by Laura Alden
As plans went, it was better than many. I rushed to catch up to her, and trailed in her wake, looking for tall men with dark blond hair. Which, unfortunately for us in an area settled by Germans, was two out of three men. And half of those were holding at least one child by the hand.
“Chelsea? Amelia!”
Heads turned, but none turned with the alacrity of a child hearing her mother’s voice. There was no answering call, and there was no retreat by a father figure.
“Amelia?”
Pieces of me were starting to break into tiny shards of sorrow. Maybe they were already gone. Maybe Eric was already in the air with the girls, winging southward, never to come home, never to see their mother, never to—
I shook my head. No. That wouldn’t happen. It. Would. Not.
“Chelsea?” Rosie’s voice was starting to go hoarse. “Amelia?”
There had to be a better way. There just had to be.
Suddenly I saw what it was. I grabbed Rosie’s sleeve and pushed through the crowd to an information counter. “Excuse me,” I said to a blue-jacketed woman. “My daughters have wandered off. Can you please make an announcement for Amelia and Chelsea to meet their mother at the baggage claim?”
Rosie clutched the edge of the counter. “Amelia and Chelsea Stull,” she said.
The woman looked at me and I nodded. She picked up a telephone receiver upside down and held the mouthpiece to her lips. “Would Amelia and Chelsea Stull please meet their mother at the baggage claim? Amelia and Chelsea Stull, meet your mother at the baggage claim.”
Rosie and I half ran, half trotted to a vantage point halfway between the conveyor belts and the escalator, heads turning, eyes searching, our senses at full alert, our hopes and fears wrapped up into this one instant.
Were they here? Were they gone? They must be here.
But what if they were gone?
For the briefest of seconds I imagined a day in which I’d be torn forever from Jenna and Oliver. It was the worst second of my life.
“Amelia?” Rosie called. “Chelsea?”
No replies. No answers. No daughters, no reunion. No joy.
Nothing but the black void of an empty life.
Nothing but nothing forever and ever and ever.
“Amelia?” Rosie’s voice was raspy and dry. She turned in a circle, looking, searching, crying. “Chelsea?”
I swallowed. Maybe security would let us through upstairs. But so much time had passed already. By the time we’d talked our way through the guards, the girls would be long, long gone.
“Amelia!” Rosie’s neck cords stood out. “Chelsea!” She called again and again and again until her voice could no longer be heard.
People walked past, their glances sliding toward us and away. What’s wrong with that poor woman? Someone should call security.
Tears stung my eyes. What do you do after you’ve already done everything you can do? “Rosie . . .” I put out a hand, but she pulled away before I touched her.
“Amelia! Chelsea!” Her voice was only a croak, but she kept calling their names, would keep on calling until the stars fell from the sky. “Amelia,” she whispered, finally allowing me to put an arm around her. “Chelsea . . .”
I hugged her hard, and was ready to speak painful platitudes when the miracle occurred.
“But you’re wrong, Daddy,” Chelsea called in a clear, young voice. “It is Mommy.” The girl ran down the escalator, coming down from the second-floor secure area, the escalator’s big moving steps making her short gait awkward and adorable.
“Mom!” Amelia was right behind Chelsea. “Are you coming with us?”
The two poured down the stairs in a rush of blond hair and happiness. Rosie knelt, gathering the girls to her in a large hug, but her gaze was trained on me, and there were question marks in her eyes. For we’d both seen Eric on the escalator behind the girls, and he was already walking rapidly to the exit.
I paused just long enough to say, “Don’t let them watch,” and started after him.
He looked over his shoulder, saw me leave Rosie’s side, noted my determined stance, and broke into a run.
One step, two, and then I was in top gear, chasing down the man who’d killed Sam, the man who’d caused Yvonne undeserved anguish, the man who’d caused all this pain. Run? Oh, yes, I’d run. I’d burn my lungs to fire, I’d run until I couldn’t run any longer, I’d run until the world ended to catch this man and put him where he belonged.
He dodged people carrying garment bags and carryons and wheeled suitcases, and I was right behind him. He hurdled a baggage cart awkwardly, and I gained a yard with my clean jump.
The automatic door slid open just ahead of him and we both went through it at a dead run.
He was bigger and stronger and my one small advantage was footwear. The slick bottoms of his dress oxfords couldn’t compete against the safe tread of my sensible shoes. Which wasn’t much of an advantage, but I’d make it work. I had to.
With a bare look at traffic, he started across the street. If he made it to the parking garage, he could use any of a hundred ways to escape. Run across the open fields and make his way into the city. Commandeer a car and drive away. Hide under vehicles or behind posts until the search ended, then slip away in the dark and—
No. That would not happen.
It. Would. Not.
My fierceness added a spurt of speed to my panting run. I was close, so close, I could almost touch him.
No! He’s starting to pull away, he’s going to get away, I’m not going to—
And then he slipped. His right shoe lost its purchase in the lumpy slush and he lost his balance. Just for one step, but one step was all I needed.
I pushed off with all my might into a flying horizontal leap. Arms outstretched, head down, I hurtled my body forward and tackled Eric Stull, grabbing him about the waist and bringing him to the wet sloppy ground.
Behind us, police car sirens wailed to a stop. Doors opened and officers piled out with a speed that was a great comfort at this moment in my life.
“Hello, Mrs. Kennedy.” Deputy Wheeler helped me to my feet. “Nice tackle. To be honest, I didn’t know you had it in you.”
I watched as two of her fellow officers handcuffed a struggling Eric. “That’s what I used to think,” I said.
She looked at me curiously, but I just smiled.
And, after a moment, she smiled back.
Epilogue
“Mom?”Ared-faced Jenna looked up from the pot of potatoes over which she was toiling. “Are these mashed enough?”
“Let me see.” I gave the gravy one more stir and turned the heat to low. A strand of hair had escaped my ponytail and I pushed it back behind my ear as I crossed the kitchen for inspection duties. Inside the pot the potatoes were a lumpy mess. “Perfect,” I said, and gave her a floury hug. “Best mashed potatoes ever.”
“Are you sure?” Jenna looked dubious. “They’re a little chunky.”
“Shows they’re not out of a box,” I said. “Three more mashes and you’re done.”
“Mom?” Oliver looked up from the plate of raw vegetables he was assembling at the kitchen table. “Does this look okay?”
I trotted back to the gravy, stirred it, and went to my son. The carrots were arrayed in a half circle, celery in a jumble at the opposite side of the plate, a few pieces of broccoli in the center, and two radishes on either side of the broccoli.
“It’s a face,” Oliver said. “See?” He held up two radishes. “These are the eyes, the carrots are the mouth. Like this.” He grinned horribly, lips drawn wide and high.
“Very nice. Jenna, let’s get those potatoes in something nicer.” I handed her a china bowl and, after giving the gravy one last stir, poured it into the stainless steel gravy boat.
“Okeydoke, kids. I think we’re about ready. Jenna, you have the potatoes. Oliver, you have the vegetables, and I have the gravy. Is there anything we’re forgetting?” I put on a haunted look. “It seems as if the
re is, but I can’t remember.”
Oliver bounced in his chair. “The turkey, Mom. The turkey!”
“And the stuffing.” Jenna pointed at the oven, where I’d put the carved-up turkey and stuffing to keep warm.
I smiled at my children. “Silly old me. What would I do without the two of you?”
Oliver slid off the chair and came to my side. “You’d be bored.”
“Yeah,” Jenna said, drawing near. “And who would wake you up on Saturday mornings?”
I laughed and pulled them into a tight hug. “That settles that. I guess it’s a good thing I have you.” For without them, I wouldn’t be whole. I wouldn’t be Mom, I’d just be Beth, and that wasn’t a reality worthy of contemplation.
“Okay,” I said, giving them a last squeaking squeeze. “Let’s get this food on the table.”
The three of us made a small parade as we trekked out of the kitchen, Oliver in front, Jenna next, and me last, each of us carrying food-laden plates. When we reached the dining room, loud applause broke out.
“It looks wonderful!” Yvonne exclaimed.
“Beth, this is great.” Rachel Helmstetter’s smile was the first real one I’d seen on her in weeks.
“Mrs. Kennedy?” Blake asked. “Who gets the wishbone in your house?”
In a droning tone, Jenna and Oliver simultaneously said, “Whoever washes the most dishes.”
“And there are a lot of them,” Lois said, spreading her hands. “Just look at all this food!”
Last week she’d repeated her annual complaint that her very extended family Thanksgiving dinner, held in a rented hall, just wasn’t what Thanksgiving should be. She’d accepted my invitation gladly and asked if she could bring a guest. Now, she looked across the table to him. “I’m told we can’t get up from the table until it’s gone.”
Paoze’s eyes went wide. “We are going to be here all night!”
“No way,” Jenna said. “I like turkey. Lots and lots.”
“You can have my turkey if you want,” Zach said. “My favorite is the stuffing.”
“Forsooth, verily,” Marina said, winking at me. “This is a feast for the eyes as well as the mouth. You did good, Beth. The DH will be seriously bummed that he was too sick to come over.”
Rachel leaned to one side and her daughter whispered in her ear. “I’m not sure,” Rachel said. “How about if I ask?” She looked at me. “Mia and I are interested in your centerpiece. Is it a tradition in your family?”
“You could say that.” Smiling smugly, I admired my own handiwork. Last night I’d cooked the Emmerling rutabaga casserole. This morning I’d spooned it all into a clear glass bowl, alternating a layer of rutabaga with a layer of colored sand from one of the kids’ long-ago art projects. Rutabaga, orange sand. Rutabaga, brown sand. Rutabaga, maroon sand. I’d topped the whole thing with a few dried hydrangea heads I’d clipped from the front yard, and bingo bango bongo, I had a Thanksgiving centerpiece. If any of my missing family members quizzed me on my menu, I’d be able to honestly say that, yes, rutabagas had been on the table.
“Shall we pray?” I asked. Everyone bowed their heads, and I took the hands of Jenna and Oliver, seated at my right and left.
“Dear Father,” I said. “Thank You for this special day, a day to remember Your goodness. We thank You for the pleasure of coming together for this meal and we thank You for all the gifts of love we’ve had. We pray that You’ll help us to carry on and live as You would have us. This we ask in Your name. Amen.”
Rachel wiped away a tear. “Amen.”
“Amen,” breathed Yvonne.
“Amen,” said Lois quietly.
Marina thumped her fist on the table. “So be it, let’s eat!”
Trust my best friend to lighten a mood. “Turkey, anyone?” I started the platter on its way. “There’s more of everything, so feel free to load up.”
Around went Oliver’s vegetables and Jenna’s potatoes and the gravy and the cranberries and the green bean casserole and the Jell-O salad and the onion wraps and the stuffing and sweet potato casserole and the dinner rolls and the fruit salad.
Around went my life and love to these friends old and new, all of us wounded by recent events, all of us putting things back together again, all of us moving ahead, onward and upward.
“Aren’t we doing the Thanksgiving thanks?” Blake asked his mother.
“Oh, honey . . .” Rachel looked flustered.
“What’s that?” Jenna asked.
“At our house,” Blake said, “each of us gives thanks for something before we eat.”
“That’s a nice idea.” I smiled at him, at Rachel, at everyone in the room, at the whole world. My heart was full and happy and I had so much to be thankful for. Amelia and Chelsea were safe and sound, Yvonne’s reputation was restored, business was coming back to the bookstore, Richard had called and said he had two job interviews next week, Jenna and Oliver were healthy and happy, and Evan was taking me to a Minnesota Wild hockey game next weekend. “I’m thankful for such wonderful children.”
“Oh, Mom,” Jenna said, rolling her eyes. “I’m thankful for Mr. Kettunen’s insurance company. My hockey team gets new jerseys next week.”
“I’m thankful for Spot,” Oliver said. “He sleeps with me now and he’s really warm.”
“For my new kitten.” Mia’s smile was a mile wide. “She purrs!”
“For piano lessons,” Blake said. “It’s fun playing with my mom.”
“For kind people,” Paoze said.
“For a loving family that’s on the other side of town.” Lois grinned.
“For good friends,” Rachel said.
“For new friends,” Yvonne said, her eyes shining.
“A toast!” Marina cried, and rose to her feet. “To the woman who gathered us here for this most special of meals, the woman to whom we all owe so much, the woman we all want to be when we grow up. To Beth Kennedy!”
“Don’t be silly,” I murmured, but everyone stood and clinked glasses while I sat in hot embarrassment at the head of the table.
“To Beth!”
“To Mom!”
“To Mrs. Kennedy!”
They sat, laughing and talking as they rattled their silverware free of napkins. Marina caught my eye. “What?” I asked.
“You’re not mad, are you?” she whispered.
“About the toast? No. Mortified, but not mad.”
“A little mortification is good for the soul.” She gave a wise nod.
“One of these days I’m going to mortify you and we’ll see how you like it.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Me, mortified? What fun!”
I shuddered to think of the events that would require Marina mortification. “Thanks, but I think I’ve had enough excitement in the last year to last a lifetime.”
She quirked an eyebrow. “Really?”
I looked out across my Thanksgiving table. Friends, food, and family. What more could I want? “No more excitement,” I said firmly.
Well, at least for a little while.
Also by Laura Alden
Murder at the PTA
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Laura Alden
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