How to Host a Holiday (The Prequel to Ivy Stratton & the Time Machine)

by Kathleen Kitson

  A nap was not a part of my schedule, but I can still work with the loss of time. Besides, I was probably only going to spend that hour re-cleaning my house and attempting to curl my hair.

  The knocking at the door intensifies, and I remember Mindy calling my name.

  I run back to the living room and open the door.

  “I came over to pick up the side dishes,” says Mindy.

  “Already?”

  “Well, it’s almost three. And I thought I should at least move everything to my kitchen all at once so I don’t have to make a bunch of trips once I start heating.”

  “Good idea. I’ll help you, I say, beckoning her to follow me to the kitchen.

  “Can you believe it’s snowing again?” Mindy says as I’m handing her the green beans and Brussels sprouts.

  “What? Since when?

  “Pretty much the last half hour,” she says.

  When we reach the bottom of the stairs and the entrance to Mindy and Cooper’s apartment, I push open the front door and survey the weather.

  Just like last night, the temperature has dropped again, and zealous snowflakes are pelting everything at a furious pace. Mindy rushes inside her apartment while I stare outside in shock.

  Cooper comes to their front door and grabs the two dishes I’m holding.

  “How long is this supposed to last?” I ask him, wondering if Stella has noticed that it’s snowing.

  Cooper shrugs. “Who knows? I thought the snow last night was it.” He disappears back into the apartment, and Mindy and I take several trips back and forth between my kitchen and hers, until she has all of the side dishes that need to be heated in the oven.

  I’m heading back upstairs after the final trip when a large SUV pulls up in front of the house.

  A tall, skinny man with red hair emerges from the driver’s side, and walks around to open the passenger’s side door for Stella.

  I open the door and wait for them. It’s a little after three, and the turkey won’t be done for two hours, but I’m still wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and my hair is in a ponytail. I feel my first twinge of party host panic.

  If only they had come half an hour later, I would at least look the part.

  Stella scurries up the sidewalk and runs inside.

  “It’s freezing out there!” Stella exclaims as we stand in the foyer waiting for Grant. “And sorry we’re early.”

  “It’s ok. I just need ten minutes to get dressed. Can you manage being the hostess for a few minutes?”

  “Sure thing.”

  For a man who grew up in Florida, Grant seems to be impervious to the icy temperature as he strides to the back of the car, opens the rear gate and pulls out a large box.

  “What’s in the box?” I ask Stella as Grant hefts it over his shoulders and closes the gate.

  “Don’t be mad, Ivy” Stella says, a pleading tone in her voice.

  “Mad about what?”

  Before she can answer, Grant has reached the doorway, and I hold the front door open for him and his box.

  “You must be Grant,” I say.

  “And you must be Ivy,” he answers. Grant has pale green eyes and a warm smile, and up close, he is taller and more athletically built than he first appeared. He shakes my hand, and I notice that his shoulders are exceptionally broad.

  “Well I don’t know about you two, but I’m freezing down here, so come on up.” I head up the stairs and Stella and Grant follow.

  “Thanks so much for inviting me,” says Grant. “I really appreciate it.”

  “I’m glad you could make it,” I tell him.

  “Can I take your coats?” I ask the two of them, falling right into hostess mode. “And your…box?” I ask Grant.

  “It’s pretty heavy,” he says. “If you could point me toward the kitchen…”

  I shoot a questioning glance at Stella, who is conveniently not looking my direction, and lead the way to my kitchen for Grant.

  He places the box on the counter and pulls out a massive smoked ham, followed by two cartons of eggnog.

  “The ham is mine, and the eggnog is courtesy of Stella’s mother,” he explains.

  “Oh! Thanks so much,” I say brightly, hoping I’m doing a good job of looking pleasantly surprised. I gesture toward the oven. “I’ve got a turkey cooking now, but as soon as that’s done…” I trail off awkwardly, not really knowing how far I should go in this ruse of pretending I’m going to serve this ham.

  Grant laughs and holds up both hands. “It’s fully cooked, so I think you just kind of need to heat it up. But, please, don’t feel compelled to serve it on my behalf. I’m a single guy, and there was absolutely no way I could eat an entire ham this size. When Stella invited me, I thought maybe someone here might want it. Plus, my mother always taught me to bring something to a party, so I’m just doing what I was taught. You can do whatever you like with it.”

  Instantly, any tension between me and Grant vanishes, and I smile in relief.

  At that moment, Stella enters the kitchen, her coat draped over her arm.

  “Grant,” she says, “Ivy has to get dressed, so I’m acting as hostess for a while. Do you want to sit down in the living room and I’ll take your coat?”

  “No problem.” Grant peels off his overcoat, hands it to Stella and heads into the living room, leaving me and Stella in the kitchen.

  “I tried to talk him out of the ham, but he insisted,” Stella says in hushed tones.

  I laugh. “It’s really ok. I’ve made my peace with the ham, and I’m not upset.”

  Stella chuckles. “His Southern charm got to you, didn’t it?”

  I roll my eyes, even though she’s absolutely right. This guy knows a thing or two about getting on a woman’s good side.

  “I’ll warm it up after the turkey is done, and either serve it for seconds or send parts of it home with everyone.”

  Stella exhales in relief. “Thank goodness.”

  “But right now I need to baste the turkey,” I tell her.

  Stella shakes her head. “I’ll do that after I hang up the coats. You go and get dressed in case anyone else comes early.”

  “Thanks,” I tell her.

  “Anything else I need to do?”

  “Not at the moment. Mindy’s heating everything else downstairs, but we’ll need to help her carry everything up when it’s time to eat.”

  I leave Stella in charge of the kitchen while I run to my bedroom and close the door to concentrate on the task at hand. Deciding what to wear has never been one of my great talents.

  Yesterday I’d planned on wearing a pair of black dressy pants, a white blouse, and simple accessories, but Stella is currently wearing a gold sequined dress, and Grant is wearing a suit.

  I know Sy will probably be wearing some combination of a sweater or sport coat with a bow tie, and G never misses an opportunity to get dressed up. From what I’ve seen of him, M3 never wears anything less casual than a grey or black suit, and Mindy told me she found a fabulous new dress at an exorbitant discount last week, so now I’m worried I’ll be the most under dressed at my own dinner party.

  As I apply a layer of tinted moisturizer, then mascara, and blush, I have an attire epiphany. As soon as I’m done with my makeup, I remember a cute little dress I found while estate sale shopping with Mindy last summer.

  It’s a strapless number with a cream colored empire waist that cinches in at the waist, then poufs out into a wide, full, swishy black skirt with a few layers of tulle underneath for fullness.

  The icing on the cake of this dress is the fact that the front of the bodice is a large, satin, ivory bow. Very vintage, very glamorous, and very eye catching. It’s also very impractical to wear to just any event, which is why it’s been sitting in my closet for several months.

  After a few minutes of hesitation, I finally come to the conclusion that there’s no time like the present to debut this little frock, so I pair it with a fitted black cardigan, black kitten heels and a pair of faux diam
ond stud earrings. Staring at myself in the full length mirror, I pull my hair into a chic side bun and put on some red lipstick. There. Now I’m an appropriately dressed party hostess.

  As soon as I step into the living room, the doorbell rings.

  “I’ll get it,” I say, breezing past Stella and Grant and down the stairs, where I find Sy and M3 at the door.

  As I let them inside, Sy grins widely and gives me a hug, “Marry Christmas!” he says.

  “Merry Christmas,” I say, closing the door to keep the cold air out.

  M3, wearing a three piece suit, a heavy wool coat, and a black fedora, looks down at me with his warm brown eyes and smiles.

  Every time I see the man, I’m always startled by how much he looks like Cary Grant, from his thick dark hair, strong jaw line and his dimpled chin. It’s almost as if he stepped right out of a movie screen.

  “Merry Christmas, Ivy,” says M3, as he offers his hand for me to shake.

  As M3 and I shake hands, Cooper opens his front door, his hands covered with oven mitts, balancing the stuffing and sweet potatoes.

  “Can I take these up?”

  “Yes. Does Mindy need me to take anything else up yet?”

  Cooper, already halfway up the stairs turns and calls back in the direction of his apartment. “Mindy! Ivy wants to know if you have anything else to bring up.”

  I turn to Sy and M3; “You can go on up and make yourselves at home. I’ll just be a minute.”

  Sy shakes his head. “I’m already down here; I might as well help carry something.”

  “So will I,” says M3.

  Carrying the casserole dish full of Brussels sprouts, Mindy arrives at the door in a curve hugging red sheath dress, her blonde hair curled in big waves. “I’ve got a basket of warm rolls on the kitchen counter,” she says, handing the pan of Brussels sprouts to M3.

  “I’ll grab those,” says Sy, heading inside.

  “Anything else?” I ask.

  “That’s all for now,” she says. “There’s nothing left but the green beans, and I’ll have Cooper bring the rest when they’re done.”

  Sy and M3 trudge up the stairs as Cooper returns back downstairs. As soon as he reaches the bottom step, a loud wail sounds from inside their apartment.

  “I’m on it,” says Cooper, running inside.

  “They are in desperate need of naps,” Mindy says. “I think their first Christmas has worn them out and I’m about to pull my hair out.”

  “Thanks so much, Mindy. I guess I’ll go up and warm the mashed potatoes.”

  “I’m going give them their bottles, and we’ll be up as soon as the twins are good and sleepy.”

  “Oh! Do you want me to take the playpen up now?”

  “That would be fantastic,” she says. “It’s right by the door,” she says.

  I grab the folded up playpen and step back into the foyer outside of the apartment. It’s still snowing, but from the sound of the precipitation pelting the glass door, it seems that we are getting more freezing rain than snow.

  “Wow, it sounds bad out there,” Mindy says, leaning out into the foyer.

  “I know.” I open the front door a crack and survey the skies once again. The sidewalk shows the telltale sheen of a substance that is far less exciting than snow.

  “Ice,” I say to Mindy.

  She shudders in response. “Looks like we’re staying put for a while. Are all of your party guests here?”

  “For the most part,” I say, looking up and down the street for any sign of Giuseppe’s car.

  Another wail sounds inside of the apartment, followed by a plea for help from Cooper.

  “Gotta go,” says Mindy. “We’ll be up soon.”

  I make my way up the stairs and push my apartment door open. I get two steps inside before M3 rushes over to grab the playpen. “Where should I put this?”

  “Over in the corner there, please.”

  I make introductions around the room for M3 and Grant’s sake, since they’re both new to the group.

  “Is that ice I’m hearing?” Stella asks. “Have you talked to Giuseppe today?”

  “No, but I wonder if I should give him a call and see where he is.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think he should be driving in this.”

  I find my phone in the kitchen and dial Giuseppe’s number, but there’s no answer. He never picks up his phone when you want him to.

  To distract myself, I put some cheese, crackers, and fruit on a tray and take it into the living room for my guests, who are crowded around the windows, watching the developing storm.

  “Hear anything from Giuseppe?” Stella asks.

  I shake my head. “He didn’t pick up his phone. We should probably try to call again in a few minutes.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t think he should be driving in this storm,” Sy says, sounding concerned.

  “Yeah, the roads were pretty slippery just getting from Sy’s condo to here,” M3 chimes in.

  “I’ll call him again now,” Stella says.

  The next twenty minutes pass in a rotation of me stirring potatoes, calling Giuseppe, basting the turkey, looking out the windows and listening to everyone discuss the weather.

  When Mindy and Cooper show up with their snoozing twins and the remaining side dishes, the interruption is a welcome distraction.

  After another round of introductions, and getting the twins settled in the playpen, the kitchen timer goes off, signaling that the turkey needs basting again.

  Mindy and Stella follow me into the kitchen to help with the final preparations.

  “The turkey smells delicious,” Mindy says. “How much longer does it need to cook?”

  “Maybe 45, 50 minutes?”

  “Are you serious?” Stella says. “It’s just a little after four.”

  “And I said we’d serve dinner at 5,” I tell her. “My schedule got a little pushed back this morning, so the turkey is a little delayed. But as soon as it’s done, we’ll eat.”

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, the lights in the kitchen go completely dark.

  SEVEN

  “What’s going on?” asks Stella.

  I hear a general rumble of surprised voices in the living room as I try to acclimate myself to the sudden loss of light.

  Mindy makes her way over to the window, holding on to furniture for support. “You guys, I think the power for the whole neighborhood is out.”

  “Are you sure?” I open the oven door and gasp. “No, no, no! The oven’s stopped working too.”

  “Ok, it’s probably just a fuse or something,” Stella says, reassuringly. “In a few minutes, everything should be working again.”

  “The ice must have accumulated on the power lines.” Cooper’s voice startles me. “The entire street is dark.”

  “Are you kidding? On Christmas?” I feel my voice rising into higher octaves, and I stop talking to keep from sounding like a crazed person.

  “Well,” says Stella. “There’s nothing to be done in the kitchen for the moment.”

  “We should probably go into the living room and just chill for a while,” says Mindy. “And maybe the residual heat from the oven will finish cooking the turkey,” she suggests.

  “Come this way,” Cooper says, and we follow the sound of his voice toward the doorway.

  As soon as we cross the hallway to the dining room, I feel a bit calmer, seeing that all of my decorative candles are actually serving a purpose by keeping the living room and dining room illuminated.

  Everyone has an opinion about the cause of the blackout, ranging from a buildup of ice, to fallen trees, to blown fuses, and this becomes the central topic for the next several minutes.

  I don’t say anything, because I’m getting nervous about the possibility that there won’t be enough residual heat to fully cook the turkey. Something tells me there won’t be. And I can’t serve partially raw meat.

  I sink back into the couch, wondering if I’m the only one who th
inks the room is getting colder.

  “I should call the power company and see if they have an estimate,” Mindy says. “Cooper, could you hand me my cell phone?”

  “There’s a car pulling up in front of the house,” says M3, who has been standing at the window, marveling at how loud the ice sounds as it hits the glass of the windowpanes. “Are you expecting more guests?”

  I move to the window. “It’s Giuseppe.”

  Relieved that he’s arrived safely, I head downstairs to open the door.

  The stairway is dark, and I grab a small tea candle from a side table to help me see my way down the door. At the bottom of the stairwell, the air is still and cold, and I wonder how much longer the temperature in my apartment will remain steady.

  G gets out of his car and takes cautious steps in the street, hanging onto the side of the car to keep from slipping. I remember that the sidewalk is covered in a sheet of ice, and I open the door to yell to G to be careful.

  With the door open, it’s apparent how much worse the weather has become since I last checked, and the swirling winds and icy snowflakes make it hard to even breathe.

  Before I can even form words, I notice that G is opening the passenger’s side door of his car. I watch in silence as a diminutive blonde in a bright white winter coat steps out, and G offers her his arm for support. My muscles feel frozen in place, even though I am starting to shiver.

  Who is she?

  Giuseppe and the woman carefully make their way toward the door, and I try to look happy and gracious, which is the complete opposite of how I feel as I watch her take tiny, teetering steps in her sky high designer heels.

  When G and his guest reach the front door, I push the door open wider and welcome them inside. “You made it!” I exclaim. “We were starting to wonder if you were still coming.”

  “I went to pick up Evangeline, and it took longer than I thought it would,” he says, gesturing toward the woman. “By the way, Ivy, this is Evangeline. Evangeline, this is Ivy.”

  Evangeline and I smile and exchange hellos, and Giuseppe continues his story. “It was just snowing when I left my house, and by the time we left her house, everything changed over to ice. Trust me, Stella is not going to want to drive in this.”