by Leslie Meier
“We haven’t ordered hamburgers here for a while, have we?” Her own menu still raised, Bettina turned to Pamela, who was seated on the same side of the booth.
“I don’t think so,” Pamela said. “A hamburger sounds good.”
“How about you, Archie?” Bettina lowered her menu. “My treat, to thank you for the interview.”
He spoke from behind the menu. “I’d like the cheese omelet, please. And a cup of coffee.”
“Done,” Bettina declared, laying her menu down on the paper place mat.
The server, a middle-aged woman who was also a Hyler’s institution, had been hovering near the booth—Hyler’s liked to turn over tables quickly during the lunchtime rush—and stepped forward with her order pad in hand.
Once the burgers, omelet, and coffee had been requested, along with vanilla shakes for Bettina and Pamela, Bettina focused her gaze on Archie. In her hazel eyes, accented with green shadow that matched her turtleneck, Pamela recognized the determination that usually resulted in Bettina’s getting people to talk.
“So,” she said pleasantly, “the twelfth day of Christmas.” Her manner combined curiosity with admiration, as if nothing at that moment was more important than what Archie had to say.
“Well,” he said, looking down at his place mat and realigning the knife, fork, and spoon so they paralleled the place mat’s edges. “She’d done the other eleven days, so . . . it was time for the drummers.”
“There’s an extra drummer on the card though.” Bettina struggled to maintain eye contact, given Archie’s interest in his silverware. “And he doesn’t look like the other drummers. He looks like he might be based on a real person.”
“She liked her little jokes.” He gave the knife one last adjustment. “Karma was very witty.”
“Did she know some real person who was a drummer?” Bettina inquired.
The server returned then, with Archie’s coffee. He seemed, like Bettina, to require a careful admixture of sugar and cream, so conversation ceased while he added the contents of several sugar packets to his cup, stirred energetically, and then peeled the top off a tiny plastic tub of cream.
“The Advocate’s readers will be fascinated by the backstory,” Bettina said encouragingly as Archie dribbled the cream into his coffee. “Karma was so popular with the students, and everyone in town looked forward to her Christmas card designs.” She laughed. “Such a beautiful woman too. There must have been admirers.”
The server interrupted again, bearing two vanilla milkshakes in tall frosted glasses. “And burgers coming right up,” she sang out. “Your cheese omelet too, sweetie.” She winked at Archie.
“Do you two have something going on?” Bettina said teasingly after she left, for the moment ignoring the milkshake.
“I . . . of course not.” Archie’s coffee cup paused halfway to his mouth. “I always order a cheese omelet when I come here. Karma and I . . . Cheese omelets were her favorite too.”
Something odd was happening to his voice. He set the coffee cup down, swallowed hard, and blinked a few times. “It’s just . . . I really miss her.”
Bettina sprang from the bench and hurried to the other side of the booth, where she slid in beside Archie.
“Oh, you poor dear man,” she crooned in a voice similar to the one she used to comfort Woofus. “It’s hard to lose someone you loved.”
“I didn’t . . . I didn’t love her,” he moaned, “at least not in that way. It would have been hopeless . . .”
“Yes,” Bettina murmured, “there was someone else, wasn’t there . . . ?”
“Mack Drayton,” Archie said miserably. He grabbed up the paper napkin from his place setting and dabbed at his eyes.
An oval platter bearing a hamburger appeared in front of Pamela. The hamburger shared the platter with a small pile of French fries, a fluted paper cup of slaw, and a long spear of pickle. Without comment the server spun Bettina’s place mat, with its napkin and silverware, around to face her in her new position and deposited a platter identical to Pamela’s on it. Pamela nudged Bettina’s shake across the table.
Archie’s cheese omelet arrived next, accompanied by a fresh napkin.
Bettina was the first to sample her meal, and her verdict was, “Delicious!” Archie picked up his fork and took a tentative bite of his omelet, which was a rich shade of yellow, glistening with butter, and accompanied by four triangles of golden-brown toast.
The taste of food seemed to cheer him, and soon he was eating quite enthusiastically.
Pamela removed the onion slice from her hamburger, replaced the top bun, and took a bite. The ground beef was meaty, slightly rare, and mouth-filling, with just a hint of char from the grill. The bun was a brioche bun like those at the Co-Op bakery counter, not as yielding to the teeth as a conventional hamburger bun, and it stood up well to the juicy burger. The dilled sharpness of the pickle offered the perfect follow-up.
No one spoke for a bit, and when they did, it was to confirm that all three were enjoying their meal and Hyler’s certainly deserved the esteem it was held in by Arborvillians.
Pamela sipped at her milkshake and took bites of her hamburger, interspersed with forkfuls of slaw, quick nips at the pickle, and fries eaten, one by one, with fingers.
“Mack Drayton was the inspiration for that extra drummer on the card,” Archie said suddenly. His plate was empty, as was his coffee cup, which had been refilled twice. Perhaps this announcement was intended as thanks for a satisfying meal.
Bettina could be cagey. Instead of turning to him (she was still sharing his side of the booth), she merely said, “Oh?” in an offhand way and continued methodically finishing the last of her French fries.
Some of Pamela’s most revealing chats with Penny had occurred in the car. Somehow the idea that Pamela’s concentration was mostly on the road, and not on her daughter, had loosened Penny’s tongue, almost as if Penny was simply talking to herself—working through an idea best pondered if spoken aloud.
Bettina had presumably had the same experience while raising her two sons. Now she continued eating her fries as Archie spoke.
“She met him over a decade ago, when they were both living in the city and going to school. They finished school and went their separate ways, but they’d recently reconnected. She decided it wasn’t working and she stopped seeing him in October—but it was too late to redo the cards.”
* * *
“I don’t think Archie was telling the truth about not loving her,” Bettina commented as she and Pamela walked along Arborville Avenue half an hour later. They were en route to the Co-Op for Pamela’s bouillabaisse ingredients.
Karma’s inspiration for the other eleven days of Christmas had been dealt with summarily (Did she know any pipers? Ever live on a dairy farm? Crave expensive jewelry? Know much about birds?) because Bettina was eager to maintain the pretense that her goal was an article on Karma’s inspiration for the cards. Ultimately, though, she had thanked Archie for his time and told him that, aside from the personal details that had inspired the image for the twelfth day—which she was sure he wouldn’t want to appear in the Advocate—she didn’t think she had enough material for a story.
“I agree,” Pamela said. “It was pretty obvious how he felt about her. But he could see the types she was attracted to—the dashing drummer, and maybe he’d been privy to details about her other romances. He knew he wasn’t dashing, so he’d just resigned himself to being the faithful friend.”
Bettina nodded, a bit sadly. “At least that way he could be close to her in some way.”
They had reached the Co-Op, but Pamela paused at the door. “It sounded like Karma was definitely the one who broke it off with Mack last October,” she said. “Not the other way around.”
“It sounded that way to me too,” Bettina agreed.
“A possessive man could get very angry if he couldn’t have the woman he wanted.”
“Very.” Bettina gave a vigorous nod, and the candy cane earrings
swayed.
An impatient voice asked, “Excuse me, but are you ladies going in or not?”
They hurried through the door. Pamela picked up one of the baskets for shoppers in search of only a few items. “Meeting Mack Drayton on Saturday night is going to be interesting,” Pamela said as they headed over the worn wooden floor toward the fish counter.
They emerged from the Co-Op sometime later, Pamela carrying a canvas tote that held fresh mussels, shrimp, and sea bass, and leeks and a bulb of fennel. After a quick stop at the wine store next to the Co-Op, they continued south on Arborville Avenue.
“I miss shopping at the Co-Op sometimes,” Bettina commented as they walked along. “I hardly ever go there now.”
Bettina had been a willing but uninspired cook through most of her married life, with a repertoire of seven menus that repeated week after week. But when Wilfred retired, he’d enthusiastically taken over most kitchen duties and the Frasers’ culinary horizons had widened considerably.
* * *
From the stereo came the strains of “I Saw Three Ships,” courtesy of a vinyl Christmas LP that had come out every year since Pamela was a child. When her parents downsized, the LP became hers. The gentle glow of the Christmas tree illuminated the living room. It was visible from the dining room, where Pamela and Penny sat at a table laid with a lace tablecloth, white linen napkins, Pamela’s wedding china with its garlands of pink roses, and tag sale wineglasses etched with a filigree design.
The cats had had a special Christmas Eve meal, a can of something very fancy that included gravy, and they were napping.
Pamela and Penny were eating the bouillabaisse. They chatted about plans for the next day, and the next week—Penny didn’t have to return to Boston until after New Year’s. She would be a senior in college by the time Christmas rolled around again, and then she would graduate, and Pamela would really be alone in her big house.
But that was too sad a thought to contemplate on an evening that was a prelude to a day of feasting and presents and friends. Pamela poured a bit more Chablis into each of their glasses as “I Saw Three Ships” yielded to “Good King Wenceslas.”
They finished up the evening sitting companionably on the sofa, nibbling on slices of poppy-seed cake from one of the loaves Pamela had baked that morning and watching A Christmas Carol.
Chapter Nine
It had been many years since Christmas started before the sun came up, with an eager Penny invading her parents’ bed. Lately the day had started instead with eager cats, though no more eager than on any other day, demanding breakfast.
Pulling on her fleecy robe and slipping her feet into fleecy slippers, Pamela followed Catrina into the hall. They were joined there by Ginger, who had abandoned the still-sleeping Penny when she sensed that most of the household was stirring. The three proceeded down the stairs.
In the kitchen, while the cats traced complicated patterns around her bare ankles, Pamela opened another can of the special gravy cat food. It slid into the bowl in a compact can-shaped lump, but when it was broken up with a spoon, gravy magically flowed from a cavity in the center. The cats, however, seemed to like it no better than their usual fare.
Next she measured water into the kettle and set it to boil, then dashed outside for the Register. The Advocate had appeared since she last checked the driveway, so she brought that in too, both encased in flimsy plastic sleeves.
As Pamela was grinding the coffee beans, Penny came in, looking like a years-younger version of herself, with her sleepy eyes and pillow-tousled hair. She waited until the grinder’s noise subsided to a whispery whir before offering a Christmas greeting.
“Shall we have Christmas carols with breakfast?” Pamela asked. Penny nodded. “And put the tree lights on too,” Pamela added, “even though we can’t see them from in here.”
The kettle began to whistle then, and soon the familiar aroma of brewing coffee filled the small kitchen, as the boiling water dripped through the ground beans in the filter cone. Penny returned from her errand to the strains of “Silent Night,” slipped two slices of whole-grain bread into the toaster, and arranged cups, saucers, and plates from Pamela’s wedding china on the table. Not being a devotee of black coffee like her mother, she added the cut-glass sugar bowl and the cream pitcher, with a dollop of cream, to the table setting.
They ate their toast and drank their coffee while paging through the newspapers. Out of loyalty to Bettina, Pamela read the Advocate first, though as Bettina had predicted, since the Advocate was a weekly, the Register had long since reported everything that there was to know (so far) about Karma’s murder.
“Shall we see what’s waiting for us under the Christmas tree?” Pamela asked after the newspapers had been folded up and the rose-garlanded coffee cups emptied.
* * *
Pamela sat on the sofa and Penny on the carpet near the tree, and Catrina and Ginger prowled around in the space between them. The cats were obviously curious about this variation in the usual morning schedule—though it apparently had something to do with the fact that there had been a tree growing in the living room since the previous week.
“You first,” Penny said, handing Pamela a large colorfully wrapped box that she recognized as one of the gifts that had arrived from her parents.
Pamela’s suspicions about the contents proved correct. Her mother always sent pajamas, for both Penny and Pamela, knowing that the tastes of a college-age woman were hard to anticipate and that Pamela had little need for or interest in fancy clothes.
Indeed, the similar package bearing the For Penny tag also contained pajamas. But a second, smaller box with the same wrapping held gold earrings, which were dangly and tiny and delicate, and set with small rubies. An accompanying note identified them as having belonged to Penny’s maternal great-grandmother, whose name had been Penelope.
Pamela’s other gift from her parents was a dessert cookbook featuring a characteristic dessert from every state in the Union. And Pamela’s mother always included checks for her daughter and granddaughter, to fund a post-Christmas shopping trip or, more likely in Pamela’s case, be tucked away for a rainy day.
There were also gifts from Michael Paterson’s parents: thoughtfully chosen jewelry for Penny and Pamela, and a generous check for Penny.
The cats had presents too: a catnip mouse for Catrina and a catnip bird for Ginger. They’d been delighted with cast-off ribbons, pouncing on a twist of red grosgrain when the heirloom earrings were unwrapped, and then engaging in a tug-of-war with a longer piece from one of the pajama boxes. But as Penny removed the wrapping she herself had put on, to expose—encased in a thick plastic bag—a mouse cleverly sewn from gray velvet, and then drew the mouse from the plastic that had prevented its ecstasy-inducing scent to tempt prematurely, both cats froze in mid-gesture.
Their heads swiveled toward where Penny sat with her back to the tree. The tips of their tails flicked back and forth. Their pupils dilated.
Penny tossed the mouse onto the carpet, and both cats pounced. Catrina landed first, perhaps knowing that the mouse had been intended for her. From Ginger’s throat came a low growl and she crouched as if about to attack her mother.
Penny quickly stripped the wrapping off the catnip bird and lobbed it in Ginger’s direction. Ginger whirled to see what had just landed and then seized up the bird and rose onto her haunches, clutching it. Catrina carried the mouse toward the arch that led into the dining room.
Suddenly each cat was transformed, caught up in a fit of ecstasy. Catrina writhed on her back, holding the catnip mouse between her front paws and alternately nipping at it and rubbing it against her cheeks. Ginger allowed the bird to drop to the carpet. Then she seized it up again and began licking it furiously as a low rumble issued from her throat.
It seemed an invasion of their privacy to stare at them, so Pamela pointed to the largest box beneath the tree. It was wrapped in a vintage paper that featured Santas looking as if they had stepped from a Currier and Ives
print. “That’s for you,” she said.
Penny pulled it toward her, but before even touching the ribbon, she picked up another large box, wrapped in a vintage paper featuring holly leaves and berries. “And this is for you.” She stood up and presented the box to Pamela.
Boots were in the largest box, rugged brown leather boots that Penny had admired in a newspaper advertisement for a store at the mall the first day she was home. And for Pamela, Penny had found a glazed pottery bowl, caramel colored, with three white stripes circling it near the rim—but smaller than the one she already owned.
“This is perfect!” Pamela exclaimed. Vintage bowls were one of her collections. “Wherever did you find it?”
“The thrift store near campus,” Penny said. “We’ll go there the next time you come up.”
Another box contained a nice down coat for Pamela from Penny, provoking a grateful thank-you and then a teasing “Bettina’s idea, I suppose.”
“Well,” Penny laughed. “I did ask her what she thought you might like.”
“What I needed, more like.” Pamela laughed too. “She hasn’t approved of my coats for years.”
By the time Pamela and Penny had unwrapped all their gifts, the cats lay sprawled on the sofa, exhausted by their debauchery, and Penny had accented her fleecy robe with an antique amber necklace Pamela had found at an estate sale.
“There will be something else too,” Pamela said. “We’ll go to the fancy yarn shop in Timberley next week and you can pick out some yarn and a pattern for me to knit you something.”
A few still-wrapped boxes remained under the tree, however. They’d be carried across the street that evening to be presented to Wilfred and Bettina.
Pamela rose from the sofa. “I’d better get dressed,” she said. “I have a Chocolate Mousse Cake to make.”
* * *
Wilfred’s roast goose had been a triumph. Occupying one of Bettina’s sage-green pottery platters, it had dominated the table, which was spread with a rose-colored cloth and set with plates of the same sage green. Sage-green serving bowls had contained roasted potatoes, roasted parsnips, and roasted Brussels sprouts tossed with bacon. A small crystal bowl had offered lingonberry relish. The tart spiciness of the relish had complemented the rich slices of roast goose to perfection.