“Well good.” The for you was implied and hard to miss. “Since you are, I was wondering if you could possibly bring in napkins.”
The proverbial olive branch, reaching it out like a request for paper products made up for swiping the whole party out from under her. Sophie Watts, the bigger person, willing to release her hold on a minute detail and hand it over to her predecessor in a gesture of goodwill and no hard feelings.
In your dreams, bitch.
“Oh, you need napkins?” Tara blurted. “Aren’t you lucky that you’re in a store right now. Just a hop, skip and jump away from a whole selection of napkins. I’ll be crossing my fingers for you that you find the perfect ones!”
Sophie turned to Catherine. “Well I—I just thought that since you’ve been such an active part of the class this year, maybe you’d want to—”
“Do you need napkins?” Catherine asked.
“Well of course I can bring them. But if you wanted to do something—”
“So you don’t need them,” she clarified.
“I’ll just bring them if you don’t want to,” Sophie Watts said smartly.
“Well I think you’re going to bring them no matter how I answer,” Catherine pointed out.
There was a moment’s pause and then a sigh. “Forget it. I was only trying to be nice.”
“Ooh, really? It doesn’t come easy for you, does it?” Tara noted.
As Sophie hobbled away on her designer heels, Catherine turned to Tara, her eyes welling with tears of gratitude. “That was amazing.”
“What?” she shrugged back.
“That. Nobody does that to Sophie Watts.”
“Who the hell is Sophie Watts anyway?”
“She is the all-knowing, all-doing, perfect mother. And an almighty bitch.”
“Is this the woman I’m going to trounce in the lighting competition?” A done deal as far as Tara was concerned.
“If you win, yes,” Catherine said conservatively, considering it was probably rigged just like everything else Sophie Watts was involved in.
“Oh, I’m gonna win alright. No one beats a Delrio at lighting. Can’t happen.”
Catherine raised her eyebrows noncommittally.
“So what’s this party she’s talking about anyway?” Tara asked.
“The Snow Party. At school. That is the room mother for Cara’s class—”
“Wait, I thought you were the room mother for Cara’s class.”
“I was. For a few months. I got ousted.”
“By that nightmare in Jimmy Choo’s? Jimmy himself should come and take her heels away for giving his brand a bad name.”
Catherine smirked gratefully.
“How does that happen? She’s terrible! Why would anyone want to give that woman any power at all? Does she have compromising photos of Cara’s teacher? What?”
“I’m a crappy room mother,” Catherine admitted. “And Sophie Watts has no shame to call it like she sees it.”
“Oh no she didn’t.”
“Plus, she carries drinks, food, paper products—spare everything—all of it in the back of her minivan everywhere she goes so she can save the day whenever anyone forgets anything. Like some kind of evil Superwoman. There’s no way to compete with that.”
“How did I not know anything about any of this?”
“Because I thought you would think it was all ridiculous. Why would anyone even want to be a room mother? That’s kind of what you said back when I mentioned it.”
“But I don’t want any friend of mine to get bullied.”
“I wish Georgia felt that way,” she grumbled.
“Good old Georgia sided with Sophie Watts?”
A grim nod.
“Yeah, it figures. Some people are immune to those women. Above their put-downs. Tall enough that the Watts’s can’t stare down their nose at them.” A look passed over Tara’s face. The one she got when things were about to get crazy.
“No, Tara,” Catherine reprimanded her gently but firmly, like one would a dog who is getting a bit too rambunctious.
“You should bring the napkins,” she said. “Good old Mardi Gras napkins. Or econo brand everyday table napkins with flower buds that say spring, instead of holiday designs. That would just drive someone like her crazy. Batshit crazy. It would be brilliant.”
Catherine felt a rumbling of righteousness in her gut. “Do what she wants but not the way she wants it,” she said softly.
“Exactly.”
“But then she’ll just save the day with her perfectly well-appointed emergency stash of napkins that match her plates and everything else.”
Tara tapped her chin, thinking. “Two can play that game.” A twinkle in her eye.
“What game?”
“She pushed you out of your seat and now we can push back.”
“We?”
“We’ll take it over.”
“They aren’t going to turn around with two days’ notice and let us run the show. And definitely not after the last couple parties,” Catherine pointed out.
“Maybe not. But no one can stop you from helping, right?”
“I guess not.”
“So you help,” Tara urged.
“You forget one thing, Tara, we aren’t any good at this stuff. We can’t bake and we don’t plan and we have no idea what we’re doing.”
“But we know people.”
“Who?”
“Elizabeth Hemmings.”
“My mother?”
“The one and only.”
Catherine waved it off. “She isn’t going to sully herself by taking over an elementary school class party.”
-45-
“How’d the shopping go?” Fynn asked.
“Exhausting,” Catherine groaned, taking his offered hand so he could haul her out of the passenger seat of Tara’s car.
“We had a great time. I got to meet the devil herself,” Tara said.
Catherine mouthed, Sophie Watts.
“Ohhh, sounds like it was a blast,” he commiserated.
“That’s about right,” she grumbled, shutting the door behind her before Tara could go any further, waving goodbye before she had any bright ideas to stick around. Surprisingly, though, Tara seemed happy enough to drive off.
“Well, I for one am glad you’re home again,” Fynn said, leaning in for a kiss.
“So I see. Anything going on that I need to worry about?” she prodded.
“Nope. Just love to see my bride.”
“Ooookay.”
“Anything new with you?” He took her by the arm, leading her the long way around the house.
“Not that I know of,” she said carefully, “unless you count the imaginary cat that Cara has.”
“An imaginary cat? That’s fascinating,” he said with way too much excitement.
“I don’t know if that’s really the word. When the school calls and tells you that your kid might need counseling, it fails to rise to the level of fascinating.”
“Counseling?” He stopped them in their tracks.
“I don’t know exactly what they mean or what Cara is actually saying around school or anything,” she clarified, wishing she hadn’t even started this conversation before putting some feelers out with Cara. It could be absolutely nothing to worry about.
“Should we—”
“I think we have time to talk to her and see what’s going on. She’s doing great, right? I mean, if an imaginary cat is part of the reason then so be it. Maybe it’s just what she needs,” she reasoned.
Fynn gave a small sideways nod, accepting the argument.
“Where are you taking me anyway, Mr. Trager? It’s cold out here,” she shivered, gladly moving to another topic.
“We’re just taking a bit of a detour before we go inside.”
“A detour through ankle deep snow?”
“We have to do what we have to do.” He pulled her along again.
“And why do we have to do it? Why can’t we just go in t
hrough our front door like normal people?”
“Because this isn’t a normal situation.”
“Oh God, please tell me that you aren’t trying to stop me from seeing that my mother redecorated the family room while I was out. So help me—”
“Your mom has done nothing to the house. Though she is inside making something for dinner, so you’ll have to stomach that.”
But Catherine was past all the fighting for control of the kitchen stuff that had had her rankled when they first got here. She had since cooked with her mother, or let her mother cook, without any problem at all—and they had all eaten better because of it.
“So what are we doing out here then?”
“Well…” He guided her around the back corner of the house.
“What is it?” In awe of the massive box sitting on the deck, like it was from another planet.
“Just wait until you see it. It is unbelievable!” Fynn squealed. An outright squeal like a teenage girl would make.
He left her where she was and hopped up the steps to lift the box.
“A grill?” Confused. She’d thought it was a gift from him. To her. Something so big and amazing and wonderful that he couldn’t bear waiting another minute to give it to her.
“That’s not just a grill. It’s a grill. A real man’s man, heat-searing grill. Top of the line!”
“And you bought this for yourself for Christmas?”
“It’s for us. Both of us. To us.”
Catherine’s face fell even further that the man she loved could be so dense.
“Don’t look so happy about it,” Fynn smarted.
“I just—I wasn’t expecting a Christmas gift… so early,” she said haltingly, slowly mounting the deck stairs. Certainly not a crappy one.
“I wasn’t expecting one at all. It just arrived. This afternoon. Just like last time.”
“Last time?”
“Your whole kitchen thing.” He swirled his hand in the air to encompass what he meant and when she continued to look dumbfounded, added, “The appliances. All that stuff from Walter. The guy from the wedding. Our late wedding gift that arrived last week?” An up-swinging question of her short-term memory loss.
Light finally dawned just as her father opened the back door, whistling his appreciation for the stainless steel fire-breathing behemoth out there in the snow.
“That is some fine craftsmanship. Made in America, no less.” Obviously he’d already checked that part out. William Hemmings approved.
“It seems good old Uncle Walter sent us an early Christmas gift. Can you believe it?” Fynn asked.
“Uncle Walter?”
“That’s what I think we should call him from now on. I think he deserves it.”
The door from the kitchen opened. “Are you all going to stand out there all night admiring that thing?” Elizabeth Hemmings charged, perpetual dishtowel in hand.
“This Uncle Walter of yours is quality people,” William Hemmings asserted. “We took crotchety old Uncle Dick into our home to eat our food for a lot less than this. Heck, we never got so much as a thank you from him,” he added, of the widowed old neighbor his wife had taken upon herself to look after in his dear wife’s memory.
“He gives you a bottle of scotch for Christmas every year, William,” Elizabeth pointed out, setting the record straight.
“I don’t even like scotch. Hate the stuff actually,” he grumbled.
“It’s the thought that counts,” she reminded him.
“And then he ends up drinking the whole bottle himself. Asks for a glass before every meal he eats at our table.”
Catherine followed the volleying back and forth from her dad to her mom, then looked to Fynn, wondering if they would end up grumbling about Uncle Walter this way. Wondering further if Uncle Walter was going to show up on Christmas morning expecting a gift in return. How much could one couple take from an eccentric stranger before he demanded something from them?
“Are we having a picnic on the deck tonight?” Cara asked, wandering out the door and onto the snow in her stocking feet.
“Tonight? It’s freezing cold out!” Catherine exclaimed.
“So,” she shrugged. “Eskimos do it all the time.”
Catherine was caught off-guard. Fair point. Still no, of course, but impressive just the same.
“I think we all need to get inside and shut out the cold before we turn into popsicles,” Elizabeth asserted.
“Wouldn’t he be a Pop-popsicle?” Cara giggled, thumbing at Pop-Pop.
“Why I oughta,” William said, picking up Cara and carrying her inside.
Catherine turned to Fynn, wondering at the look on his face that made her question whether he might leave her for a grill. He was in love for sure.
She held out her hand. “Coming?”
“Oh… yeah.” He gave the grill a longing glance.
As soon as they stepped inside, the scent of her mother’s beef stew hit every nostalgic button. “It smells delicious in here, Mom,” she said, meaning it.
“Well, it’s a good winter meal. I wrote the recipe down for you too and left it on the fridge.”
“Thank you.”
It was coming easier, this getting along with her mom thing. She would have figured that by now she’d be threatening to throw either her mother or herself off the roof. Instead they had found a good amount of give and take, respecting each other’s space.
Catherine stepped in a wet spot on the wood floor and noticed a trail of several more, usually Magnus’s doing but the prints were too large for paws. “Cara, you need to go and get out of those wet socks. Put on another pair, please.”
“Can’t I just go barefoot?” she begged.
“Fine, but only until you get your shower. Then you’re covering them up.”
“Yay!”
“Dinner’s ready!” Elizabeth Hemmings sang out, causing mass confusion in the kitchen as everyone washed up and dished up and got situated around the table.
“This stew is like Papa Bear’s porridge,” Cara announced, putting down her first spoonful.
“Which one is that?” William Hemmings asked, scratching his head like he couldn’t remember.
“That’s the one that’s too hot, Pop-Pop!” she giggled.
“And are you Goldilocks?” he asked.
“I can’t be. I don’t have blonde hair. And Goldilocks is a thief. I don’t want to be a thief and go to jail.”
“I’ll drink to that.” He held up his glass of milk, making a toast.
“Me too!” she laughed, drinking a big gulp and leaving a milk mustache behind.
Catherine went to work eating her own stew that was “just right”, to put it in fairytale terms. She was so preoccupied with the warm and yummy feeling of the stew hitting all the perfect spots that she didn’t realize the conversation at the table had moved on.
“You know what?” Cara asked the table at large, eyes wide and serious. “Aunt Tara’s house is haunted.”
Catherine choked on a mouthful. “What?”
“Everybody knows,” she shrugged. “I wanted to go there on Halloween but you wouldn’t let me.”
“You mean it’s a haunted house?” Catherine asked, as in a business with props and actors and made-up scary things. Though she didn’t remember being asked about going any such place, not that her brain was worth a hill of beans on memory these days.
“That’s what I said. The older kids on the bus dare each other to ring the doorbell on Halloween and see if a ghost answers.”
Catherine turned to Fynn for help and got a who me? in return. What kind of person lives in a town for years and knows nothing of its myths or legends or whatever this was? Catherine looked to her parents who both seemed completely humored by the whole thing.
“Oh, and I almost forgot,” Cara said, jumping straight into something knew, like talk of a haunted house was only mildly interesting, “Kalle from my class asked me if I could go to her Christmas party. I told her I would ask my c
at but I don’t know if I want to go because Gramma Lizzy and Pop-Pop will still be here and I don’t want to miss being with them.”
Catherine’s ears perked up. Shit. At this point she’d rather Cara had stayed on the talk of ghosts and the rumored paranormal activity down the road than go to that place where her teacher wasn’t wrong or overreacting or lying about the cat thing.
“Christmas parties only come around once a year, and we plan to come around again in the summer, so don’t worry about us,” Gramma Lizzy assured her.
“Really?” Cara asked excitedly. “Because there are all kinds of different things we can do in the summer.”
Then Cara turned toward Catherine, “So, can I go?”
“Excuse me?” She looked around. “Is your cat here right now?” Wondering if she was going to be one of those people who had to entertain her child’s imaginary world, putting out an extra plate of food. Cat food. That Magnus would eat. And if she would need to fill a litter box and keep it in the laundry room for imaginary bowel movements.
“You’re funny,” Cara giggled.
“You think that’s funny, how about this,” Pop-Pop offered, hanging his spoon on his nose. Cara tried copying, giggling as her spoon kept falling off.
“You are ‘my Cat’, dear,” Elizabeth Hemmings whispered, leaning toward Catherine.
“Huh?”
“That’s what Cara calls you. Just like ‘I have to ask my mom’ to do something. You’re my Cat. Not just plain Cat, but my Cat.”
And suddenly all of the stress of the day melted away. The alarm bells Mrs. Karnes had touched off. The Sophie Watts run-in. The haunting. The Gingermelon shocker that would require a feat of superhuman strength to pull off. In fact, she felt stronger. Better. Borderline invincible. She was Cara’s Cat. That was the best news she’d heard in a long time.
Wednesday, December 13th
-46-
Catherine eyed the structure, the word of a six-year-old calling into question its every stud, nail, window, and piece of siding. She stepped to the welcome mat and rang the bell. An actual “Welcome” mat. Not a “Bitch, You’re Here” mat or a “Beat It” mat, but a genuine polite salutation.
2 Weeks 'Til Eve (2 'Til Series Book 3) Page 26