Four people emerged from the car. “We picked up Nell and Harold,” Holly Perkins exclaimed as she recognized Pamela.
“Otherwise Nell would have walked,” Harold said, and he added, in a good-natured imitation of Nell’s voice, “No point in polluting the atmosphere just to go a few blocks.”
Harold had opened the trunk and now he stepped around the side of the car bearing two large plastic containers and a white bakery box. “Lots of goodies,” he announced.
Nell stood on the sidewalk, wrapped in her ancient gray coat. “Sugar.” She sighed. “I suppose it’s inevitable at Christmas. I hope there will be some takers for my vegetable plate.”
“Mine isn’t sugary,” Holly protested. “I made little sandwiches.”
They proceeded up the driveway, Holly and Nell leading the way.
A burst of Christmas music greeted them as Wilfred pulled the door open wide, looking like the very spirit of the season with his white hair and ruddy cheeks. Behind him, lights on the Frasers’ Christmas tree twinkled, reflected by gleaming ornaments. “Welcome, welcome!” Wilfred boomed. “Come in!” He’d traded his everyday coveralls for dark slacks topped by a bright red flannel shirt. He stood aside as six people filed past. Harold was last, with the two plastic containers and the bakery box, and Wilfred quickly took them from his hands. A cheerful fire blazed in the fireplace.
Wilfred and Bettina’s sweet-faced daughter-in-law, Maxie, had appeared at his elbow. She reached out a hand for the deviled-egg platters as Bettina hurried in from the dining room. Bettina greeted Pamela with a quick hug and freed Penny of the poppy-seed cake. She was dressed in head-to-toe green, the color of emeralds—a scoop-necked velvety dress that hugged her substantial curves, matching pumps, and necklace and earrings of glittering dark green stones. The effect was striking with her scarlet hair. She started toward the dining room but paused to survey the newly arrived crowd, doing a quick count with a raised finger.
“The Boston children”—her term for her younger son and his wife, residents of Boston—“are in the kitchen,” she said. “So now we’re just waiting on Roland and Melanie, and of course Richard Larkin. Karen and Dave are at home with little Lily—but everyone is doing well, and Charlotte called to say she has a school party tonight so she won’t be here.” Wilfred, Bettina, and Maxie headed for the kitchen with the food.
Pamela unbuttoned her coat. No sooner had she begun to slip it off than Holly caught sight of the ruby-red tunic. “You finished it!” she cried. “Let’s see the rest!” Pamela obeyed, feeling her cheeks flush, as Holly grabbed her husband’s arm. “Isn’t this color just perfect on her?”
Holly and Desmond Perkins were hair stylists who owned a salon in Meadowside, and both looked the part. Desmond was all in black, with a dark stubble beard and clean-shaven head. Holly often enlivened her dark hair with flamboyantly colored streaks. Tonight, red and green streaks and bright red lipstick added a touch of color to a dramatic black dress with an asymmetric neckline, paired with thick-soled black lace-up boots.
“Very flattering,” Desmond said with a smile.
Wanting to offer a compliment in return, Pamela commended Holly’s seasonally appropriate coiffure.
“Well,” Holly said, with a shrug and a laugh, “when your name is Holly, what else can you do?”
Wilfred returned from the kitchen to collect the coats, gathering them into an unwieldy bundle. Then the doorbell chimed, and since Pamela was nearest the door and had her hands free, she opened it. Roland and Melanie DeCamp stood on the porch, Roland in a handsome navy wool coat and a paisley cashmere scarf and Melanie in a lambskin coat with a wide collar that folded back to reveal creamy fur. Melanie carried a flat tray covered in aluminum foil and Roland a white box with a fancy label and a magenta bow.
“Merry Christmas,” Pamela said. “Come in!”
They stepped inside, to be greeted again by Wilfred. The door was nearly closed when from the yard came a cheerful voice. “One more,” it called. Pamela peered through the gap between door and doorframe to see a tall figure loping up from the street. Then Richard Larkin appeared in the pool of brightness cast by the porch light.
Pamela stepped back and pulled the door open wide. He entered in a burst of chilly air that seemed to energize the space around him. He stood motionless for a second, as if trying to get his bearings. “Pamela,” he said at last. “You look—” He stopped.
“Cold?” she suggested, self-conscious about the illogical bare shoulders.
“No. I—” He looked around rather desperately and flourished a paper bag that obviously held a bottle. “Is Wilfred here?”
“Indeed he is,” boomed Wilfred’s jolly voice from the stairs. The coats, including Roland’s and Melanie’s, had been borne away to wait out the party on the bed in the guest room. “And I suspect that bag contains the crucial ingredient for my wassail.”
Richard pulled a shapely bottle filled with amber liquid from the bag. “Will Courvoisier do?” he asked.
Wilfred hopped down the last few steps and greeted Richard with a hearty handshake. “Perfect!” he said.
Somehow Pamela ended up holding the brandy. Wilfred helped Richard off with his coat and sped upstairs again. Pamela was trying out various conversational gambits in her mind when Bettina bustled in from the dining room, gave Richard a hug, and bore him away. “You come along too,” she called over her shoulder, “and bring that brandy. Everyone is clamoring for wassail.”
The holiday music had shifted from medieval carols to a more contemporary sound. At the moment, Elvis was singing about having a blue Christmas, though the words were nearly drowned out by the laughter and chatter emanating from the dining room.
Bettina’s dining room table had been pushed to the side to serve as a buffet, and covered with a white damask cloth. Red candles flickered in Bettina’s muted silver candleholders with their sleek Scandinavian lines. In the place of honor, surrounded by platters of party food, sat Bettina’s huge cut-glass punch bowl, filled with steaming cider speckled with spices and waiting for a dollop of brandy to make the wassail complete.
The cheese ball Bettina had promised, an impressive dome encrusted with chopped nuts, sat to the left of the punch bowl. A few nibbles had already been carved from one side, revealing a tempting cheddary interior streaked with the rich red of port wine. Crackers—square, round, and oval—surrounded the cheese ball, and two cheese paddles waited to assist in the transfer of cheese to crackers.
“I think we’ll have enough food,” Bettina commented, as Wilfred occupied himself with the wassail, adding a generous amount of brandy to the punch bowl and ladling servings into the punch cups that waited nearby. “There’s beer and wine too,” he advised. “And soft drinks, of course.”
Wilfred Jr. stood in the doorway that led to the kitchen. “I’m your man if you want something besides wassail,” he said.
Bettina went on. “The Co-Op did a great job with the cheese ball. And I put both your egg platters out to start—I didn’t want people to think there were only twelve eggs and be shy about eating them. She pointed to a plate heaped high with what looked like mini-drumsticks, glazed with a tawny sauce. “These are like buffalo wings,” she said. “Maxie made them. She disjoints the wings so they’re easier to eat.”
“Who brought these yummy-looking onion tarts?” Pamela asked. Next to the mini-drumsticks sat a tray of golden-brown puff-pastry rounds. In the center of each was a glistening tangle of caramelized onion slices.
“Melanie,” Bettina said. “And she brought sugarplums from a fancy candy shop in Timberley.”
“And the—what is it—hummus?” Pamela pointed at a bowl containing a substance the color and texture of putty.
Bettina nodded. “The Boston children. Very health conscious.”
Nell had just accepted a cup of wassail from Wilfred and edged over to join Pamela and Bettina. “I hope someone eats my vegetables,” she said, nodding toward a platter where cucumber spears, carrot sticks,
celery, and baby tomatoes were arranged in careful rows.
“I’m sure they will,” Bettina assured her. “I can name at least two people who will for sure.”
“My goodness!” Nell leaned close to examine another offering. “I haven’t seen these in decades.” A tray held what looked like a black-and-white checkerboard made out of bread, alternating squares, each speared with a toothpick sporting a cellophane frill.
“Those are my sandwiches.” Holly spoke up from over Nell’s shoulder. “I found the idea in my 1950s cookbook. People made such amazing things back then. I wish I’d been alive.”
“Oh, my dear.” Nell turned. “You really don’t.” She softened the comment with one of her gentle smiles. “Things are so much better now, for young women. For everyone really.”
“I can see that,” Holly said with a dimply answering smile. “But the food was just so awesome.”
As they talked, people had been milling about, arranging their choices from the buffet on the small plates that Bettina had provided and accepting cups of wassail from Wilfred or other drinks from Wilfred Jr.
“Go ahead,” Bettina urged. “Nell, Holly, Pamela. Have some food.” She stepped toward the middle of the dining room to survey the crowd.
Pamela took a small plate and added an onion tart, a mini-drumstick, one of Holly’s little sandwiches, and some carrot sticks. She didn’t want to eat her own eggs until everyone had had a chance at them. Wilfred was no longer serving wassail, but a few full cups sat near the bowl. Without an extra hand, eating and drinking at the same time would be impossible, at least if one wanted to remain standing. Deciding to concentrate on eating for a while, Pamela joined Bettina.
Having served themselves food and/or drink, most of the guests had migrated to the living room. Some had solved the problem of not having three hands by perching on the sofa or in one of Bettina’s comfortable armchairs and setting plates and drinks on the coffee table. The medieval carols were back, with a sweet rendition of “The Cherry Tree Carol.”
Richard Larkin stood off to the side, near the Christmas tree. But Penny had stationed herself near him and they were having a lively conversation. Richard was holding a bottle of beer and Penny a cup of wassail. Pamela was sure the wassail was potent, with the hard cider and brandy. She hoped that was Penny’s first and would be her only cup.
The red dress, with its flirty skirt and close-fitting bodice, set off Penny’s pretty figure, and the high heels—Pamela’s high heels—gave the outfit a more grown-up look than when Penny first wore it to a high-school Christmas party.
Penny was grown up. Pamela knew that, though the realization always brought a little pang. Only two more Christmases after this before Penny was out of college and on her own. And she meant to be on her own then. Penny had made that clear. But she’d worked in Manhattan the previous summer, so maybe Manhattan would exert its pull and Penny would end up not too far away.
Satisfied that her guests were provided with food and drink, Bettina filled a plate at the buffet and joined Pamela at the edge of the living room. “Richard Larkin looks handsome tonight, don’t you think?” she said, tilting her head and glancing at Pamela from under an eyelid shadowed with a green that matched her dress.
“I really hadn’t noticed.” Pamela tried to sound offhand. But he did look handsome, in a pair of dark wool slacks and a dark V-neck sweater that revealed a crisp white shirt collar.
Bettina resumed gazing at the crowd. “I wish the Boston children would mingle more,” she said. “It’s true they hardly know anyone outside of the family, but they could make an effort.”
Bettina and Wilfred’s younger son, Warren, and his wife, Greta, stood near the foot of the stairs, making occasional comments to each other. Warren resembled a smaller, thinner Wilfred Jr., but his sandy hair was longer and shaggier—befitting his career as a college professor. Greta was nearly the same height as her husband and was wearing an austere garment that appeared to be made of some undyed natural fiber. Pamela thought it might be hemp. She had recently edited an article for Fiber Craft on the burgeoning market for artisanal hemp products.
Everyone else seemed to be mingling just fine. Harold, Wilfred, Desmond, and Roland were standing near the fireplace, Roland looking a bit incongruous as the only man wearing a suit and tie. Snatches of conversation suggested Harold and Wilfred were attempting to interest Desmond and Roland in joining the Arborville historical society. Both were responding with sociable interest.
Nell and Holly were sitting side by side on the sofa, and Maxie had pulled up a low hassock. The three were comparing recipes for homemade granola. Melanie DeCamp was sitting in one of the armchairs and Wilfred Jr. in the other, leaning toward each other and deep in conversation. It was hard to make out what they were talking about, but Wilfred Jr. seemed charmed by Melanie’s blond elegance and her ready smiles.
Pamela took a closer look at what Melanie was wearing, then she nudged Bettina and pointed. Roland must have been so eager to have his wife show off to his knitting group the sweater he had knit for her that he presented his Christmas gift a day early. Pamela had been amused at the notion that the ultra-sophisticated Melanie would find a place in her wardrobe for a pink angora sweater. But paired with white silk slacks, caramel-colored shoes, and glittery chandelier earrings it made a pretty holiday ensemble.
Wilfred stepped away from the group he’d been talking to. “We’re due for another round of wassail,” he declared and headed for the dining room.
“And please refill your plates,” Bettina urged, stepping to the side as Wilfred passed by on his way to the kitchen.
Pamela moved aside too, as the sofa and armchair people rose and began to file through the arch that separated the living room from the dining room. Along the way, Holly greeted Penny, and Penny joined the pilgrimage to the buffet, followed by Harold, Roland, and Desmond. Warren and Greta brought up the rear. Richard Larkin lingered near the Christmas tree, until Bettina swooped out to wrap an arm around his waist and lead him through the arch.
A happy hubbub ensued as people once more arranged crackers spread with port-wine cheddar (or hummus) on their plates, along with deviled eggs and caramelized-onion tarts, mini-drumsticks, or sandwiches from Holly’s checkerboard creation.
“Have some of the raw vegetables,” Nell insisted to anyone who would listen.
“I’m eating them,” Greta said. “Lots of them. I appreciate having a choice of something healthy.” To judge from her plate, besides the raw vegetables she apparently deemed the deviled eggs healthy, and her own hummus, but not much else.
Wilfred had borne the wassail bowl off to the kitchen. Now he appeared in the kitchen doorway, under the sprig of mistletoe, and announced, “Wassail is ready but the bowl is hot. I’m serving from the counter—and I have fresh cups.”
Chapter Seventeen
Several people responded to Wilfred’s invitation, carrying full plates with them. Pamela followed, setting her empty plate aside and accepting a brimming cup of wassail. When she stepped back into the dining room, she found herself standing next to Richard Larkin. For a few moments, he seemed preoccupied with the decision of what to eat next from the assortment on his plate. Then without choosing anything he leaned toward her.
“You . . . got the tree up okay then?” he asked.
Pamela had just taken a potent sip from her wassail cup, so at first she just nodded. Then she managed a quick, “Yes, yes.” He studied her with that serious look he often had. “And your daughters are having a good time in San Francisco?” she added.
That comment provoked a smile. “Penny has heard more from them than I have,” he observed. “But, yes, I think they are.”
They were distracted by a giggle coming from the doorway that led to the kitchen. Wilfred Jr. had discovered the mistletoe and surprised his wife with a kiss as she emerged bearing a cup of wassail. Then more distraction came in the form of Bettina, who stepped up with Warren and Greta in tow. “I know you know Pamela,�
�� she said. “But I don’t think you’ve met our neighbor Richard Larkin.”
Pamela mustered her social smile. Richard extended his hand and Warren and Greta each shook it. For some reason, he seemed more comfortable talking to his new acquaintances than to her, so Pamela was happy when Melanie DeCamp appeared at her elbow.
“The sweater turned out beautifully,” Pamela said.
Melanie smiled. “He’s very proud of it, and he enjoys the knitting group so much.” As if making a gesture that had become automatic, she pushed up the sweater’s left sleeve and they continued chatting. But the sleeve began to droop again and soon the narrow sheath of pink angora extended nearly to Melanie’s carefully manicured fingertips. “It’s just the one sleeve,” she observed with a little laugh. “The other one is exactly the right length. Isn’t it, darling?” she added as Roland strolled up bearing fresh cups of wassail for himself and his wife.
From the kitchen doorway came another giggle, but not from the kisser or kissee this time. Harold had bent down to give Nell a hearty kiss, much to the delight of Holly. Holly held up her cheek for a peck from Harold, and Nell joined Pamela and Melanie. Richard, Warren, and Greta seemed to have run out of conversational topics—Richard had lived briefly in Boston, so that had provided an entrée—and the three now gazed blankly at each other. But ever the perfect guest, Melanie spoke up.
“I understand you have a new baby,” she said. “A little girl. How sweet! I love pink!”
Even had her expression mirrored Melanie’s encouraging smile, Greta—with her unstylish garment and unstyled hair—would have appeared the very antithesis of Melanie. But Greta furrowed her untended brows and fixed Melanie with a pitying stare.
“We’re raising an ungendered child,” she announced. “Not a girl. They will make the decision about gender when they are older.”
Silent Knit, Deadly Knit Page 17