—Sophie
It clawed at the door and released a mournful wail. I shrank from the sounds before I realized there was something familiar about them. Daisy. But whose face was pressed against the glass?
“Daisy?” I whispered.
More scratching.
Had I been alone I would have been more cowardly about opening the door. All sorts of dire thoughts ran through my head. Maybe Mars had grabbed Daisy and run away from Natasha, too. Maybe the Peeping Tom was back. Or maybe someone had kidnapped Daisy and wanted a ransom. None seemed likely.
I opened the door a crack and Daisy barged in with hound-style enthusiasm, wagging her tail, which in turn wagged her entire back end. She rushed at me, pawing the air.
I grabbed her wriggling body in a big dog hug. To my complete surprise, Mars’s old college chum, Bernie, stood in the doorway.
“Is everything okay?” I asked. “It’s the middle of the night.”
In his delightful British accent he replied, “Natasha was trying to impress some stuffed shirts tonight, and I believe she was trying to hide me. So I snagged the other mongrel without the right pedigree and here we are.”
I’d always liked Bernie, but he was a bit of a wild card. Bawdy, likely to blurt the thing everyone was thinking but was too polite to say, and generally unemployed. His sandy hair was always tousled and he usually looked as though he’d just rolled out of bed or left a pub after a rowdy night of drinking.
I grinned. Bernie probably didn’t realize that Natasha didn’t have much of a snazzy pedigree herself. Her father abandoned the family when Natasha was only seven, leaving her mother to support them by working long days at the local diner in our hometown.
“Daisy offered to share her dog bed with me if I’d bring her home to you.” He tilted his head like a questioning puppy.
“No need to share. That tiny bedroom on the third floor is still available or you can bunk on the pullout sofa in Mars’s old den.”
“The den by all means. Mars didn’t happen to leave any good Scotch in there, did he?”
Mochie scampered into the kitchen.
“Good gods. A kitten!”
It was too late to lunge for Daisy. Bernie and I froze, waiting for hissing, barking, and the inevitable chase that would wake everyone.
Mochie lifted his tiny head to sniff Daisy’s saggy hound jowls. Daisy stepped back, unsure what to think of the little interloper.
When Daisy didn’t pose a threat, Mochie jumped up onto the table to investigate Bernie.
“What a scamp. I’ve only known one cat who wasn’t afraid of dogs. My mother’s fourth husband owned a farm in England and there was a yellow barn cat who bossed the dogs around. Amazing to watch, really.” He scratched Mochie under the chin. “I bet you wouldn’t even be afraid of Natasha.”
I brought Bernie towels and linens and he took to Mars’s old den as though he planned to stay awhile.
Mochie and Daisy followed me to my second-floor bedroom and curled up on the bed, albeit on opposite ends.
On Thanksgiving morning, I slept later than I should have for a person with a house full of guests. Neither Daisy nor Mochie was in the bedroom when I woke. I showered in a rush and pulled on a pumpkin-colored sleeveless turtleneck, beige trousers, and a sweater embroidered with fall leaves. The kitchen would be hot today with both ovens going. I figured I could shed the leafy sweater to keep cool.
I found my guests in the sunroom, which had heated nicely in spite of the crisp weather. The brick floor warmed my feet.
Daisy stretched out next to Bernie, whose bare calves jutted out from under a flannel bathrobe. Daisy didn’t bother to get up but her tail flapped on the floor when she saw me. I bent to tickle her tummy.
Mom was relaxing with a mug of coffee, her feet on a footstool. “There’s a ham and asparagus frittata keeping warm in the oven, sleepyhead. Bernie’s been regaling us with tales of his mother’s many marriages.”
Hannah blushed and I wondered if that was an intentional jab by Mom. Craig would be Hannah’s third husband, but if I recalled correctly, Bernie’s mom had made the trip down the aisle seven or eight times.
I headed to the kitchen for coffee but paused when I heard voices. One voice, actually.
June was talking in the kitchen. I paused for a moment, wondering who wasn’t in the sunroom.
“I couldn’t agree more,” she said. “You made the right decision. And I love what they did with the kitchen.”
I peeked in. June sat by the fire, knitting. Only Mochie kept her company.
“Good morning.” Had she been speaking to the kitten? I slid the frittata out of the oven and offered June a piece.
“I’ve eaten, thanks. It was quite good. And your mother was so cute pretending Hannah cooked it.” She giggled. “Your sister doesn’t share your culinary skills.”
Food had never been one of Hannah’s interests. “She has very impressive computer abilities, though. It’s a good thing she’s honest because she’d make a heck of a hacker.”
“I was just telling Faye how glad I am that you own the house. It’s so cozy and inviting.”
Faye? Faye was dead.
I glanced up at the photo of Faye over the fireplace. It hung straight. No odd drafts today.
June reached out to stroke Mochie.
Maybe I’d heard her wrong. “Could I get you some more coffee?”
“No, dear. I’m fine as I am. Just having a lovely chat.”
“With the kitten?” I held my breath, hoping I’d misunderstood about Faye.
“With my sister. She adores Mochie. Faye always had a cat and she’s so pleased that there’s a little one in residence now.”
Was June losing her mind? Suddenly I had new appreciation for Natasha’s need to protect her mattress. Maybe June wasn’t well.
Dad joined us from the foyer. I hadn’t seen him so worried since my brother, at the age of sixteen, bought a motorcycle from a friend for fifty dollars. He waved the newspaper at me. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”