“Well, the holidays are a glorious time for family and fellowship,” Holly doesn’t break her stride, and Joe continues to roll along the center of Main Street, keeping pace with her.
“Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.” Joe steps on the gas and waves as he drives on. He makes a left turn onto Pine Cone Boulevard and disappears from view.
Inside Mistletoe Morning Brew, Carrie-Anne is sitting at a table, filling metal boxes with paper napkins. She holds up a hand in Holly’s direction. “Honey, you can’t say I didn’t warn you,” Carrie-Anne says, shaking her head as she stuffs a napkin box.
“Oh, Holly, good—you’re here,” Ellen says breathlessly, hurrying out from the back room. She’s wearing a light pink t-shirt with Edgar Allan Poe’s face transposed onto a lumpy potato, mustache and all. The words across the top of the shirt say: “Poe-tay-toe, Poe-tah-toe.”
“Ellen—” Holly starts.
“You can’t, you just can’t,” Ellen pleads. Her eyes are watery, and her dark curls are pinned up in a loose pile on the crown of her head. The silver trinkets dangling from her earrings make a light tinkling sound as she shakes her head pitifully.
“They’ve got names,” Carrie-Anne warns from her spot at the table. She clicks the front of the napkin dispenser closed, then opens another.
“They do!” Ellen says urgently. “Trixie and Troy and Godiva, and then there’s Monty and Prince and—”
“Prince?” Holly interrupts. “You’ve got a turkey named Prince, and a donkey named Madonna?”
“We’re adopting a turtle named Cyndi Lauper next month,” Carrie-Anne says, still focused on her napkins.
“Seriously?” Holly snorts.
“No. She’s joking,” Ellen says with irritation. “But we need to focus on the turkeys right now,” she begs. “Tomorrow is Thanksgiving!”
“I know, I know—that’s why I’m here,” Holly says in her most soothing voice. The older woman looks like she’s on the verge of hysteria, and her words are high-pitched and frantic. Holly reaches out a hand to touch Ellen on the arm.
“We can’t do this,” Ellen says. “I’ve stood by and kept my mouth shut for years because I know people don’t want to have some crazy vegetarian lady preaching to them while they eat their steaks and pork chops, but these are beautiful animals with faces, Holly. They’ve got souls.” Ellen’s eyes are warm and soft, her kindness radiating from within as she begs for the lives of a bunch of helpless turkeys. And just like that, Holly’s resolve crumbles. The image of bloody feathers and skinned birds is actually making her a little sick, and she sinks into the nearest chair, ready to consider their options.
Ellen has both of her hands on the sides of her head, and her forehead has collapsed into an accordion of worried wrinkles. “I have other ideas. Will you just hear me out?”
Holly nods. “I’ll listen, but I have no idea how we’re going to make a vegetarian Thanksgiving dinner for the entire island and for the crew and competitors of the show. We only have twenty-four hours.”
“Really? But you’ll consider it?” Ellen sits in the chair across from Holly. The Poe-tay-toe face on her shirt stares at Holly with a haughty, judgmental glare that makes her look away; even in potato form, Poe is formidable, and she hates being judged by a dead guy who married his own thirteen-year-old cousin.
Ellen wastes no time laying out her plan. “Okay, I took the liberty of ordering enough ingredients the night you dropped the birds off at our place. Everything is coming on the delivery boat tonight. If we get together a small team of chefs, we can whip up something that will blow your mind—I promise! Oh, Holly, thank you for hearing me out on this!”
Holly isn’t convinced that they’re about to wow their neighbors with a Thanksgiving feast of beansprout loaves and chickpea rolls with meatless gravy, but she is worn down by the prospect of what will have to happen next if they plan on eating turkey. “No problem,” she sighs.
“This is incredible!” Ellen shouts, clapping her hands together and standing up. “I hope the turkeys won’t mind living with a donkey,” she adds as an afterthought, already making her way back to the office behind the front counter.
“You do realize that we’re now the proud owners of ten chatty birds that can live up to a decade if cared for correctly, right?” Carrie-Anne turns to Holly, resting her elbow on the back of the chair she’s sitting in. “And we’re about to add a donkey to our brood, which means we’ll be running a mini-farm over at our place.”
“You could probably classify it as a petting zoo,” Holly offers helpfully. There’s a part of her that’s relieved to have the turkey drama over with, even though Carrie-Anne will give her a hard time about it for years to come.
“Ah, well, what are you gonna do?” Carrie-Anne smiles. Her eyes are tired, but it’s obvious that she’s amused by the whole situation. “Ellen loves animals. And a happy wife means a happy life, so…”
“Thanks, Carrie-Anne.” Holly stands up and pushes her chair in. “I need to go and tell Cap to stand down with his ‘meat is murder’ sign, and then I have a boat to meet at the dock, which will be delivering both my mother and about two hundred pounds of Tofurkey.”
Carrie-Anne laughs to herself, tearing the paper wrapper off another stack of napkins to load into the dispensers spread out before her on the table. “I’m not sure who has it worse right now, chickadee. I actually think it might be you.”
Chapter 15
“I don’t know why you’d want to keep subjecting yourself to this chaos,” Coco says, her hands covered in mashed sweet potatoes on Thanksgiving morning. Holly’s brief vacation from all things Coco has ended abruptly (they’d essentially stopped talking after Coco’s visit during the summer, and Holly has been referring all emails from her mother to her lawyer since then). But Coco had arrived on the ferry at five o’clock the night before, and she’d immediately demanded to be driven to Holly’s bungalow to see the remodeling that was preventing her from staying with her daughter.
Knowing how important it is to stay one step ahead of Coco, Holly had dispatched Buckhunter to her house while she ran errands, and he’d handily dismantled the guest room bed frame, spread some tools around, and slapped blue painter’s tape on the trim around the doors and windows. When she’d walked into the room with Coco in tow, Holly had momentarily forgotten that she wasn’t really about to paint the room and blow out a wall or two.
“I keep subjecting myself to this chaos because this is my life, and it makes me happy,” Holly says, reaching across her mother in the busy kitchen of the B&B to pick up a paring knife for the apples she’s peeling.
Coco wipes her brow with the back of one hand, leaving a smear of rust-colored potato on her forehead. “But I could make all of this nonsense go away, Holly,” she says through clenched teeth. “Why won’t you even consider the idea of a resort coming in and taking over? Think of the money you’ll walk away with…and the freedom.”
Coco has wasted no time laying into Holly with her usual rhetoric about how ill-equipped a thirty-year-old woman is to run an entire island. It always comes down to that, and it’s a battle they’ve engaged in more times than Holly cares to count.
“I don’t want my freedom,” Holly says stubbornly. A long ribbon of bright green apple skin falls into the silver mixing bowl she’s using to catch the shavings. “I want my island.”
“Tell me what’s going on with the men in your life,” Coco demands, shifting the subject. The sharp turn in the conversation doesn’t fool Holly; this tactic will no doubt lead back to all the reasons why Holly needs to give up the island and focus her efforts on finding a husband and having a family.
“There’s not much to tell.” Holly walks to the end of the counter to dump the silver bowl into an open trash can. The kitchen is full of islanders in various stages of food prep. Ellen has—as promised—taken charge of the main course assembly, and Holly is keeping one eye on the “magic vegan loaf” that’s coming out of the oven
in bread pans and being doused liberally with mushroom gravy.
“Is Jake going to be at dinner tonight?” Coco takes her hands out of the bowl she’s using and inspects her French manicure.
“No, Mom, he’s not.”
“Holly?” Maria Agnelli approaches the counter where Holly and Coco are working together. “What do you think of me making a few bologna sandwiches on the side? I’m not sure anyone is going to touch that garbage over there.” She lifts her chin and nods at the cashews, cooked lentils, and chopped celery that Ellen is running through a food processor for her next vegan loaf.
“That might not be a bad idea, Mrs. Agnelli,” Holly says kindly. “Why don’t you run home and make those sandwiches, and we can have them on hand here in case anyone passes on the Tofurkey and vegan loaf?”
“Fine. That’s what I’ll do.” She turns to Coco. “So, did you hear about this television program your daughter brought out here? Half-cocked show, if you ask me—they haven’t even come and filmed any of us yet. I got people waiting to see me on TV, and I don’t even know what to tell them,” she complains, one shaky, veined hand resting on the stainless steel counter for support.
“Tell them your mayor is trying her hardest to do right by everyone,” Coco says firmly, turning the bowl of sweet potatoes upside down and using a spatula to transfer them into a serving dish.
Holly stops what she’s doing and looks at her mother with unmasked confusion. Is Coco defending her? Has the planet just stopped spinning on its axis and turned into a giant, glittering disco ball in the sky?
“Well,” Mrs. Agnelli huffs. “Jake gets to be on the show. He up and left us with no cop to protect us, and he gets to be famous.”
“There’s absolutely nothing for Jake to protect you from, Maria, and I’m sure Holly has her reasons for whatever she’s doing,” Coco says calmly, covering the potato dish with aluminum foil. “Now, why don’t you go and make those sandwiches?”
Mrs. Agnelli stands there, looking back and forth between Holly and Coco like she isn’t sure what to say. Finally, she totters off to repeat her complaints about the reality show to Bonnie and the triplets.
In the silence that follows Mrs. Agnelli’s departure, Holly pretends not to be surprised by her mother’s support. “Thanks,” she says casually, going back to peeling her apples for the Waldorf salad.
“I don’t have to agree with what you’re doing around here,” Coco says. “But if anyone’s going to henpeck you and call you an idiot, it’s going to be me.”
Holly smirks to herself as Coco walks the potatoes over to the industrial-sized refrigerator and sets them on a shelf.
“Sugar!” Bonnie shouts from across the kitchen. She’s standing with Glen, Gen, and Gwen, chopping and assembling side dishes as rapidly as possible. “Your phone is ringing!” Bonnie’s hands are covered in a paste of water and dried flour, but she nods her head at Holly’s cell phone, which is resting on the windowsill in a patch of early morning sunlight.
Holly drops the apple she’s working on and wipes her hands on the front of her jeans as she hurries to answer her phone. It’s Leanna.
“Hello?”
“Happy Thanksgiving! How’s the feast coming?” Leanna sounds annoyingly cheerful.
“Great. We’ve been in the kitchen since six this morning, and there are about twelve of us working on sides and the main dish.”
“The turkey? Will it be camera-ready? Because I’m thinking we should get it all set up on the table and get a long shot from one end. The perfectly cooked turkey will be the focal point. God, it’s making me hungry just thinking about it, and I know the contestants are starving. But let’s not carve it until we get the shot, okay?”
“About the turkey…” Holly glances at the fourteen vegan loaves cooling on a baking rack. “There’s been a change of plans.”
Leanna is silent on the other end of the line.
“Anyway,” Holly says, filling in the gap. “We’re trying something new this year: a healthy, vegetarian Thanksgiving.” She sounds like a hostess on a late-night infomercial: New, improved, great for your health and your waistline—a VEGETARIAN THANKSGIVING!
“But, Holly.” Leanna sounds perplexed. “The contestants have been living on rice, nuts, and beans for almost two weeks now,” she says flatly. “We promised them a full Thanksgiving dinner with all the fixings. Not to mention the crew. We need a turkey.”
“I’m sorry. There were some unexpected obstacles here.” Holly doesn’t want to bring up the fact that ten perfectly good turkeys with names like Trixie, Prince, and Godiva have narrowly escaped becoming the glistening, cooked birds Leanna is envisioning on the dinner table in her perfect shot and are now happily ensconced in a donkey pen on the island.
“That’s disappointing,” Leanna says, pausing. “Okay.” She changes gears optimistically. “Let me try to spin that. And while I have you, I really need to talk to you about Jake.”
“Oh?” Holly glances around the kitchen, feeling guilty because of the way her heart leaps at the mention of Jake’s name. She looks at her feet.
“Yeah,” Leanna puts a hand over the receiver, muffling the sound. “Hold on, Holly, let me walk a few feet away here.”
With a sharp knife, Bonnie scrapes some chopped herbs from her cutting board into a bowl on the counter. It’s a bright, sunny Thanksgiving morning, and the light streaming in through the windows over the sink glints off the edge of Bonnie’s knife.
“Things are getting heated with Bridget and Jake,” Leanna says excitedly, her voice lowered. “It’s going even better than we’d hoped. But I need some info on Jake that we can use, and I feel like you’re my gal.”
“I don’t know if I really have any of the information you’d want.” Holly closes her eyes as she stands there, preparing for what she knows is coming next.
“I bet you do,” Leanna counters. “Do you have a key to his house?”
“What?” Holly sucks in a sharp breath. “No, I don’t have a key.” She doesn’t mention the fact that someone locking their house on Christmas Key is almost unheard of, and that she could simply walk through the front door of Jake’s house if she wanted to.
“I need some pictures of his life: his family, his house, what’s in his fridge. High school or college diplomas—anything we can feed to Bridget so they’ll find even more common ground than they already have.”
The room brightens considerably in her field of vision, and Holly feels faint. Nothing about this sounds right. Bonnie has stopped what she’s doing and is staring openly at Holly. “I don’t…I can’t…”
“Holly,” Leanna’s says curtly. “I’m about to tell a group of starving, homesick, overtired adults that the juicy slab of turkey they’ve been promised is now a pile of rice and beans with steamed asparagus on the side. I’m going to cover your tail with the network when we have to readjust our expectations on a dime, and now you’re telling me you can’t help me out with a little information?”
“But that’s his private life,” Holly argues.
“I’m not asking you to take pictures of his bank statements or his underwear drawer. You aren't 007, you’re just walking in and snapping a few shots of the pictures he keeps on his dresser.” Leanna’s words are tinged with the defiance of a woman who isn’t used to hearing the word No. “I really need you over to the set by ten o’clock with some information I can use.”
“I’m at the B&B working in the kitchen now,” Holly says, as if the Thanksgiving prep can’t go on without her.
“Fine. So hand someone else the potato masher, and drive over to his place. Break a window or something. The network will pay to have it replaced before he leaves the set. He’ll never even know it happened.”
But I’ll know, Holly wants to say.
“Look, this is how it works, Holly. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. You bring me a picture of Jake and his favorite sister, and I’ll tell the network that a vegetarian Thanksgiving dinner is a great opportunity for the
m to approach Gardenburger or Kashi Foods about running ads during this episode. That way everybody gets what they want, and there’s no love lost. Got it?”
Holly nods, unable to speak.
“See you over here at ten?”
“Okay. See you at ten.” She ends the call.
There’s a stillness in the house that makes Holly want to throw the windows open to the salty ocean air. Against all of her better judgments—against the voices screaming at her inside her head not to do it—she’s let herself in through Jake’s sliding back door, and she’s standing in the middle of his tidy living room, looking around. The air is off, as are the ceiling fans, and the only sound is the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. All of his curtains are closed, and it feels wrong to disturb Jake’s house any more than she has to.
Even with Leanna’s assurance that they aren’t expecting 007-level spy tactics, Holly still feels like she’s doing something that might get her into serious trouble. She creeps into the hallway and back to Jake’s room, holding her breath the entire time. The bed is made, and she stands in the doorway, staring at the leopard-print pillowcases that match the sheet she wore as a Halloween costume not even a month ago. On his nightstand is a book, and she lifts it gently in the dim room.
The book she’s holding is a hardcover copy of John Grisham’s latest. She flips it over to read the back cover; it’s typical Jake reading. She sets it down again. On top of his dresser is a wooden box with a broken lock. Holly already knows this is where he keeps his most valuable possessions, but she opens the lid reverently with both hands anyway, looking in at the items he’s carefully laid inside.
Holly takes out the large, gold ring that belonged to Jake’s grandfather, inspecting the words etched on the metal that would have touched Grandpa Vito Zavaroni’s skin. In a light, worn-down cursive script are the words It Was Ever Thus. Holly traces the lettering with the pad of her index finger before she sets it back inside the box. Next to the ring is a broken watch. The heft of it—the weight of the cool metal—is heavy in Holly’s palm as she inspects the cracked face. The hands rest eternally at 5:13. This is the watch that Jake’s best friend Adam had on his wrist when he was killed in a car accident just before their high school graduation. Holly knows that Adam’s mom gifted it to Jake when he decided to join the police academy, telling him that it was his reminder to stop as many drunk drivers as he could. Jake’s decision to become a police officer had, in fact, been inspired by Adam’s loss, and she knew the watch meant everything to him.
Wild Tropics: Christmas Key Book Two Page 11