by Nero Blanc
“So I forgot it, sue me. Besides, the noodles and spinach and mushrooms were tasty. Anyway, you’re the culinary expert—which is one of the reasons I married you.”
“I hope there was more than one reason!”
“Clause 37-A in our marriage license: The guy knows how to make real food.” She gave him a long and loving kiss, then suddenly pulled away. “Darn. I forgot. Sara’s coming over for supper tonight to work out the ‘logistics’ of the toy-wrapping party. And I promised I’d try to make a Yankee pot roast for her.” Belle hunched her shoulders and smiled ruefully. “‘Try’ being the operative word. I guess we’ll have to postpone this tête-à-tête of ours.”
Rosco looked at his wife, his arms still circling her waist. His expression was now both serious and tender. “We have our whole lives, Belle.”
“Our whole lives,” she repeated softly. “Aren’t we lucky?”
“The luckiest people in the world.”
Arm in arm, they left her office and walked through the living room to the front door. “You know, I still haven’t found you a gift, Rosco. Something really special, I mean.”
“You haven’t?” Rosco couldn’t keep the relief from his voice.
“Don’t sound so pleased. I suppose you’ve already stashed my present in some secret corner.”
“Well—”
“I wish you weren’t so organized.” Belle made a face. “No, I don’t. What I wish is that I were more like you—never misplaced my house keys or car keys, never lost the all-important note that held the crucial clue to a puzzle: all that right-brain business you’re so good at.”
“But I like your left-brain qualities. Correction: I love them, and I wouldn’t have you change them for the world.” Rosco gave his wife another smooch. “I’ll tell you what. You be my gift. You already are. Just put a nice, big, red ribbon around your waist; I’ll take it from there.”
“But I want you to have something wonderful to unwrap on Christmas morning.”
“Didn’t I just say I have you?” He stepped back and perused her from head to foot. “Maybe a gold ribbon is the way to go?”
“Mr. One-track Mind … So, what did you get me?”
“Would you believe me if I said I hadn’t found you anything yet? Or should I say purchased, yet?”
“No.” Belle looked at him. “You’ve hidden something right under my nose, haven’t you?”
Rosco shook his head. “Scout’s honor.”
“Is it in the living room?” She began scanning the eclectic furnishings that offset the home’s picture-perfect period restoration: a standing Victorian-era lamp with a dramatically sculpted shade, a mission-style armchair, her prized thrift-shop couch upholstered in a vintage floral fabric whose color scheme was an eye-scorching burnt orange and jungle green. “Or maybe the kitchen?
“Belle, I promise—”
At this point a prodigious amount of yipping and growling interrupted them. Kit and Gabby stood in front of the couch. Despite the amount of noise the dogs were making, there didn’t appear to be any physical necessity for the argument: no questionable chew-toy ownership, no rambunctious puppy shenanigans.
“Hey, you two,” Belle ordered, moving out of Rosco’s embrace. “What gives?”
“Maybe it’s holiday jitters,” Rosco offered.
“Hmmmphhh. Since when do two extremely spoiled and lazy pooches worry about anything?”
“Gabby’s always concerned that Kit may be getting more puppy biscuits than she is.”
“My point exactly.” Belle raised a wry eyebrow, then studied the dogs. “Maybe they need a little more solo time. Why don’t I take Kit with me this morning?” At the sound of her name, Kit sprang forward while Gabby commenced another round of short and bossy yips. “Quiet, Gab,” Belle said.
But the words fell on deaf ears, leaving Rosco to shush Gabby—which he succeeded in doing. Then he looked at his wife. “Belle,” he said slowly, as she grabbed her purse, “lock your doors before you head downtown.”
She cocked her head. “Expecting a serious crossword heist, are we?”
“No. It’s just that …” Rosco paused. There was no point in frightening her, he thought. The three escaped inmates were more than likely a hundred miles away by now—if not many, many more. “The season brings out the best as well as the worst in people. I just want you to be careful, that’s all.”
“My middle name.”
This time it was Rosco who gave her a meaningful glance. “Precisely what I mean. Caution has never been your strong suit.”
“I’ll make that my first New Year’s resolution.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I … sort of. Don’t worry, Rosco, I’ll lock my doors. No one but good-looking Greek guys dressed as Santas will be allowed a ride.”
Then Belle blew him a kiss, and Gabby gave one more sharp woof. Finally, Rosco walked back to Belle’s office with the vigilant dog at his heels. There, his eyes seemed to survey the room and the black and white crossword-themed decor run amok: the floor painted like a giant puzzle grid, the curtains hand-blocked with letters and numbers, the lampshades emblazoned with copies of Belle’s cleverest cryptics. But, in fact, his glance didn’t register any of it; instead, Rosco stood still, listening as if he expecting Belle to dart back through the front door of any moment.
When he was certain he was alone, he pulled a well-folded piece of graph paper from the rear pocket of his jeans, then he walked over to the reference books and began intently perusing the titles. “One pair of love …” he muttered anxiously under his breath. “I should make this rhyme somehow … Brings … Sings … Wings.”
Gabby, however, understood each and every ominous word Rosco said. Her dark eyes had turned as hard as coal. What rhymes with bird? her expression said. How about absurd? And wings? How about wrings?
BELLE was fortunate to snag a parking space only three blocks from the venerable granite structure that housed The Evening Crier. As she parallel-parked—a task slightly hindered by Kit’s bobbing head—she reflected on how un-Christmasy the city looked. True, the holiday decorations were all in place; beribboned wreaths and evergreen swags hung in every shop front; each streetlight was festooned with a multi-faceted metal snowflake or a jolly snowman, but what was missing was actual snow. Somehow the streets didn’t feel festive without the white stuff crunching underfoot or icing the tops of shrubs or encircling the trunks of trees.
Maybe that’s why I’m so tardy with my shopping this year, she thought as she and Kit climbed out of the car and began walking to the Crier’s offices. I’m not in the spirit yet. But then she reminded herself that today was December 21; it was high time she get herself in gear.
It was then that she drew to a sudden halt in front of a shop window. There, surrounded by twinkling mini-lights and giant gold bows, was the perfect gift for her husband. Chancy, yes, and definitely a splurge, but what was life for if not for taking risks? She’d already forgotten that she’d insisted that “caution” was her “middle name.”
Kit, who had sauntered on ahead a couple of steps and who was now eagerly examining a bounteous display of red and green, dog and cat toys in the pet shop window, instinctively stopped at the same moment Belle did. Kit tried to follow Belle’s gaze when a swirl of wings caught her quick, canine eye. There were the hateful lovebirds Gabby had described.
Kit looked up at Belle, who was still staring fixedly ahead. “I’ll come back this afternoon without you in tow, Kitty,” she was murmuring. “They’re perfect? Don’t you think? And, young lady, if you even think about eating them, you’ll be in the doghouse for sure!” Kit shook herself violently, but the negative response was lost on her human companion.
Belle’s Nöel
ACROSS
1. Pilgrimage to Mecca
5. Mr. Dillon
9. Ms. Parks
13. Yours to Yves
14. Seafarer
15. “Once ___ a time …”
16. High school s
tudent
17. Christmas dessert
19. Retail items
21. Mr. Hubbard
22. Mom & ___
25. ___ Hill, D.C.
28. Chews at
29. Mallow bloom
30. Card or car man
31. That guy
32. Cancels
33. Papa Nöel
38. Bowling letters
41. N.Y. Harbor island
42. Cool
46. Tree decorations
49. “Maybe, I’ll let you know.”
50. Dog tethers
51. Sconces
52. Hit the road
53. Belief
54. 10th day of Christmas fellas
58. Horse house
62. Mr. Tarkenton
63. Eat away
64. Tied
65. Powdered fruit drink
66. Big book
67. Aida, e.g.
DOWN
1. M.P. command
2. Past due
3. 1996 campaigner
4. Favorite holiday carol
5. Harold and ___
6. Sights in
7. Spinning toy
8. Mr. Capote
9. Red nosed reindeer
10. Everyone has one
11. “Like father, like ___”
12. Cloak and Dagger director
14. Indulges
18. Cart
20. “Aida,” for one
22. “One if by ___”
23. Heap
24. Police org.
25. Cook classic
26. Fort Worth campus; abbr.
27. Approves
29. Sot sound
31. “Deck the ___”
34. Actress Patricia, et al.
35. “___ the Season …”
36. 4-F
37. Sled jinglers
38. Skate move
39. Buzzards Bay campus; abbr.
40. Early photo illuminator
43. Alas in Hamburg
44. Tit for ___
45. The Chaneys
47. Scrooge coin
48. “___ there, done that”
49. Form a contract
51. Duck walk
53. Christmas tag word
54. Not right
55. Theme girl from Doctor Zhivago
56. Receive
57. Spanish gold
59. Volcano output
60. M. Div., often
61. SSW opposite
To download a PDF of this puzzle, please visit openroadmedia.com/nero-blanc-crosswords
Six
BELLE was in the kitchen deeply engrossed in a cookbook when Rosco walked in with Sara Briephs. As neither he nor Belle felt comfortable with the grand old lady driving home alone at night, he’d opted to journey to her house on Newcastle’s tony Patriot Hill to pick her up for dinner. These “chauffeured outings”—Sara’s term—were the only instances in her long life in which she had absolutely no say. Given her indomitable spirit, it’s doubtful she would have permitted anyone other than Belle and Rosco to regulate her activities, but Sara was notoriously soft-hearted where “the youngsters” were concerned. In fact, she believed they could do absolutely no wrong.
“Two teaspoons crumbled thyme. Check,” Belle was mumbling to herself while the white-haired dowager airily perched herself atop one of the kitchen stools—another behavioral anomaly. Sara seldom spent time in her own kitchen, let alone ensconced herself among its homey furnishings. And now seated atop this Fifties’ retro perch, she resembled a life-sized, vintage doll whose feet didn’t quite reach the floor.
“One cup tomato juice. Done. Three sprigs parsley. Got that. One bay leaf …” Belle droned on.
“Is that the promised Yankee pot roast you’re concocting, dear? The aroma is positively ambrosial.”
“Let’s hope it’s as good as it smells.” Belle looked up from her book; more than a little pride showed on her face. Because she was no cook, her forays into chefdom were grand events—although, as everyone knew, the results were often less than perfect. Aside from the infamous tuna casserole, with no tuna, there’d been a certain red-hot meatloaf she’d concocted when she’d first fed her then husband-to-be.
“No hot chili pepper flakes, I hope?” he now asked with a nervous smile and a hint of sarcasm.
She glanced at the cookbook again and frowned as she scanned the list. “The recipe doesn’t call for them, but …”
“Mmmm …” He nodded.
“… But, if you think I should-” Then she caught his eye, and recognized his lack of sincerity. “That meatloaf recipe listed red pepper among the ingredients, Rosco. How was I to know it meant red bell peppers?”
“A natural mistake,” Sara offered. “I would have done the same.”
Rosco rolled his eyes and chuckled. “If you two were left to your own devices, you’d starve.”
“As long as one’s larder is stocked with plenty of tinned foodstuffs, one does not starve, young man,” said Sara with some asperity. “Sardines, for instance—”
“And anchovies,” tossed in Belle.
“And smoked oysters,” continued Sara. “And let me see … artichoke hearts and button mushrooms and hearts of palm—”
“You sound like you’re describing canapés in the hors d’oeuvre selection at the Patriot Yacht Club, rather than the fixings for a solid meal,” Rosco observed.
“Nothing wrong with canapés,” Sara sniffed. “Many a yacht club member has made a full dinner from the chef’s nibbles. Your wife is addicted to deviled eggs, which certainly fall into the canapé category. And look how hale and hearty she is.”
There was no gainsaying this argument. Belle, despite being able to consume an entire plateful of deviled eggs at one sitting, was the picture of rosy-cheeked health. Rosco gave his wife an adoring hug as Sara abruptly changed the subject—another advantage of being eighty-plus. “I’m worried about Martha,” she stated.
“Martha?” Belle asked as she spooned vegetable-studded brown gravy over the cooking pot roast. “We saw her this afternoon at the dog park. She looked fine. A little worried about Princess, but—”
“It’s not Martha’s physical well-being that concerns me. Nor her dog’s.”
Both Belle and Rosco turned toward Sara and waited for her to continue. One didn’t rush a person as regal and autocratic as Mrs. Briephs. “You know, of course, that we’re fellow participants in the church sewing group?”
Belle nodded. She’d also been asked to join “Sisters in Stitches,” but she was no more expert with a needle than she was with a Newburg sauce.
“Well, we ‘girls’ were all talking about holiday plans during our latest gathering—visiting family and friends, parties, and so forth—when Martha suddenly exclaimed that she had no intention of celebrating Christmas this year. ‘All this hoopla. The season’s just about overeating and regretting it later,’ is how she put it. She even told us she was sorry Law-son’s wasn’t open on Christmas itself, because she thought the day should be treated as just one out of three hundred sixty-five.”
Belle nodded. She could imagine Martha using those very words. She was a person who didn’t believe in beating around the bush.
“I told her that she was spouting nonsense, of course, and that the holidays were about sharing and showing our love for one another.”
“And?” Belle asked.
“And she said that if we truly cared for one another we wouldn’t need a special time of year to prove it. We’d do it every day.”
“She’s got a point,” Rosco agreed.
“Well, of course she has a point, dear boy. A very good one, too. But the problem isn’t whether Martha is right or wrong in her assessment, it’s her motive that bothers me. Anyone who claims that Christmas should be viewed as merely another day seems determined to be unhappy.”
“She was her usual cheery self this afternoon,” Belle protested. “I saw nothing ‘Scroogey’ about her, at all.”
; “The self each of us shows the world is not necessarily who we truly are,” was Sara’s quiet response.
Belle and Rosco looked at their aging friend. It seemed inconceivable that she could be anyone other than who she appeared to be: a strong-willed woman whose ancestors had been among the city’s forebears and whose wise heart was made of the purest gold.
“You regard me as a bossy old bat, for instance; when I think I’m still an eighteen-year-old hellion who’s masquerading as an adult. The face I see in my mirror is a constant surprise—and not always a pleasant one.”
“Well, you’ve fooled us,” Rosco chuckled. “I would have said you were definitely an adult.”
“I see you make no comment on my ‘bossy old bat’ status,” Sara observed with a smile, then brought the conversation back to Martha. “She needs a gentleman in her life.”
“A gentleman—?” Rosco began.
“Too old-fashioned a term, dear boy? I forget that we antiques sometimes use obsolete phraseology. Simply put: She needs to start dating again. She’s only fifty-two; she can’t devote the rest of her life to a dog.”
At this moment, Kit and Gabby, who’d been peaceably sleeping on the kitchen floor, leapt up and started barking.
“Quiet girls,” Belle ordered, then turned back to Sara. “I assume you’ve got a scheme all figured out whereby Martha gets her guy—”
Kit and Gabby interrupted again, flying out of the kitchen and racing through the living room to Belle’s office, where they took up an angry guardianship of the door leading to the garden.
“Indeed I do have a ‘scheme,’ my dear,” Sara answered as though the air were not filled with furious woofs and snarls. “The traditional Secret Santa we always have at the toy-wrapping party. We simply arrange it so that—”
“But the gift exchange is just luck of the draw,” Rosco said skeptically. “You can’t rig it—”
“Oh, no? It’s my house in which we’re having the festivities this year. Therefore my rules apply.”
“You’re not suggesting something illicit?” Rosco jested.
“Legality doesn’t enter into it. What I’m proposing is strictly practical. I put every name in the hat except two—”