Soon just one package remained unopened—aside from the gifts for Bettina and Wilfred that would be delivered that evening. It was wide and flat too, and the tag read “To Mom.”
“More pajamas?” Pamela asked, as Penny delivered the package to Pamela’s lap.
Penny smiled. “You’ll see.”
But the box was heavier than pajamas would be. Pamela untied the ribbon, freed the box from its paper, and lifted the lid. Inside, cushioned by crinkled tissue, was a plate with twelve oval-shaped depressions around the rim—a deviled-egg platter. But in place of the usual chicken-themed decoration, this one sported pink roses. Garlands of them embellished its scalloped edge, along with a delicate tracing of gold, and a huge bouquet of them filled its center.
“It’s not quite your wedding china,” Penny said, “but you didn’t have any with flowers. I found it at a thrift store near the campus.”
“I love it!” Pamela lifted it from the box. “It’s perfect!” Across the room, Catrina and Ginger were tussling over the red ribbon.
Pamela and Penny sorted through the discarded wrappings, saving what could be saved and putting the rest in the paper-recycling basket. They neatly staged the opened gifts under the tree and they fetched one of Pamela’s canvas bags to stow the gifts to be delivered that evening. Soon they’d restored the room to its previous state of neatness. Penny put another LP on the turntable and with a surge of choral voices “I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In” filled the room. Mother and daughter stood for a moment admiring the tree, with its lights and gleaming ornaments bright against bristly dark green boughs.
After a lunch of cheese omelets, Penny retreated to her room to commune with friends via her smartphone. Pamela settled onto the sofa with her new knitting project—the lilac tunic with flowing sleeves that was to be one of Penny’s Christmas gifts, though it certainly wouldn’t be completed before Penny left to go back to school. The pattern created an unusual lacy effect and required careful counting of stitches. Pamela worked enough rows to see the delicate shell shapes and eyelets taking form, then set her knitting aside and invited Penny to go for a walk.
* * *
They returned, invigorated, just as the sun was setting. At the west end of Orchard Street it blazed red-orange through the crisscrossing tree branches and it stained the glazed surface of the snow the palest pink.
The invitation to Bettina’s was for five p.m., so it was time to think about getting dressed. The black-and-white checked wool suit from the estate sale had turned out to fit Penny just right, even the skirt, and she’d gotten the stain out of the front. But the skirt was too long to be chic and too short to be purposely long, and the jacket—with its nipped-in waist and rickrack-trimmed black velvet collar and cuffs—was the really striking part of the suit anyway.
Pamela promised to help her hem the skirt up before she went back to college—though what college occasion would call for the suit Penny wasn’t sure. For Bettina’s Christmas dinner, she paired the jacket with black pants.
And what would Pamela wear? She stood in front of her closet studying the possibilities. The ruby-red tunic was definitely Christmassy, but it had already made an appearance. She finally settled on the Icelandic-style sweater with the white snowflake pattern. The natural brown wool (from Icelandic sheep!) wasn’t the most festive color, but the snowflakes were seasonal. The sweater looked best with jeans and boots, but for this occasion she imagined her good black pants and black shoes would elicit less of a scolding from Bettina.
Down in the kitchen, Catrina had rediscovered the catnip-filled bird that had excited her so much when it was first introduced. Ginger was sitting in the corner where food was accustomed to appear. Even the smell of the dinner that Pamela scooped into the communal bowl didn’t distract Catrina from her catnip session, but content that a generous portion of cat food would remain even after Ginger ate her fill, Pamela and Penny slipped on their coats and set off across the street. Penny bore the canvas bag with the gifts. They’d added small treats for all three of the Fraser grandchildren.
Chapter Nineteen
As Bettina’s front door swung back they were greeted by the strains of “God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen” and a spirited greeting from Wilfred. He’d swapped the red flannel shirt of the previous night for a shirt of red-and-green plaid but looked no less festive. His grandsons, Willy and Freddy, bobbed against his legs, curious to study the new arrivals.
“You know Pamela and Penny,” Wilfred assured them, bending down to the level of the littlest one and offering an encouraging pat on the head.
No sooner were Pamela and Penny ushered inside and freed of their coats than Bettina appeared in the arch that separated the living room from the dining room. She was wearing bright red tonight—a jersey wrap-dress not exactly the same color as her hair, and red suede pumps. She’d tamed the look a bit by accessorizing it with pearls, a three-strand pearl necklace and earrings with dangling pearl teardrops.
“Welcome!” she exclaimed with a broad red-lipsticked smile.
“Santa’s here!” Penny offered the gift-filled canvas bag.
“We have things for you too,” Bettina said. “Shall we open gifts after dinner?”
“I’ll put them under the tree.” Penny swiveled around and busied herself arranging the packages she and Pamela had brought among the ones that already waited beneath the branches.
As Penny worked, Bettina continued talking. “The Boston children are upstairs. They’ll be down in a while, but Morgan was getting fussy. A house full of people is a lot of excitement for somebody who’s not even one yet. Woofus is hiding in the basement. And the kittens are in the utility room. The allergy, you know, and I thought the little boys would be sad if they could see Midnight but couldn’t play with him.”
Penny had arranged the presents to her satisfaction and now joined them. “And don’t you look chic!” Bettina clasped her hands before her. Her nails were the same bright red as her dress and lipstick.
“It’s the suit—part of it anyway—from the estate sale,” Penny said.
“Come on back here.” Bettina reached out both arms and escorted Pamela and Penny to the kitchen, where tantalizing aromas hinted at the splendid meal to come. The Fraser grandsons were crouched near the pine table eating crackers dabbed with cheese and playing with small wheeled objects. Wilfred was standing at the high counter between the cooking area and the eating area. A cluster of gleaming wineglasses sat before him, as well as open bottles of red and white wine. Wilfred Jr., festive in a red-and-green plaid shirt of his own, stood a few paces away with his wife.
Seeing father and son reminded Pamela that she had thanks to convey. “I was so surprised to find my walk shoveled when I opened the front door this morning,” she said, “and I suspect the good deed was done by one of you.”
Wilfred and Wilfred Jr. looked at each other, the younger face mirroring the older face’s puzzlement.
“I can’t take credit,” Wilfred said, and his son echoed the denial.
Bettina had been lingering near the pine table, where the remains of the previous night’s cheese ball and a fresh supply of crackers had been set out to accompany the wine. Now she looked up from the cracker she was spreading with cheese.
“I bet I know who did it,” she offered in a teasing lilt.
Pamela suddenly realized that she knew too. Trying to keep her expression neutral, she turned toward Bettina. “Go ahead,” she murmured. “Say it.”
“Your neighbor to the east.” Bettina giggled. “He liked the red tunic. I could tell by the way he was looking at you all night.”
“Bettina . . . please,” Pamela groaned. She turned back toward Wilfred. “Yes,” she said, though he hadn’t asked. “I’d like a glass of red wine.”
Penny took a glass of red wine too and joined Bettina at the pine table. Warren and Greta appeared, announcing that Morgan had fallen asleep—and would probably wake up at an inopportune moment. But they had apparently resolved to act more
sociable. Or perhaps this party’s smaller, mostly family guest list had made them more at ease. Greta was wearing a pretty coral shirt and pants outfit in a silky fabric, and she made a beeline for Pamela with an admiring comment on the Icelandic sweater. Soon they were engaged in a conversation about the many advantages of natural fabrics.
Meanwhile, Maxie, Bettina, and Penny sat around the pine table, trying to convince the little boys that they would enjoy their dinner much more if they didn’t eat quite so many crackers and cheese before it was served. Wilfred and his two sons labored in the cooking area of the kitchen. “Oh, yes,” Greta confided to Pamela, “Warren does the cooking at home. Domestic tasks shouldn’t be as gendered as they often are.”
The aromas emanating from the cooking area were becoming more seductive by the moment. Buttery and cheesy smells blended with olive oil, garlic, and something spicy, all overlaid with the irresistible aroma of sizzling meat. A timer buzzed and conversation ceased as all eyes turned toward Wilfred. He stooped, opened the oven door, and lifted out a baking pan that held a magnificent rib roast—its surface glazed a crusty dark brown and the protruding bone ends slightly charred at the tips.
“Now this will rest,” he announced, “while we have our first course. Please be seated.”
After a scramble to get everyone settled at the dining room table, with cushions on the chairs for the little boys, Wilfred and his helpers delivered small plates on which were arranged servings of jumbo shrimp—pink, shiny with oil, and speckled with flakes of red pepper.
“They like spicy things,” Maxie assured Pamela as each little boy raised a shrimp to his mouth. “They eat their dad’s cooking all the time.”
“Heavenly!” Bettina moaned with pleasure. “Just the right amount of heat, and such a clever change from always dipping them in that red cocktail sauce.” Plates were soon empty and Warren cleared while Wilfred and Wilfred Jr. hurried to the kitchen.
The rib roast arrived first, Wilfred bearing it in on Bettina’s largest sage-green platter. He lowered it to the table with a chuckle of satisfaction. Next came Wilfred Jr., wearing oven mitts and carrying a round casserole. He set it on a trivet that had been prudently included in the table setting. Within the casserole thin slices of potatoes overlapped around and around till at the center there was just one slice. The potatoes looked buttery and cheesy and had been baked till their edges were just starting to brown.
Wilfred Jr. set off for the kitchen again as his father began to carve the rib roast. Plates were passed to the head of the table and Wilfred settled a lovely rare chop with rib bone attached on each one.
“Will you do the honors with the potatoes?” Wilfred asked Greta, who was seated next to him. “The casserole is too hot to pass.”
As they worked, Wilfred Jr. returned with an oval bowl containing slender green beans, glistening with olive oil and fragrant with garlic.
“I knew I smelled garlic,” Maxie commented.
Wilfred Jr. nodded happily. “I added a pinch of red pepper flakes too. And see how bright the color of the beans is? It doesn’t do to overcook them. I just blanch them lightly and then sauté them with the garlic and pepper flakes.”
“The wine!” Bettina exclaimed and jumped up from her chair. She returned with two bottles and set one in a wine coaster. Then she made her way around the table with the other, pouring dark red wine into the elegant wineglasses she brought out for special occasions.
The plates proceeded from Wilfred to Greta and then to Wilfred Jr., as scoops of potatoes and then servings of green beans were added to the chops.
“The boys can share a chop,” Maxie advised Wilfred.
Willie, the oldest, spoke up. “I want the half with the bone.”
“You can have the bone,” Maxie said, directing a sweet smile across the table at her son, “but the chops won’t be finger food tonight. This is a fancy meal.”
“Okay.” He drew the word out uncertainly but nodded, watching with expectant eyes as the plate destined for him made its way from hand to hand.
Soon everyone was served. After a few minutes in which the only sound was tableware clinking against pottery plates, voices joined one another in chorus to congratulate the cooks. Even Greta chimed in with praise for the rib roast, though she made sure to remind everyone that she and Warren seldom ate meat.
“What a pleasure to have our family and our best friends all here together,” Bettina said with a happy sigh. At the opposite end of the table, Wilfred raised his wineglass and everyone joined in except the little boys, who had been provided with milk as they were being settled onto their cushions.
Pamela was content to focus on her meal as conversations sprang up around her. Ever the conscientious host, Wilfred had made sure Greta knew that Penny went to college in Boston, and the three were engaged in a lively discussion of free entertainment available in that city, especially outdoor theater in good weather. Across from her, Warren and his sister-in-law Maxie were comparing notes on adjusting to life with children, or a baby in his case. Bettina was lavishing attention on her two grandsons, one to her left and one to her right.
But suddenly Pamela heard her name. She turned to find Wilfred Jr. looking apologetic. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.
“No . . . you didn’t,” she insisted, nevertheless feeling startled. She’d been concentrating so hard on the food, and the hum of conversation around her had been so soothing. “Please, go ahead.”
He smiled, still apologetic. “I just wanted to say, I’m sorry about the cat. I know you had six of them to find homes for. I hoped we could do our part and the boys were so excited to have a pet. Then the itching started, right away.”
“Are they okay now?” Pamela glanced toward where Willy and his younger brother, with Bettina’s help, were finishing up their dinners.
Wilfred Jr.’s lips shaped a puzzled twist. “Not really,” he said. “I suppose it will take a while for the rashes to clear up, even though the cat has been gone for almost a week.”
Willy touched Pamela on the arm. “Are you talking about Midnight?” he asked in his high-pitched little-boy voice.
Bettina answered before Pamela could. “Yes, sweetie,” she said, stroking his back tenderly. “It was sad that Midnight had to come and live with Grandma and Grandpa instead of you, but we can’t have you itching all the time.”
He nodded sadly.
“It’s odd though.” Pamela spoke up. “Before they got Midnight, the boys played with Punkin when they visited you and Wilfred and there was never any itching.”
“It is odd.” From the other direction, Wilfred Jr. agreed. “But I guess when a person is around a cat all the time, and living in the house where the cat lives too, there’s just so much more exposure to the cat dander.”
Across the table, Freddy had been listening. He was the mirror image of his brother, though at four years rather than five, he was a slightly smaller version. “Will we ever get to have a pet?” he asked.
“Maybe a dog, a big furry dog just like Woofus,” Bettina suggested as Wilfred Jr. grimaced. “You’ve been hugging and playing with Woofus for years and you never got a rash from him.”
Nods all around suggested that the cat-allergy discussion had reached a logical conclusion. And anyway, from his end of the table Wilfred had launched a survey of who was ready for a second round . . . of rib roast, potatoes, green beans. Abundant supplies of all remained.
Voices overlapped—pleading fullness, requesting a bit more of this or that, wondering if anyone wanted to share a chop, petitioning for a refill of wine. So another twenty minutes elapsed before Wilfred Jr. and his brother rose to clear away Bettina’s sage-green dinner plates, slick with olive oil, dabbed with buttery-cheesy potato smudges, and bearing a cargo of rib bones. Several trips were required to clear away plates, tableware, and serving dishes.
“Do we get to eat Mom’s cake now?” Freddie asked Bettina.
“Not quite,” Bettina said, because next to arrive was a
salad.
Wilfred Jr. and Warren had reappeared to deliver small plates on which sliced persimmons, their bright orange set off by sugared walnuts, nestled among curly greens. The greens proved to be arugula, and Pamela found their bitter tang a refreshing contrast after the rich meal. The little boys nibbled at the persimmons, which were very sweet, and the walnuts, which were sweeter.
The conversation became general as people talked about their intentions for the lazy time between Christmas and New Year’s. Greta and Warren planned to stay in Arborville for the next week, taking advantage of Bettina and Wilfred’s babysitting to explore museums and see shows in Manhattan. Maxie and Wilfred Jr. would join them on a few outings. Penny confessed that her life was so busy at school she was happy to spend vacation time sticking close to Arborville and catching up with old friends.
As that conversational topic wound down, Maxie surveyed the table. “It looks like we’re ready for the cake,” she observed, her glance traveling over plates that now held only a few wilted strands of arugula.
Pamela started to rise. “I haven’t done anything useful tonight,” she said. “Let me help you.”
“Wait until you see Maxie’s cake,” Wilfred Jr. interjected. “It’s a masterpiece.”
“Yes, it is.” Bettina seconded his statement. “Bring it out here. Everyone has to admire it before you cut into it.”
Pamela had already climbed to her feet. “I’ll get coffee started then,” she said, and as Bettina pushed her chair back, she added, “No, no—I can find my way around your kitchen.” She followed Maxie.
The cake had been tucked away on a counter in a remote corner. As it was borne into the light, Pamela heard a sharp intake of air that was her own delighted gasp. Maxie had made a yule log. It was a cake shaped in a long roll, its chocolate-frosted surface scored to resemble bark and its ends revealing the spiral created by its construction: a long flat chocolate sponge spread with a lighter chocolate buttercream and rolled up. Mushrooms cleverly formed from marshmallows were placed here and there at its base to enhance the impression that it was a genuine product of the forest.
Silent Knit, Deadly Knit Page 19