Home for the Holidays

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  “How many books are there in the series?”

  “Ten.”

  I’ll never forget the look on Emma’s face as long as I live.

  “TEN?” she screeched, whirling around to her mother. “How come you never told me about them?”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Hawthorne, “it’s not that I didn’t know about them”—she flicked a glance back at my mother, and I sensed a little tug-of-war going on—“or about the author, Maud Hart Lovelace. I just never got around to reading them.”

  I could tell that my mother was trying very hard not to gloat. It’s almost impossible to one-up Mrs. Hawthorne.

  I decided to rub it in. “I’ve read them,” I said, which wasn’t exactly true. My mother read the first few aloud to me when I was little, but I never finished the series. Emma didn’t need to know that, though. “Ages ago.”

  From the expression on Emma’s face, you’d have thought I just announced that I was growing a tail. “You did? How come you never mentioned them?”

  “You never asked,” I replied, trying not to look too smug.

  Cassidy’s mother frowned at me. “Are you sure you want to read them again?”

  Across the picnic table, my mother gave me Winona eyes. Gram made up that expression. Winona Root is a character in the books, and this one time Betsy and Tacy and their friend Tib try to hypnotize her into taking them to the theater. It doesn’t work, of course, but it’s pretty funny the way they all stare at her, trying.

  Winona eyes or no Winona eyes, I knew that if I said no, my mother would never let me hear the end of it. There’s just no dealing with my mother. “Sure,” I replied. “Why not?”

  My mother swiftly closed the deal. “Becca’s grandmother has offered to buy a complete set for each of you, if you all agree to read them.”

  “That’s very generous of her,” said Mrs. Hawthorne. “She must really love these books.”

  “She loves Maud Hart Lovelace the way you love Jane Austen, Phoebe,” my mother told her. “Mother was born in Minnesota, and she grew up reading the Betsy-Tacy series. She made sure I did too. It’s kind of a family tradition.”

  I shot her a look. Talk about stretching the truth! A family tradition? For her and Gram, maybe, but not for me.

  “Can you tell us a bit about the books?” asked Mrs. Delaney. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with them either.”

  “Absolutely,” my mother replied. “Deep Valley is a small town, very much like Concord, only in the Midwest. The stories follow Betsy Ray and her family and friends as they grow up in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries—”

  Cassidy let out a groan when she heard this, but my mother was ready for her.

  “I know, I know, more musty, dusty old books, right? These are different from all the other ones we’ve read so far, though. They have a very modern sensibility.” My mother fished around in her tote bag and pulled out Betsy-Tacy. “This is the first book, and it starts when Betsy Ray and Tacy Kelly are five years old—”

  “Whoa, dude—I mean, Mrs. Chadwick—are you seriously expecting us to read about a couple of five-year-olds?” Cassidy protested. “We’re sophomores!”

  “Wait, wait, let me finish,” my mother hurried to explain. “The books follow the girls all the way through high school and into college and beyond. See?” She dumped the rest of the books in her tote bag onto the table and held one of them up, waving it triumphantly. “The last one is called Betsy’s Wedding.”

  The picnic table grew quiet as my friends chewed on that.

  “You girls are going to feel right at home in Deep Valley, I promise,” my mother continued. “Betsy and her friends are fun-loving, and they like pranks and mischief, and above all”—she paused dramatically and lowered her voice—“they like boys.”

  Cassidy snorted. “That clinches it for me,” said her mother, elbowing her sharply. “Count me in.”

  Emma sighed happily. “Ten whole books I haven’t read!”

  “I don’t have time to read ten books,” grumbled Cassidy, who looked like she wanted to pop somebody with her ice cream cone. Or better yet, her hockey stick.

  “Nonsense,” said Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid. “What about all that time you’re spending in the car these days?” She reached over and plucked a handful of books from the table. “One hockey tournament in Connecticut and you’d knock these right off.”

  “On top of all my homework? Mom, get real! I’m already a week behind on The Grapes of Wrath.” Cassidy crossed her arms and scowled.

  “I thought we were going to get to pick the books this year for a change,” said Jess softly, looking disappointed. She’d been pushing for some story about a racehorse. Jess still had that stupid horse crush of hers. I got over mine back in fourth grade.

  “I thought so too,” said Emma. “I want us all to read Jane Eyre.”

  “How about a compromise?” suggested Mrs. Wong. “What if we split the year up this time, and spend the first half—between now and the end of December, say—reading the Betsy-Tacy books, then move on to something else after that?”

  “That sounds good,” said Mrs. Delaney, and we all nodded.

  Cassidy still didn’t look convinced. “You mean we’re going to read all ten books between now and January?”

  Mrs. Hawthorne, who’d been scanning the information on the jacket flaps, pursed her lips. “We could just read the four high school books, I suppose.”

  “But you have to start at the beginning!” my mother protested. “You’ll miss too much!”

  “You have a point,” said Mrs. Hawthorne. “And Clementine is right, the first four are pretty slim. What if we breeze through them for September’s meeting, then dive into Heaven to Betsy and Betsy in Spite of Herself for October and November? That will take us up through their sophomore year, the same age as you girls.”

  “But Mom, we can’t just ignore half of an author’s body of work!” said Emma.

  I crossed my eyes at Megan, who squelched a smile. Only Emma Hawthorne would use a term like “body of work.”

  “Nothing’s stopping you or anyone else from reading the rest of them,” said her mother. “But this might be a more realistic goal as a group.”

  And that was that, and now here we are three months later. I look over at Gram, who’s smiling at me expectantly.

  I smile back at her. “Yeah, Gram, I’m looking forward to tonight too,” I tell her, and surprisingly, this isn’t a complete lie.

  I’d been so sure I wouldn’t like the books, but my mother was right—they really are pretty modern. Especially once the girls get into high school. Sure, the slang they use is ridiculous—nobody says stuff like “Hully gee!” these days—but there are crushes and dances and parties, and they’re always on the phone to each other, and on top of that, Betsy totally feels the same way I do about school, plus she and her friends love to shop, and they love clothes.

  Megan has been flipping out at all the descriptions of the outfits. We both adore vintage styles, and she’s started calling her shirts “shirtwaists,” like they do in the books, which is a little over-the-top if you ask me, but that’s the way Megan is when it comes to fashion.

  My stomach growls as we get into the car. Gram laughs. “Time to unbend and really eat, right?”

  “Yup,” I reply, scaring myself a little. Mom and Gram do this all the time—quote from the Betsy-Tacy books to each other—but it’s not really my thing, and this is the first time a reference hasn’t gone completely over my head. I hope it doesn’t mean I’m getting old.

  Thanksgiving is just about my favorite meal of the year, and I only had a tiny breakfast this morning so I’d be really hungry for it. My mother and Gram spent all day yesterday cooking, and as we come trooping into the house we’re greeted by such wonderful smells that I want to tear into the turkey right then and there. But cheerleading is a real workout, and I don’t smell so wonderful myself, so I run upstairs to take a quick shower and change.

  Mom likes us to
dress up for Thanksgiving dinner, so I put on a skirt and a black cashmere turtleneck I found at Sweet Repeats, my favorite consignment store on Newbury Street in Boston. It’s from some swanky shop in London, and Gigi nearly fainted when she saw the label. “The bargain of the century,” she told me, when she heard what I paid for it. “Good work, Becca.”

  With any luck, Megan and I will get a chance to hunt for more bargains there when we go to Boston tomorrow.

  As my mother and Gram and I enter the dining room with a parade of platters, and my father starts to carve the turkey, Grampie rubs his hands together. “All of my favorites!”

  “Especially the sweet potato casserole with mini marshmallows,” says my brother happily, dishing himself up a huge serving.

  “Pig,” I whisper to him.

  He plops an equally huge serving onto my plate. “Pig yourself,” he whispers back. “It’s your favorite too.”

  He’s right; it is. And Gram is right too. If there’s ever a time to unbend and really eat, it’s Thanksgiving. The second we finish saying grace, I plow into the food on my plate like it’s my last meal on earth.

  Afterward, we all pitch in to clear the table and do the dishes, then Dad and Grampie and Stewart wander into the family room to watch a little football.

  “I’m going to take a nap so I’ll be fresh for the meeting tonight,” says Gram, yawning.

  “Me too,” says my mother. “How about you, honey?”

  “Maybe,” I tell her. “I think I’ll watch a movie up in my room first, though.”

  I fall asleep halfway through Miss Congeniality—one of my all-time favorites—and the next thing I know, I hear my mother bellowing at me from downstairs.

  “Rebecca Louise Chadwick! What are you doing up there? We’re going to be late!”

  “Coming, Mom!” I call back. I try to keep the irritation out of my voice, but it’s hard. My mother can be really aggravating.

  I leave the turtleneck on but change out of my skirt into jeans, then pull on a pair of black suede ankle boots. Dashing into the bathroom to brush my teeth, I glance in the mirror and decide to give my hair one last run-through. As long as I’m doing that, I figure I might as well fiddle with my mascara and eyeshadow, too. Megan and I agree that it’s always best to put a little effort into how you look, because you never know who you might run into. Finishing up with a fresh coat of gloss on my lips, I grab my purse and head downstairs.

  “Really, Becca,” scolds my mother, who is waiting with Gram in the front hall. “You need to learn to be more punctual.”

  I give her a rueful smile and nod earnestly. I’ve learned that the best way to deal with my mother is not to argue, but just to agree with everything she says. She’s not really mad at me, anyway. She’s mad because November was our month to host book club, but everybody voted to have it at Cassidy’s.

  We won’t be meeting again until January—we decided to skip the holidays since our schedules are all really hectic—so we’re choosing Secret Santas tonight, and everybody thought it would be more festive to do that at the Sloane-Kinkaids’. The minute the Thanksgiving turkey’s cleared off the table, and sometimes even before, Cassidy’s mother whips out the Christmas decorations. She has her own TV show—Cooking with Clementine—and since their house is the set, they’re on a different schedule from the rest of the world.

  My mother’s been simmering about this for weeks.

  “It’s like she has a bunch of elves hidden in the garage or something,” I heard her grumble to my father a couple of nights ago. “It’s not humanly possible to decorate that fast.”

  My father, who like me finds it easier just to go along with my mother, didn’t even look up from the paper. “Yes, dear,” he murmured. “Elves, dear.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Henry,” my mother snapped back. “There are no such thing as elves!”

  You just can’t win when it comes to my mother.

  “Hey, Becca, would you give this to Emma for me?” asks my brother, galumphing down the stairs.

  I make a face when I see the title. The Poems of Emily Dickinson. Who reads this stuff? Besides my brother and Emma, I mean?

  Stewart grins and lopes off across the hall to the living room. He knows I think he’s a dork. The annoying thing is, he doesn’t care.

  My mother hands me my jacket impatiently, then pokes her head into the living room after him. “I hope you two boys manage to have fun without us.”

  “Don’t worry, we’re well fortified,” my grandfather replies, scooting a plate of turkey sandwiches to the center of the coffee table, well out of Yo-Yo’s reach. Yo-Yo is our Labradoodle. He’s pretending to snooze by the fireplace, but one eyelid is cracked open and one large furry ear is cocked toward the table, and I can tell that those sandwiches are on his radar screen. “Plus, we have some fun of our own planned,” Grampie continues, nodding at the Scrabble board that he and Stewart are busy setting up.

  I smirk at my brother, and this time his face flushes. Rearranging letters to make words—are you kidding me? This is supposed to be fun? Besides, who wants to play a BORED game when there are perfectly good TV shows to watch?

  My father sneaks up behind us. “Arrggh!” he growls, tickling my mother in the ribs.

  She shrieks and jumps. “Henry!”

  He grins. Slipping on his eye patch and cap, he asks, “Can an old sea dog offer three lovely wenches a ride?”

  “No way,” I tell him. That’s all I need—to be seen driving around Concord in the Pirate Petemobile.

  “Such a shame you have to work tonight,” says my grandmother.

  My father shrugs. “I guess some people prefer pizza to turkey, and besides, it pays double time and a half plus tips.” He gives my mother a kiss on the cheek. “Have fun, dear.”

  He heads down the hall to the garage, and Gram and I follow my mother out the front door.

  “Concord is so pretty at night,” says my grandmother with a sigh, tucking her arm through mine. “Especially this time of year.”

  She’s right. The tree won’t be up in Monument Square for another week or two—there’s always a holiday parade in early December, along with a big tree-lighting ceremony—but a lot of the shop windows on Main Street are already decorated for Christmas. A few even have wreaths on the doors. Not Pies & Prejudice, though, the tea shop that Megan’s grandmother opened last month. Megan’s mom made sure of that. She hates the commercialism of the holidays, and Megan said she made Gigi promise she wouldn’t get sucked into it too early.

  The plan is to meet at Pies & Prejudice for breakfast tomorrow before we head out on our shopping trip. Afterward, my mom and Mrs. Wong are going to hold down the fort while Gigi hits the sales with Gram and Megan and me.

  Just thinking about tomorrow makes me want to dance down the street. I love to shop, and the day after Thanksgiving is like the Kentucky Derby or something for people like me. I’m still smiling as we turn down Hubbard Street to Cassidy’s.

  “What a beautiful old house!” says Gram, pausing at the entrance to the brick walkway that leads to the Sloane-Kinkaids’ Victorian. It really is a cool house—it even has a turret. And last year Cassidy’s mother had it restored to its original color for an episode on her TV show.

  “If you like houses that are painted dog-tongue pink,” says my mother with a disdainful sniff.

  I saw the paint cans in the garage, and the official color is actually Sonoma Sunrise, not dog-tongue pink. There are two shades for the trim, too: Lemon Meringue and Wedding White. I think it looks great.

  Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid calls their house a “painted lady.” That’s the term for Victorian homes that are painted more than one color, she told us.

  “All that gaudy gingerbread!” scoffs my mother, casting a baleful glance at the fancy woodwork under the eaves and along the porch railing. Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid explained all about gingerbread, too—she says it’s kind of like jewelry, the perfect accessory for a painted lady. I totally agree. I’d love it if our
house had gingerbread on it, but fat chance of that. Everything about our house screams “traditional!” Boring is more like it.

  “I prefer the simplicity of Colonial architecture to Victorian froufrou,” my mother says loftily. “It’s much more in keeping with our historic town.”

  “I don’t find it gaudy, Calliope,” says Gram. “I think it’s perfect.”

  Me too, but I know better than to say so. My grandmother is about the only person on earth who can contradict my mother and get away with it.

  My mother surveys the front porch, noting the pumpkins and wheat sheaves piled by the front door and the turkey flag hanging from the rafters. There’s not a Christmas ornament in sight. “There’s no reason we couldn’t have had book club at our house,” she sputters. “Clementine didn’t find time to decorate after all.”

  The door flies open before we can knock. “Ho-ho-ho,” says Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid as we step inside.

  “Wow,” I reply. The front hall looks like Santaland at Macy’s.

  My mother blinks, then scowls. “Elves,” she mutters.

  “Lovely,” says Gram, looking around. “Just lovely.”

  A garland of fresh cedar greens embedded with twinkle lights is twined around the entire length of the banister leading upstairs, and a matching one outlines the arched entry to the living room. Red velvet ribbon is wrapped around the coat tree, around the legs of the hall table, and around the staircase balusters. More ribbon is tied in bows on the chandelier overhead. Cassidy’s least favorite of her mother’s decorations, what she calls the weird mannequins, stand on either side of the door leading to the dining room. The boy mannequin is dressed as Santa, of course, and the girl as Mrs. Santa. They’re holding signs that read: WELCOME MOTHER-DAUGHTER BOOK CLUB! As a final touch, there’s a clear glass bowl filled with red and green ornaments—and more twinkle lights—on top of the hall table, and two large red-leaved poinsettia plants flank the base of the stairs.

  “It’s so nice to see you again, Grace,” says Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid, taking my grandmother’s coat. “We’re just tickled that you could join us.”