Christmas on Honeysuckle Lane

by Mary McDonough

  Andie heard the front door open and shut. A moment later Emma came into the kitchen, carrying a bag from the local independent pharmacy. “I took the last of the aspirin that was in the bathroom cupboard,” she said. “So I thought I’d better replace the bottle before Danny decided he’d pay for that, too.”

  Andie smiled. “Speaking of Danny doing things for us, I thought I’d give him a break and cook dinner here for everyone tonight.”

  Emma smiled. “Just don’t expect to make a convert out of Danny. I don’t think he’ll be giving up his red meat any time soon.”

  Andie laughed. “I’m not that naive.” But, she thought, reaching for her bag, if she could at least accomplish a pleasant meal around the family table, she would be happy.

  CHAPTER 37

  “What time is it?” Andie asked, wiping her hands on the apron tied around her middle. Emma remembered her mother wearing the apron; until Andie had put it on earlier that evening it had remained spotlessly clean. Now it was splattered with stains. But what, Emma thought, was an apron for if not to get dirty?

  “It’s six-forty,” Emma told her. She hadn’t needed to check her watch. Andie had asked the same question less than two minutes ago.

  Andie frowned. “I don’t want to hold dinner for long. The children are probably starving.”

  “There’s no reason we can’t start without Rumi,” Emma said, in what she hoped was a comforting tone. “I’m sure she’ll be along soon.”

  “I hope nothing’s happened,” Andie said worriedly.

  Bob, who was putting the final touches on a salad of mixed greens, walnuts, and goat cheese, said, “I’m sure she’s fine, Andie. Probably just running late. I’ll send her a text.”

  Andie went off to the dining room, and a moment later Emma saw her brother-in-law frown at his phone. “What is it?” she asked.

  “She said that something came up. She knows better than to behave this way,” he said quietly to Emma. “Come on, let’s get the food on the table.”

  Emma picked up a platter and followed Bob out of the kitchen. Andie hurried back into the kitchen and joined them a moment later at the table, carrying a large covered tureen Caro had often used on the holidays. “Did she reply?” Andie asked Bob.

  “Looks like she can’t make it after all.” He hesitated and then, shooting a look at Emma, he said, “She apologized.”

  The stricken look on Andie’s face told Emma that her sister didn’t believe that Rumi had done any such thing. If Daniel or Anna Maria had caught Andie’s expression, neither commented.

  “We’ll get started then,” Andie said stoutly. “I’ve made an Indian vegetarian meal. We’ll start with the carrot ginger soup.”

  “I like soup,” Sophia announced. “It’s one of my favorite things to eat.”

  “I like sandwiches best,” Marco added. “Especially peanut butter and jelly. But the jelly can’t have seeds in it. They stick in my teeth.”

  Emma smiled at her niece and nephew. “Maybe you guys will follow in your father and mother’s footsteps and go into the food business.”

  Sophia took a spoonful of soup before saying, “Nope. I want to be a doctor. I think.” Marco was too busy destroying a piece of naan to reply.

  The soup, which Emma thought was excellent, was followed by curried potatoes with cabbage, a lentil stew, a cold cucumber salad with a creamy dressing, and something Andie explained was called mysore bonda. “They’re fried dumplings made with flour, yogurt, and spices and traditionally served with coconut chutney. Unfortunately,” she said, “I couldn’t find any coconut chutney in town, so this mango chutney will have to do.”

  “Where did you find the naan?” Emma asked.

  “I made it. I used a recipe that doesn’t require a tandoor or oven.”

  Emma nodded. “Impressive.” So far no one had mentioned Rumi’s absence; she wondered how long they could go on avoiding the very large elephant in the room.

  “This stew is delicious, Andie,” Daniel said, scooping up another forkful. “Really flavorful. I’m sorry I’ve been a bit of a jerk about your being a vegetarian. I do know better; it’s a perfectly valid and healthy option. Though I doubt a vegetarian restaurant would be a success in Oliver’s Well.”

  “You never know,” Anna Maria said. “Not that we have the capital to give it a go!”

  “Or the interest in taking on more work,” Daniel added. “We’re spread thin enough.”

  Emma felt a flash of guilt; the sooner the house was sold the sooner her brother and sister-in-law would get the money they needed to put into their business. And because of her the house wasn’t even on the market yet.

  “Were you ever a vegan, Andie?” Anna Maria asked.

  Andie shook her head. “No, but I have friends who are. Having such a restricted diet can be a bit isolating, but they feel it’s worth the trouble.”

  “I admire people with a passion,” Bob said, spooning chutney onto a mysore bonda. “I’m not sure I’ve ever really had a firm commitment to anything other than reruns of Seinfeld.”

  Andie laughed. “Oh, Bob, don’t be silly!”

  “What was the weirdest thing you ever ate, Aunt Andie?” Sophia asked.

  Andie considered for a moment. “Well,” she said, “I guess it would have to be something called gutka; I was offered it when I was in India for the first time. Mind you, it wasn’t weird to my hosts.”

  “What is it?” Marco asked.

  “It’s a preparation of crushed betel nut, tobacco, and sweet or sometimes savory flavorings. These were in the shape of little hearts and came wrapped in bright paper. It looked like candy—but it didn’t taste like candy, at least not to me.”

  “That sounds awful,” Emma said. “Eating tobacco?”

  Andie smiled. “If I had known what was in it I would have passed as politely as I could have. Later I learned that the stuff can cause oral cancer, like chewing tobacco does.”

  “But what did it taste like?” Sophia asked.

  “Like nothing I’d ever eaten before or since,” Andie told her.

  “The weirdest thing Dad said he ever ate,” Daniel said, “was blood sausage when he and Mom were in Portugal. Blood sausage isn’t all that weird or even unusual, but I guess to Dad it was. And the weirdest food Mom said they ever saw was being sold at street markets in China.”

  “Like what?” Emma asked. “Or do I not want to know?”

  “Like lollipops filled with worms and grasshoppers. And there was a mention of duck heads.”

  Marco scrunched up his face. “Ew! That’s disgusting!”

  “I have to say I agree.” Daniel shuddered. “When I was at the CIA there was a guy who was always challenging the rest of us to eat something outrageous he’d cooked up, like fried wasps and spiders. It drove me nuts. Not to say it sometimes made me ill.”

  “Is he a working chef?” Emma asked.

  Daniel laughed. “Let’s hope not!”

  “I was thinking just the other day about our Italian holiday,” Andie said. “I remember it as such a magical time.”

  “Me, too,” Emma said. “Every day we spent in Italy is burned into my memory.”

  Daniel nodded. “I’ll never forget the fried squash blossoms. I think I decided to become a chef at the very moment they were brought to the table one night. They were so gorgeous and, of course, delicious.”

  “It was all about the gelato for me,” Andie said. “It still pretty much is.”

  “The art,” Emma added. “The architecture. There was beauty everywhere you looked, even in the narrowest lanes and in the smallest little farmhouses. A true celebration of life.”

  “Can we go to Italy, Dad?” Sophia asked.

  “Some day, absolutely. Your mom still has family there.”

  Anna Maria nodded. “I’ve never met them, but I think it would be fun to pay a visit.”

  “Birthday cakes,” Emma said suddenly. “Each of us had a particular cake we asked Mom for year after year.”

&
nbsp; “Chocolate cake with vanilla icing,” Daniel said. “That’s what you always wanted, Emma.”

  Andie shook her head. “No, that was what I asked for. Emma always asked for the reverse. White cake with chocolate icing.”

  “Really? Why do I have that backward?”

  “You’re getting old, Danny,” Emma teased. “We all are.”

  Daniel laughed. “Well, I’ll still always be younger than you two.”

  “What kind of cake did you like best, Dad?” Marco asked.

  “Hazelnut torte. Hands down.”

  “Mom didn’t even attempt to make that from scratch,” Emma remembered. “She would special order one from the French bakery in Lawrenceville.”

  Anna Maria grinned. “Anything for her son. The figlio d’oro.”

  “What does that mean, Mom?” Sophia asked. “It’s Italian, right?”

  “Right. The golden son. It means that Daddy was special to his mother.”

  “I liked the cake Dad made for Rumi’s big birthday party,” Sophia said. “You should have seen it, Aunt Andie. It was huge. It took two people to carry it into the restaurant. And it had all these sugar flowers on top, all of Rumi’s favorites, those purple ones . . . yeah, irises.”

  “Speaking of favorites,” Emma said brightly, eager to steer the conversation away from Rumi and her now infamous birthday party, “Andie, what’s in these dumplings? I can’t quite put my finger on the spice combination, but it’s the most delicious thing I’ve tasted in a long time.”

  “There’s cumin, ginger, green chili, and cilantro. All pretty basic.” Andie looked to the others. “Would anyone like more curried potatoes and cabbage?” she asked.

  “Yes, please!” Marco said.

  While Andie served her nephew, Bob leaned close to Emma and whispered, “That birthday has assumed far more significance than it deserves. Thanks for changing the subject.”

  Dinner finished with a bang. Andie had bought several pints of ice cream in a variety of flavors, from chocolate chip to peanut butter cup, from good old vanilla to strawberry swirl. She put the containers on a large tray in the middle of the table and suggested that everybody help him or her self.

  “Are there any sprinkles left from when Sophia and me made cookies the other day?” Marco asked eagerly.

  “Sophia and I,” his father corrected. “And you don’t need sprinkles.”

  Marco frowned, but Emma noticed that his appetite for the dessert was not diminished by the absence of sprinkles.

  Daniel and his family left soon after the meal, followed by Bob. “It will be all right,” he said to Andie when she walked him to the door. Emma saw him kiss her on the cheek.

  Finally, the sisters were alone. The evening had been pleasant overall, Emma thought, as she helped Andie bring the dishes and glasses and silverware back into the kitchen. If only Rumi had shown up as she had promised, real progress toward togetherness might have been made. At least no one had commented on Rumi’s absence.

  Andie closed the door of the dishwasher after pressing the start button. “That went well, I think,” she said.

  The determinedly cheerful note in her sister’s voice saddened Emma. “It went very well,” she told her. “And I’m sorry Rumi couldn’t make it. I know you really hoped she would be here.”

  Andie shook her head. “Well, I’m pooped. I think I’ll read for a while and then turn in.”

  Emma watched her sister leave the kitchen. She thought her shoulders looked a bit stooped, as if the weight of her disappointment was a physical burden. Emma wasn’t prone to violence, but at that moment she wanted to shake some sense into her older niece.

  But what good would that do? she thought as she turned out the lights on the first floor and followed her sister up to bed. People only made a change when they were ready, not when other people wanted them to. That was an undeniable truth.

  CHAPTER 38

  By nine fifteen the following morning Emma was driving through downtown Lawrenceville, her destination Style Revisited. She had been to the shop before and knew that it offered both a consignment option and accepted donations; a good portion of the money earned by the donated clothing went to a food bank run by one of the local churches. The proprietors of the shop were particularly strict about the sort of clothing they would accept. Not only did the clothing need to be in pristine condition, it had to meet certain standards of style and quality. You would find no slogan T-shirts from Old Navy or pink sweatpants from Victoria’s Secret at Style Revisited. Some of the best clothing for sale—like fur or leather coats—was wired to a rack against theft. An appropriate place for Mom’s treasured wardrobe to find itself, Emma thought.

  She parked as close as she could to the store and wondered for a moment why she hadn’t thought to bring a hand truck or a dolly with her. The boxes filled with her mother’s clothing were heavy; Daniel had come by the house early that morning to help her load them into her car. Oh, well, Emma thought, wrangling the first box from the backseat and then the other from the trunk. This is my exercise for the day.

  The woman at the receiving desk was impeccably if simply dressed in a classic blue pinstriped Oxford shirt, tucked into a pair of navy pants. Her accessories were few and all gold. Emma knew a bit about jewelry—she had built a decent jewelry wardrobe over the years—and guessed the earrings and chain and rings on her fingers were eighteen karat. They had that rich, warm color not usually found in a lower karat gold.

  “How may I help you?” the woman asked.

  “I’ve brought in some clothes for donation,” Emma told her, indicating the two large boxes she had lugged into the store and left near the entrance. “They were my mother’s. She died last year.” Then, she laughed. “I don’t know why I told you that last bit. It’s not as if you need to know.”

  The woman smiled kindly and asked if Emma would like a receipt.

  “Yes,” she said, “for the estate taxes.” Emma handed her the descriptive list she had made of each item.

  The woman glanced at the list. “A very nice collection,” she said approvingly. “We should be able to sell these easily. Sarah?” she called to a much younger and fairly strapping-looking woman straightening a rack of blouses. “Will you bring those boxes up to the desk?”

  Sarah did so, and the woman behind the desk unfolded the flaps of the first box. Carefully she lifted out the top few items. “Oh, yes,” she said. “These will spend hardly any time in the store. And just look at this jacket. This is really lovely.”

  Emma swallowed hard. The woman was holding a boxy tweed jacket with gold buttons, reminiscent of the classic Chanel style. Her mother had bought it on a trip to DC when Emma was in high school; she remembered eagerly awaiting Caro’s return from her journey so that she could see what treasures her mother had scooped up in the big city.

  “I’m sorry,” Emma blurted. “I just can’t let this jacket go. I so vividly remember my mother wearing it. It’s not really my style and it’ll probably sit in my closet for the next ten years, but . . .”

  “But you need to keep it,” the woman said with sympathy. “I know.”

  “I suppose you’ve seen this sort of behavior before. Someone changing her mind.”

  “People react in all sorts of ways when they hand over the relics of a loved one,” the woman said. “Sometimes they walk through the door all calm and collected, and the next minute they’re sobbing like the world had come to an end. And I suppose it really feels that way for them—the end of something so very important. Sometimes, people leave with every single one of the items they intended to give up. Sometimes they fairly toss a coat or pair of trousers on the counter and they’re gone, quick as a shot.”

  Suddenly, Emma found that there were tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry to be so emotional,” she said, reaching for the pack of tissues she kept in her bag. “Thank you. You’ve been very kind.”

  Emma took her receipt and her mother’s jacket and left the shop. When she got to her car she realized th
at she was in no fit condition to drive. So she walked a bit further to a wrought iron bench set under a magnolia tree before an ice-cream shop and sat.

  And she thought of the things she might have said to her parents but hadn’t, things like “thank you for giving me life.” She thought of all the lost opportunities for understanding and connection. She thought of the covered tureen Andie had used at dinner the night before and remembered all of the occasions on which her mother had brought it to the table, a proud smile on her face. She thought of her mother in her spiffy gardening outfit, high-waisted tailored chinos, a pale blue blouse tucked in neatly, the floppy wide-brimmed hat on her head, the fitted gloves on her hands. She thought of her mother in the casket, in that lovely lilac dress, her hands artfully folded, her wedding rings not yet removed.

  And then Emma thought of Morgan Shelby. She had no good reason to stop at the gallery on her way home. And she didn’t feel that she had a right to turn to him in a moment of emotional need. Not yet. Still, she remembered what he had told her about people coming to the gallery seeking to replace or to revive a memory, and about how he understood the complicated process of letting go of—and holding on to—the past.

  Emma sniffed and glanced at her watch. She really should get back to Oliver’s Well. Norma Campbell’s annual open house Christmas party was that afternoon and she would need time to change her clothes to something more appropriate for a festivity. And she would definitely need to clean off and then reapply the mascara that was most likely smudged all over her face.

  With a fortifying deep breath and one last swipe at her eyes with a now soggy tissue, Emma got up from the bench and, carrying Caro’s tweed jacket, she walked back to her car.

  CHAPTER 39

  Daniel adjusted his tie. He only wore a tie for special occasions, and Norma Campbell’s annual open house certainly counted as a special occasion. Still, the tie would come off the moment he got back into the car. His father hadn’t liked to wear a tie, either, though he had dutifully worn one to the office every day of his working life. Like father like son, Daniel thought. I wonder how much like me Marco will turn out to be.