“He hunts them so he can take their tails and make fishing lures out of them. I suspect he might eat the squirrels, too. He’s a bit waste not-want not.”
“Somehow I’d think you wouldn’t approve of the squirrel hunting.”
“I don’t like it, but I don’t know if I want to feud with the guy over it. Usually I just throw some nuts or seed in the back of my yard, behind the garage, and hope the squirrels stay over there, where it’s safe.”
“Now that sounds more like you,” Roger smiled.
“And one other thing. If Mr. Pratt tries to schmooze you into giving him Fido, the answer is always no.”
“Why does he want Fido?” The cat in question had just turned up, hopping on the table and giving Roger’s empty plate a sniff. Once the inspection was complete, Roger scooped up the feline and held it in his lap, caressing the back of its head.
“He thinks Fido would make a fine squirrel killer.”
Roger nodded, a knowing expression on his face. “It all goes back to the fishing, huh?”
“It does. He would bring me tons of fish all summer long. He fishes out of the canal every chance he can get, or along the river. I finally had to tell him I couldn’t take any more, he was overdoing it.”
“How generous are we talking?”
I looked toward the ceiling as I tried to tally. “Probably a half dozen fish — big fish — a day.”
“A half dozen?” Roger’s eyebrows hopped. “That’s a lot, even if you were giving them to Tom, your mother, Vanessa … .”
“Yeah. He’s passionate about it. I couldn’t give it away after one or two tries. And while I like fish, I don’t like to clean it. I’d rather order it at a restaurant.”
“So what did you do to get him to stop being so generous?”
“Trish has a cousin on the reservation who smokes fish, so she introduced them. Mr. Pratt gets to fish, and Trish’s cousin makes a bit extra selling smoked fish.”
“I didn’t know Trish was Native American.”
“Half,” I said. “Her father is a member of the Ojibwa tribe.”
“Good to know. As for the surplus fish arrangement, I guess that worked out.”
“Yes. I was getting fished out big time. Even the cats lost interest, it was so excessive, and if they’re bored with stinky fish … .”
Roger collected our plates and utensils and placed them in the dishwasher. I tracked his progress, enjoying the stripe of flat abs I saw above the waistband of his pants. He caught me looking.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
“I was simply admiring your wardrobe choices,” I smiled, leaning my chin into my hand, “and what’s underneath.”
Roger grinned wickedly, pulling up his shirt to expose more of his furry stomach and chest. “You mean this shirt?”
I shook my head. “No. It’s ugly. You should take it off. Right now.”
He did as ordered. “Anything else bothering you?”
I smiled as I stood and approached. I reached a finger to hook the waistband of his sleep pants, tugging it out and peering down past his navel. “Just as I thought. That’s practically indecent, just that thin film of fabric that’s keeping you from, um, hanging out.”
“Well, what can I say, I like to let things breathe a bit.”
“Is that so?” I smirked. “In that case,” I twisted the drawstring around my finger and led him into the living room, “I think the air is a bit better in here.” I pushed him down onto the couch and straddled his lap. “Now, as far as I can tell, we still have a few hours before we need to leave … .”
“What are you suggesting?” One of his eyebrows quirked in question.
“Now that you’ve had breakfast, I suggest you have me.”
14
“A tie? Well, aren’t you formal?”
I was in the bathroom applying mascara when Roger walked in behind me, adjusting his necktie.
“Is it straight?” he asked.
I turned to quickly glance at him over my shoulder. “I can’t see. Your pants are zipped.”
“Very amusing.” My joke was rewarded with a playful slap on my bottom.
I stopped what I was doing and turned to look him over. I reached forward and made a slight adjustment. “Now it is. I’m surprised you’re wearing a tie. Is the holiday that formal for your family?”
“Not super formal, but if there’s a big meal or a bona-fide party involved, my mother prefers a bit of effort. I’ll probably take it off before dinner, or at least after she’s had a couple glasses of wine.”
“Well, it looks good on you. How about me,” I asked, giving a half-turn. “Do you think I’ll pass muster?”
Roger looked me up and down. “Most definitely. She’ll appreciate the pearls. And that you’re not wearing a sweatshirt or flannels.”
I laughed. “It sounds like she’d get along with my mother. Does she think high-heels and manicures are essential, too?”
“They’ll find some common ground, most definitely,” Roger said. “Though my mom is a bit more subdued in style. She’s got a bit more in common with your Aunt Lindy, but where I saw your aunt in a lot of purples and pearls, my mom wears a lot of those kind of grayish greens and pinks, I guess.”
“I remember seeing her in my shop those two times. That matches what I recall about her. That’s why I’m wearing this lavender sweater. I figure it’s cheerful but a bit restrained.”
“Just like your hair,” Roger smirked, twisting a lock in his finger and pulling me near to press a kiss to the side of my neck.
“Well, I’ll adjust a bit for the tone of the room, but I’m not muting my hair color.”
“And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Soon I was riding shotgun in Roger’s truck, on my way to meet the Montgomerys. Well, mainly one Montgomery. I had met Roger’s mother, Marie, a couple times when she’d come into my shop, and I’d run into his brother Wyatt several times, but had yet to meet Roger’s father, Art.
I was slightly nervous but I had a pecan pie and some extra goodies in a separate box. I was sure Marie liked me, and I’d hoped a treats offering would put me in good stead with Art.
I’d seen the Montgomery house before, but only in passing. As we turned into their driveway I noticed a lot of twinkling white holiday lights adorned the evergreens lining the path, and the façade of the house was sparkling with them, even though it was still daylight.
“Huh, someone is going all out,” I muttered. “It’s pretty. Is it your mom’s doing?”
“No. My dad is the one who is big into holiday lights,” Roger said. “He adds on every year.”
“So in the next ten years or so you’ll be able to see the display from outer space.”
“Just about,” Roger nodded, laughing. “Ah, and I see Wyatt is here.”
I saw an older Mustang parked haphazardly in front of the woodpile next to the house. I knew instantly that it was his, since the other vehicles — mostly trucks and SUVs — were more practical in nature for our northern climate.
“I’m surprised. I expected Wyatt to be driving something newer.”
“He expects the same thing,” Roger said. “But his credit is shot, and Dad only pays him hourly at this point, so it’s what his budget allows.”
“And you said he sometimes brings a girl to family meals or holidays?”
“Yep.”
“Anyone special, or… ?” I let the question hang.
“Usually whoever he’s trying to bed.”
“Do your parents approve?”
“They tolerate it.”
Roger parked close to the front door and jogged around to help me out of his truck. I fussed with my hair quickly and puffed the bow on top of the cookie box before we went inside. I felt a little bolt of panic and hesitated.
“Come on,” Roger smiled, holding a hand out to me. I took it and drew closer to him as he tugged me near and kissed me on the temple. “No need to worry. My mom already met you and loved you. An
d my dad is outspoken, but no worse than Fiona. You’ll do great.”
“If you say so … .”
Two minutes later we were inside. Roger called out while we took our boots off. I heard someone approach and as I raised up I spied Marie. Last time I saw her she had her hair down to her shoulders, and I remembered she had pale green-gray eyes. Today she had her dark blonde locks up in a French twist, with a few tendrils framing her face. She wore a cashmere sweater and a pair of pressed trousers. Her jewelry was tasteful and quality — diamond studs, an opal and diamond pendant dangling from a gold chain, and a pair of delicate tennis bracelets encircling her tiny wrists.
“Welcome, my dear!” I thought she’d approach and embrace Roger first, but she bypassed him and gave me a warm hug. She was a couple inches shorter than me, but our heights were about even due to the high heels she wore. My mother would approve of that choice, even though the heels were taupe, to match her pants.
Though she was dressed more formally, the embrace was heartfelt and welcoming. “I was so happy to find out you two were dating.” She smiled, and the expression lit up her eyes, so I began to relax slightly.
She then turned to her son and gave him a hearty hug and patted his back. “It’s about time you brought this young lady around.”
I held up the box of cookies and the pie. “The pie is pecan,” I offered, “and the cookies an assortment.”
“Oh,” she raised her eyebrows. “Someone told you how to win over Arthur’s heart.” She linked her arm with mine and guided me toward the kitchen. “Would you like a glass of wine, dear? I just opened a bottle of Riesling — I ordered a case — but also have Zinfandel. I also have a lot of reds, both domestic and foreign. I’ve been on a Spanish wines kick lately, so if you would like to try something, I’m happy to accommodate. We also have a full bar … .”
“Thank you, Mrs. Montgomery,” I said, turning my gaze to Roger and offering an apprehensive smile. He put a hand on my shoulder to steady me. The warmth felt nice and I felt more grounded, calmer knowing he was near. I wasn’t sure why I was so nervous, but then it dawned on me: This was important to him, and to me. I wanted things to go well, for his sake as much as mine.
“Call me Marie. I believe we went through this before, back at your shop.”
“Okay, Marie. A glass of Riesling would be great. That’s one of my favorites.”
“Good, good.” She detached herself and poured me a glass. “This is semi-dry. I also have sweeter ones, but I thought I’d hold those in reserve until dessert.”
“That’s fine with me,” I took a sip of the wine and marveled at its flavor. “This is really good.” I took another sip, enjoying it. Roger, who no longer drank, went into the refrigerator and pulled out a can of soda pop, cracking it open and raising it to his lips.
Marie turned to him and wagged a warning finger. “Roger … .”
“Sorry, Mom.” Roger set the drink down and retrieved a glass from the cabinet and emptied the can’s contents into it.
Marie smiled at me. “That’s one little house rule. I don’t have a lot, but we do not drink from cans or bottles. We pour into the appropriate glass or mug and drink from that. It’s just nicer. How is the wine, Poppy?”
“Excellent. It’s the best Riesling I have ever tried.”
“Oh, wonderful. I should hope so,” she drew near and spoke sotto voce. “It’s a little something I picked up on the Canadian side. It cost fifty dollars American for the bottle.”
“Fifty!” I almost choked when I heard the number. I held up the glass and peered at its contents, trying to see if I could discern something … more expensive … in the pale golden liquid. As I lowered it, Marie topped me off and then hid the wine behind a paper towel roll next to the refrigerator.
“If you want more, dear,” she leaned close, “it’s right there.”
“Um,” I lowered my voice, “is the price a secret? My mother does that with her shoes sometimes, you know, hides them from her husband and then says she had them a while.”
Marie laughed, her eyes crinkling. “Oh, is that Fiona?”
I nodded.
“Oh, I’ve heard stories about her. Met her once or twice, but only in passing, but that shopping story is too rich. I love that. But no, dear, Art won’t mind me splurging on good wine; I just don’t want to share any of the good stuff with certain branches of the family tree.”
I raised a questioning eyebrow at Roger. “Certain branches?” I mouthed.
Roger smiled. “Let me guess, Mom, a couple cousins are here.”
“Yes, the morons are here.” Marie rolled her eyes in exasperation.
“Wait? What? Did you say morons?” I looked between Roger and his mother, waiting for more explanation.
“Yes, Mom said morons, but she meant the Morins.”
“No, I really didn’t,” Marie said. “The Morins are morons, so I’m modifying their last names to simplify things. Kind of like their minds.”
I raised an eyebrow to Roger, wanting to know more.
He shrugged. “They’re fine. They’re just more … casual … let’s say.”
“They’re walking Yooper jokes,” Marie said. “And I hate Yooper jokes. We’re not all inbred and walking around with shotguns and drooling over deer.”
“You talking about the Morins?”
I turned toward the unfamiliar voice. There stood a man who could have been the perfect blend of Roger and his brother Wyatt, if you tacked on about twenty or thirty years. He was tall, a bit more slender than Roger but with a small belly. He still cut a sleek figure, though. He had a full head of silvery hair, cropped close and peppered with glints of blond and brown. His eyes were the same hazel color as Wyatt’s but they were more downturned in that sleepy way, like Roger’s.
I smiled in greeting and began to speak before he boomed over me. “You must be Poppy, Roger’s little lady.” He extended a meaty hand in my direction and I clasped it in greeting. His palms were dry and warm and his grip was firm. Some of my nervousness dissolved, as he looked a bit gruff but had lively, kind eyes and a welcoming smile. “We finally meet.”
I nodded. “Good to meet you, Mr. Montgomery.”
“Ah, my girl,” he wagged a finger in warning. “Call me Art.” He leaned in and spoke close to my ear. “Maybe one day you’ll be calling me dad.”
I felt my cheeks color at the comment. Marie, perhaps sensing my discomfort, waved a dismissive hand in her husband’s direction. “Art, don’t put the cart before the horse.”
Art, pausing while grabbing a beer from the fridge and pouring it into a pilsner glass, turned toward his wife and chuckled. “Very funny, Marie. When Roger told us he was dating this redhead from that strange shop — and boy is that hair red — ” he stopped and plucked at a tendril, eyeing the vivid hue — “yes-siree that is red, you just about sprinkled your drawers with excitement.” He mimed his wife’s voice. “’She’s so pretty. She’s clearly not crazy. She doesn’t have a bunch of marriages and kids all over the place. Blah blah blah… .’”
“Um …” I wasn’t sure what to say. Instead I took a large sip of wine.
“It’s good,” Marie nodded. “Isn’t it?” She fetched the bottle by the fridge and topped me off, and then drained the rest of the contents into her goblet.
Art watched and shook his head. “You’re really hiding that from the Morins, aren’t you, not pulling my leg?”
“Yes. They won’t appreciate a good wine. And anyways, I bought some Boone’s Farm for them.”
I tried to stifle a laugh but failed. “Boone’s Farm? Wow, I didn’t know anyone drank that any longer.”
“It’s a budget buzz,” Marie said. “They’re Milwaukee’s Best and Boone’s Farm types. The last time I served them quality stuff, they mixed a pricey bourbon with Faygo.”
“Faygo?” I groaned. “You don’t ruin perfectly good Faygo with bourbon!”
Art broke out into a loud guffaw.
Marie raised an eyebrow in my di
rection. I grinned.
“Oh, you!” she said, giving me a playful slap on my shoulder. “You had me there.”
“I like her,” Art said. “She’s feisty. Like her mother, it would appear.”
“What’s not to like?” Roger said, reaching out and giving my hand a squeeze.
“Yes, what’s not to like?” Marie leaned in. “You wouldn’t really mix Faygo with the good stuff, would you?”
I shook my head. “No, but if I’m mixing up something sweet it’ll be a cake, not a cocktail.”
Marie gave me a fond smile and then motioned for me to follow as she went in the direction of the dining room. “Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour, and introduce you to any family we run into along the way.”
I made a move to follow, but Roger stilled us.
“Mom,” he warned, “Please don’t hog my girlfriend. I want to enjoy time with her, too, this Thanksgiving.”
“Pffft!” Marie replied, waving a well-manicured hand in her son’s direction. “You’ve had her all to yourself, and probably both last night and all morning, judging from the fresh love bite that’s visible on your neck. That’s the real reason you haven’t taken that tie off yet. I know your tricks.”
Roger held his hand up to cover the mark in question, then tugged up his collar slightly. I felt my cheeks flame in embarrassment.
“Oh, look,” Marie smiled, gently patting my face. “She’s a bit shy. That’s sweet that she’s not so jaded or immodest.” She and her husband looked at one another and laughed. “That’s cute, isn’t it, Art?”
“It sure is,” he nodded. “And if you’re so hell bent on staying at her side, son, you can join the tour.”
Roger was. And did.
15
The start of my tour was interrupted by the sound of some loud yelling. “You suck! I rule!”
“Who is that?” I asked. “She sounds competitive.”
“That would be Wyatt’s flavor du jour. He took her down to the basement not five minutes after they got here. They’ve been playing video games ever since.”
A Spot of Bother Page 11