How to Host a Holiday (The Prequel to Ivy Stratton & the Time Machine)
Page 2
It’s not a mansion, but the house does have an inviting feel, and with all of my Christmas decorations, the place feels festive. I like to think it’s my version of Sandra Bullock’s apartment in While you Were Sleeping--minus the annoying neighbor who keeps hitting on her.
I’m also missing the Jack Callaghan character to fall in happily ever after with. On the other hand, since I’m definitely in some form of a one-sided relationship with Giuseppe, I guess he counts as my Peter Callaghan. He might as well be sleeping, for all the clues and hints he has failed to pick up on.
“Well, the bright side is, the house is already clean,” Mindy announces. “And if you need help, I might be able to sneak up after the babies fall asleep. I can peel potatoes or chop onions or something.”
“No way. It’s your first Christmas with the twins. And your last Christmas in the apartment.” We exchange sad looks, and Mindy gives me a motherly hug.
I shoo her toward the doorway. “Spend time with your family. I want you to be an actual guest and have fun tomorrow.”
“All right.” Mindy looks at the kitchen counter that is crammed full of the non perishables, and sighs. “If you hit a snag, please call me. I feel like you’re going to fall asleep in your turkey and dressing tomorrow.”
I laugh and realize it sounds hollow, but I try to reassure Mindy by sounding confident. “It’ll be like when I used to stay up writing papers for college. I always work best with an adrenaline rush.”
“Ok…Well. Ok.” Mindy leaves, closing the front door behind her.
With the house quiet, and nothing else to do but the task at hand, I get to work. The first order of business is to set the mood, which I do by starting a music playlist full of upbeat tunes that keep me feeling energetic.
On the kitchen counter is a stack of cookbooks that contain the recipes I’ve planned to make. I open the first book, roll up my sleeves and immerse myself in a universe of sugar, butter, flour, herbs, spices, and sundry other ingredients.
Two hours pass in a blur, and I’m starting to pick up steam. I’m submerging the turkey in a roasting bag filled with seasoned brine and considering unique ways to decorate the butter cookies when the doorbell rings.
I twist tie the turkey bag, place the bird in the refrigerator, and run downstairs. Stella is standing on the doorstep with a big basket, filled to the brim with holiday gift-basket fare.
I let her inside and stare at the basket.
“It’s a Christmas bonus from a client,” she says. “And I have to get it out of my house. There’s probably 18,000 calories in this thing, and I don’t want a carb hangover in the morning.”
“Thank you?” I ask, and head back up the stairs. Stella follows, peeking around the gigantic red bow on the basket.
“It smells so good in here,” Stella says, as she sits the basket on the dining room table. “What’s in the oven?”
“Bacon, rosemary, and pine nut stuffing.”
“Yum. I think I probably need to taste it.”
I head back into the kitchen and Stella follows me. I hand her a fork so she can taste the stuffing, and ask, “Sweet potatoes or white potatoes?”
“What?”
“I’m peeling potatoes now and you’re helping. So orange or white?”
“Orange.” Stella and I take up stations on opposite sides of the counter and start peeling.
“I can only stay for maybe an hour and half, though,” she says. “I still have presents to wrap for my family Christmas presents, and I have to leave no later than nine. And, I talked to Grant and he’s really excited to come. Oh, and he’s bringing a ham.”
I stop peeling. “A ham? What am I going to do with a ham?”
“I don’t know. Someone gave him a smoked ham and he was so excited about being invited to the Christmas party, he said he would bring it to the party.”
I think about this for a few moments. For the past few weeks, I have painstakingly put together the perfect Christmas dinner--not too sweet, not too savory, not too traditional, not too gourmet. The menu walks the fine line between comfort food and culinary masterpiece. And I do not need a rogue ham in the mix. Ham is predictable. Ham is boring. Giuseppe hates ham.
“Stella, just let him take the ham to your family Christmas dinner.”
Her face pales at the suggestion. “Are you kidding me? You know my mother’s a vegetarian and the Christmas salmon is an extreme concession on her part. I can’t bring a date who brings a ham.”
“Ugh. Then you keep it. Seriously, Stella. It doesn’t work with my menu, either.”
Stella puts her hands on her hips and clears her throat.
“This is about Giuseppe, right?”
“What?”
“You have a crush on him again, don’t you?”
“I have not had a crush on Giuseppe for a long time. Not even six months ago, when he asked me out.”
Stella shakes her head. “You guys are so weird. You’re best friends in high school, then you date for five minutes in college, but you break up because you’re scared dating might ruin your friendship. And then, for the next ten years, you take turns having crushes on each other--but you never like each other at the same time. It’s annoying. And you’re only flipping out about the ham because Giuseppe hates it.”
Guilty as charged. “Ok, I have a little crush on him right now.”
“Then you need to get over it. You’re only in this mood because it’s Christmas, and you’re single, and lonely. I mean, why am I even talking to Grant? He’s not my ideal husband--he wears pleated khakis and he Facebook friends every person that he meets, and sometimes he whistles through his nose when he breathes.”
Stella runs to the nearest mirror and grimaces at her reflection. “It’s happening, Ivy. We’re 30. We’re not married. And now, we’re resorting. Plain and simple.”
“We are?” I ask.
“Of course we are. And I only have myself to blame,” she wails. “Oh, why didn’t I get braces when I was 14?” she says, leaning closer to the mirror. “And now I need Botox. And probably a boob job in like five years. How am I ever going to buy a house when I need a whole new…everything?”
I don’t even try to hide the fact that I’m rolling my eyes.
I stand next to her in the mirror and take in our reflections. Despite Stella’s nitpicking, we are not quite the old and decrepit spinsters she thinks we are.
At five foot nine with brown hair and brown eyes, I don’t necessarily stand out in a crowd, especially not next to Stella with her shiny black hair and blue-violet eyes.
Yes, her teeth are crooked--the result of talking her parents out of making her wear braces when she was a kid--but crooked teeth don’t define who she is. There are tons of successful people walking around with crooked teeth. And for some reason, I can’t think of any of their names.
I could always reference Lauren Hutton’s gap. Then again, I can’t help but wonder if she ever gets tired of being the unofficial spokesperson for the masses who went without orthodontia.
“Well look on the bright side--you didn’t get braces so now you can get veneers,” I say, trying to leave Lauren Hutton out of the conversation just this once.
Stella gasps. “You think my teeth are too little?”
“No, I do not.”
She sighs. “See? We have no choice but to resort, Ivy. Just look at us.”
To humor Stella, I look in the mirror again. Neither of us is model-thin. On a good day I’m a size ten to Stella’s eight, but she’s also a couple of inches shorter than me.
And yes, we have laugh lines and what might be the beginnings of crow’s feet--but that’s what happens to a face that knows how to laugh and laugh often. The only way to end Stella’s rant is to simply agree with her.
“You’re right. Just look at us. Arsenic and Old Lace. In the flesh,” I say in a somber voice.
“Spinsters for sure,” Stella agrees, with a twinkle in her eye.
I giggle.
Stella smil
es.
Moments later, we are laughing to the point of tears, peeling potatoes once again.
“So how is the braces saving fund coming along?” I ask Stella.
“Don’t ask. After I had to buy a new washing machine, the savings got a little depleted.”
“There’s always next year.”
“Yeah.”
We peel silently for a while longer, and I bring the topic back to Giuseppe.
“So you think me being with G would be resorting? I mean, he’s not horrible.”
“He’s not wonderful,” Stella retorts.
“Ok. But come on; you’re making him seem like some awful person. You’re friends with him too.”
“Yes. Friends--I’ve never dated him.”
“I’ve been friends with Giuseppe for over half of my life, Stella. We are best friends. I know him. He knows me. We get each other. I’m comfortable with him, and we would be a good couple. I think.”
“Then why can’t you two ever synchronize your crushes on each other? And why is it that when you’re not crushing on him, you’re dating no one, but when he’s not crushing on you, he’s dating everyone?”
“I don’t know. He’s just more charismatic than me.”
“Or maybe you’re always waiting for him and he knows it and he’s taking advantage of you. You’re enabling him.”
“So how do I change the dynamic?”
Stella shrugs. “Don’t be so available. You’re at his beck and call. You pick up the phone every time he calls, and you drop other plans to hang out with him at a moment’s notice. You’re the classic TFGG.”
I groan.
She’s right. TFGG is an acronym for “Take For Granted Girl,” a character seen in roughly 1/3 of all romantic comedies. She’s the girl who harbors feelings for her guy friend and gets neglected for the first 78 minutes of the movie while he, well, takes her for granted. But over the course of those last 12 minutes…that’s when the magic happens.
Unfortunately, Giuseppe and I can’t get past those first 78 minutes. I’m his TFGG.
Stella continues her speech. “…Date other guys. Make him your TFGB. Otherwise, you’ll never make it to the last 12 minutes.”
TFGB’s (Take for Granted Boys) do exist, but are much rarer than TFGG’s. And you pretty much have to be some version of a supermodel to be the girl that has a TFGB perpetually waiting in the wings.
As if on cue, my phone rings.
“It’s Giuseppe,” I say, looking at the screen. “Should I pick up?”
“You always do.”
FOUR
I don’t pick up.
Stella stares at me, open mouthed. “Wonders never cease.”
“I’m not the TFGG you think I am.”
Stella puts down her knife and yawns. “Those are all peeled, and I need to go home and get my beauty sleep now.”
I look at the clock. “It’s not even nine o’clock. And we haven’t started the pies yet.”
“Remember, I have presents to wrap. And I have to get up super early to go to my parents’ house in the morning.”
We’re interrupted by Stella’s cell phone ringing. Looking at the screen, she announces, “It’s Giuseppe,” before answering.
“Hello?”
At that moment, my doorbell rings several times, repeatedly, and urgently, as if a kid is playing with the button--which sometimes happens around my neighborhood. I sigh in annoyance.
If it wasn’t Christmas Eve, I’d call their moms and let them know what their kids are up to. But far be it from me to get some kids in trouble a few hours before Santa makes his rounds. I’m not that much of a spinster. Yet.
I stop peeling and stand still so I can hear G’s voice on the other end. I’m slightly miffed that he immediately called Stella when I didn’t pick up my phone.
Stella clicks over to speakerphone, and we both listen.
“Stella, why didn’t Ivy pick up her phone?” From the tone of G’s voice, I’m not the only one who’s miffed. “I’m standing outside turning into a popsicle and she’s ignoring my calls? And I know you’re in there, Stella, because your car is in the driveway. Plus, every light in Ivy’s house is on and I can hear Christmas music oozing from every nook and cranny. So tell Ivy to open the front door!”
“All right, all right” Stella says, shooing me out of the kitchen.
The doorbell ringing continues, coupled with loud banging on the big wooden door. I put down my potato peeling knife and half run, half slide—slippery socks--through the dining room, into the living room, and down the stairs, so G will stop knocking before he disturbs Mindy and Cooper.
I fling open the door and Giuseppe is standing on the porch, looking perturbed. An icy gust of wind hits my face and I shrink back, holding the door open for him.
“Took you long enough,” he says and gives me a hug. I breathe in the scent of his spicy cologne and shiver at the coldness of his overcoat.
“The weather’s getting crazy,” he says, stepping into the foyer.
I peek outside. The coldness of the glass storm door is proof that the temperature has drastically dropped, and big, fat, fluffy snowflakes are falling in quick succession across the sky. I crack the door open a bit further and poke my head outside to get a glimpse of my car. The hood is covered in a good half inch of fresh snow.
“How are the roads?” I ask Giuseppe as we trudge up the stairs.
“Okay so far. But I don’t know how long it’s been snowing. I just left my mom’s.”
G’s parents live about fifteen minutes away on a posh private street in nearby Clayton. His extended family’s holiday dinner takes place promptly at 3pm on Christmas Eve every year and it is a very big deal--which explains why he’s wearing a tuxedo and shiny black shoes.
When we reach the living room, G glances around the room, taking in the view.
“Last minute sale in the Christmas aisle at Target?” he says, laughing.
I look around, taking in the sight of my holiday domain. Now that the sun has gone down, the full Christmas decor can be seen to the fullest. Yes, there is a gigantic tree covered in lights and, and festoons of garland and lights over the fireplace and framing the doorway of the dining room and the kitchen.
G takes off his coat and sits on the couch just as Stella emerges from the kitchen.
“Is that snow on your coat?” she asks, stopping in her tracks.
“Yep.” G stands up, tosses aside a couple of my holiday themed throw pillows and then sits down again. “This place is starting to feel like my mom’s house, with all of these pillows and candles everywhere.”
I cross my arms and ignore his teasing. In my opinion, the candles make the room feel cozy and romantic.
Stella runs to the window. “Oh my gosh! I have to get home before it’s too hard to drive.”
Her eyebrows furrow with tension as she hurries to the dining room table and grabs her purse and coat. “How are the roads?” she asks G, repeating my question from a few minutes ago.
“Wet, but drivable. And there are snow plows everywhere. By morning, everything should be clear.”
“I can’t find my phone or my keys!” Stella exclaims, running into the kitchen.
“You just had your phone,” I say, heading into the kitchen to help her look.
Giuseppe stands up and follows us. “Whoa. Are you peeling potatoes for an army?”
“My sentiments exactly,” Stella mutters while searching through the silverware drawer.
“Hey, Ivy, do you have any snacks?” ask Giuseppe. “It smells really good in here.”
I point him in the direction of Stella’s gift basket. “Take whatever you want,” I say.
Driving in snow is not one of Stella’s strong suits, and I feel a pang of worry about dinner tomorrow. What if the roads get so bad that no one can come?
“Found it!” Stella says, holding up her phone. “Now I just need my keys.”
Giuseppe carries the gift basket into the dining room and tears in
to it, as Stella dumps the contents of her purse onto the table to look for her keys.
“I was going to suggest watching a movie or something, but it looks like the party is breaking up,” he says, nibbling on a fancy cracker.
I shake Stella’s empty purse to see if the keys might be tucked into one of the zippered compartments.
“We can watch a movie. But I’m still cooking for tomorrow. Speaking of…what time are you getting here?” I ask, trying to sound as casual as possible.
G doesn’t answer right away. Apparently, Stella’s frantic pace amuses him, because he has stopped rummaging for snacks and is now watching Stella rush around, hunting for her keys.
Finally, he walks over to the couch and grabs his coat. “Stella, calm down.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Mr. Four Wheel Drive SUV,” she says.
G rips open a package of summer sausage and fishes a few slices from the bag. “You’ll be fine. The roads are empty for the most part anyway.”
Stella takes a deep breath. “Ok, I’m gonna go now. I just hate driving in the snow!” she wails.
“Want me to drive you?” Giuseppe asks. He’s now delving into the fancy cheese portion of the basket, stacking slices of cheese and sausage on crackers.
“No, because I can’t leave my car here. I have to be at my parents’ in the morning,” Stella explains.
“Well, I’ll drive behind you and make sure you get home safely,” he says. He strides to the couch, pulls on his coat, and fishes in his pocket for his keys.
“Ready?” he asks, opening the door front door and leaning against the frame.
Stella nods and shoots me an apologetic look as she walks to the front door. I shrug and hug them both goodbye. So maybe I was kind of looking forward to having G hang out and watch a movie while I did more cooking, but knowing how Stella gets anxious about snow and ice on the roads, I’m happy he’s here to help.
“Call me when you get home safe,” I say as I walk with them down to the foyer. As they get in their cars, I wave goodbye and stand in the doorway as they pull away and the tail lights of their cars retreat down the road.
The snow continues to fall and for a few seconds, I look up and down both sides of my block and take in the moment. Christmas lights twinkle in some form at almost every house, and, from the looks of things, many of my neighbors are having guests over for Christmas.