“I’m sorry we won’t all be together here in Concord over the holidays, but at least we have New Year’s Eve to look forward to,” my mother continues. It was her idea to have a book club party and the Big Reveal then, instead of waiting until later in January.
“And we have right now to look forward to, too,” says Gigi. “Only true friends would throw a going-away party this early in the morning.”
A few minutes later we turn into the driveway at Half Moon Farm. My father parks in the lot by the barn.
“Brrr,” I say as I get out of the car. “It’s freezing!”
“Hang in there just a few more hours, Megs,” says my dad. “It’s supposed to hit eighty in Miami today.”
He puts his arm around me, and we crunch across the snow-covered field toward the Delaneys’ back door, where we’re greeted by Sugar and Spice. They come running around the corner of the house and do what Jess and her family call the “happy sheltie dance”—twirling in circles and barking excitedly.
Mrs. Delaney welcomes us with hugs and asks the twins to take our coats. “Oh, and give your Secret Santa bag to Michael, Megan. He’s in the keeping room.”
I head for the little room off the kitchen that serves as the Delaneys’ family room, where I add my paper bag to the pile on the coffee table. Mr. Delaney, who’s been poking at the fire, straightens up when he sees me.
“Hey, Megan! Excited about your trip?”
I nod.
“I know you’re going to have a great time. It’s going to be warmer where you’re going than it is where we’re going, that’s for sure.”
“Yeah, but the White Mountains sound fun too.”
“Absolutely,” he replies, bending down to poke at the fire again.
Half Moon Farm has a fireplace in just about every room, because that’s how they used to heat houses back in the 1700s, when it was built. I love Jess’s house. It’s so different from mine. Ours is nice and everything, but Half Moon Farm is unique. It’s not just the house itself, either—it’s the whole spirit here. The Delaneys are so relaxed. There are always dogs and kids running around, and sometimes chickens, too, in the spring and summer whenever someone forgets and leaves the back door open. Jess’s house is a little messy and crazy, but that’s part of why I love it. My parents are hyper about messes of any kind. We hardly even use the one fireplace we have, for instance, because we have white carpet and white furniture and they’re afraid we’ll get soot on something. Things have eased up a bit since Gigi came to live with us—not the clean part, because she’s just as tidy as my mom and dad are—but she painted one wall in the living room red and bought bright throw pillows for the sofa, so there’s a little more color, and lately she’s been dropping hints that our house could use a cat.
I’d love that. The thing is, it gets a little lonely being an only child. I finally gave up on ever getting a brother or sister, and even though having Gigi around makes a big difference, a pet would be awesome.
Jess pokes her head in the door. She’s still got her pajamas on under her hoodie. I’d still have mine on too, if I wasn’t going anywhere this morning. “Hurry up, guys!” she says. “Everybody’s waiting. We don’t want you to miss your flight.”
Her father and I follow her back to the dining room, which is decorated very simply. There are lots of fresh evergreens on the mantel—there’s a fireplace in here, too, of course—and they smell great, like winter. Mrs. Delaney lit the candles in the chandelier, and the room is bathed in their soft glow. Emma and Cassidy and their families are milling around the buffet that’s set up on the table.
“Go ahead and get started,” Mrs. Delaney tells us. “The Chadwicks should be here any minute.”
Sure enough, as I’m taking my plate into the living room there’s a knock at the front door, and Sugar and Spice launch into their ecstatic spirals again.
“Caribbean, here we come!” cries Mrs. Chadwick, doing sort of a cross between a hula and a cha-cha as she enters the room. She must have raided her fashion stash from her “new and improved Calliope” phase a couple of years ago, because she’s busted out the animal prints again. For the flight, she’s chosen a leopard-print tracksuit, along with an enormous straw sun hat and sunglasses. Becca and Stewart look appropriately mortified at this parental fashion disaster. I just hope my seat isn’t anywhere near hers on the airplane.
If Mrs. Chadwick is practically bouncing off the walls with excitement, by contrast Mr. Chadwick seems quieter than usual. Not that he’s ever super flamboyant—Mrs. Chadwick takes up enough oxygen in a room for both of them—but still, he doesn’t seem like his normal cheery self.
“Is everything okay with your dad?” I ask Becca.
“What do you mean?” she replies sharply.
“Um,” I say, “I mean, I guess he doesn’t seem all that excited about the trip.”
“He’s fine,” snaps Becca. “Leave him alone.”
I stare at her, taken aback at her response, and she sighs.
“Listen, Megan,” she says, “I can’t talk about it right now, okay? Maybe later.”
So I was right—there is something going on. “Okay.”
After everybody’s eaten, all the guys head outside to transfer our luggage into the Sloane-Kinkaids’ minivan and the Hawthornes’ station wagon for the trip to the airport. We’re going to leave our cars here at the farm while we’re gone.
“All right, girls, gather round!” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “It’s time for the quickest book club meeting in history! These folks have a plane and a ship to catch.”
We join her in the living room, where she gives us each a handout. “You’ll be receiving some ‘Fun Facts to Go’ later, in an e-mail,” she announces. “But here are a few questions for you to think about over the holidays. Pop them into your suitcases and take a look when you have a minute, and we’ll discuss them at our final Betsy-Tacy meeting on New Year’s Eve.”
“I’d like to talk about that get-together,” says Mrs. Delaney. “I had an idea for it the other night.”
We all look at her expectantly.
“I was reading ahead in Betsy Was a Junior—”
“You’re hooked!” cries Mrs. Chadwick happily. “I knew it! I told Mother once you started reading you’d want to read the whole series! Wait until I tell her. She’ll be thrilled.”
Jess’s mom smiles. “Guilty as charged. There’s no way I could leave Betsy hanging halfway through high school—I’ve got to find out what happens to her, and especially what happens with Tony and Joe. Anyway, I thought it might be fun to lift a page straight from that book for our grand finale. Remember the Okto Deltas?”
“That dumb club the girls start?” asks Becca.
I guess she read on past Betsy in Spite of Herself, too. I haven’t had a chance to yet, although I’m as hooked as Mrs. Delaney. I’ve been really busy this month sewing stuff for the cruise. There weren’t a whole lot of spring and summer things available at the mall, since it’s the middle of winter, and I wanted to have just the right clothes to bring along. There’s this reception with the captain tonight after sail-away, plus a formal dinner on Christmas Eve, and there’s a teen dance club on board too, and I needed a couple of outfits for that as well.
“I guess it is a little silly,” agrees Mrs. Delaney, “but I loved reading about the progressive dinner they planned.”
“What’s a progressive dinner?” asks Cassidy, sounding wary.
“They’re really fun,” Mrs. Delaney explains. “You start at one person’s house for appetizers, then move on to another one for salad, and another one for soup, and so on through the entire meal. Anyway, I was thinking maybe we could do that on New Year’s Eve—what do you think?”
“Fabulous!” says Gigi. “I love it!”
Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid nods vigorously, sending her trademark mane of blond hair—artfully highlighted to look the same way it’s looked since those years when she was on the cover of Vogue—rippling around her shoulders. “Great idea, Shan
non—count me in.”
“Me too,” says Mrs. Chadwick, and my mother nods in agreement as well.
Mrs. Hawthorne makes a note on her calendar. “It’s settled then. A New Year’s Eve progressive dinner and book club meeting.”
“Shall we invite dads and brothers, too?” asks Mrs. Delaney. “Or just make it a hen party for the Sistren, as Betsy might call it?”
A quick show of hands favors including our families.
“Our menfolk can make themselves scarce when it’s time for official business,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “Now, who wants to sign up for what?”
While our moms work out the details of the grand finale dinner, Becca and I go to find our coats. Jess’s little brothers come rushing past us as we’re rooting around in the hall closet, and they head for the stairs, giggling.
“Boys!” calls Mrs. Delaney, who has incredibly good mom radar. You have to, Gigi says, when you have twins. “What are you up to?”
“Nothing,” they chorus.
“It doesn’t sound like nothing. Come in here, please.”
They slink into the living room, protesting their innocence.
“You didn’t hide a chicken somewhere, did you?” Mrs. Delaney asks.
They shake their heads.
“Last week they put one in the pantry,” she explains to the rest of us. “I nearly fainted when I went in to get some flour.”
I try to imagine what my mother would do if she found a chicken stashed somewhere in our house. I start to smile. Across the room, Cassidy gives Dylan and Ryan a thumbs-up. She would. Cassidy loves practical jokes. I’m really going to miss those jokes if she ends up moving back to California. She told us about her stepfather’s job interview, but I guess they haven’t made a decision one way or the other yet.
“No toads or spiders anywhere?” Mrs. Delaney asks Dylan and Ryan. “No snakes in my underwear drawer? No plastic wrap over the toilet seat?”
The twins shake their heads again.
Mrs. Delaney looks at them, unconvinced. “Well, okay then, I guess,” she says reluctantly. “Why don’t you show our guests how charming you can be, instead of running around like wild animals? Where are your recorders?”
As the boys dash off, Mrs. Delaney turns back to us. “They’re actually playing recognizable songs now. The new music teacher at Emerson Elementary is fabulous.”
We’re all putting on our coats when the twins stampede back down the stairs. They start to serenade us with “Jingle Bells,” then switch to “Here Comes Santa Claus” when they see Mrs. Hawthorne sorting through the brown paper bags filled with Secret Santa gifts.
“Very appropriate choice, boys,” she says as she distributes the bags to all the moms for safekeeping.
“These are for you,” says Emma, handing envelopes to Becca and me. We look at them curiously.
“What are they?” asks Becca.
“Train letters!” Emma’s face falls when it’s clear that neither of us have any idea what she’s talking about. “From Betsy in Spite of Herself, remember? When Betsy’s friends all come to the train station to see her off to Milwaukee, and they give her letters to read on her trip?”
“Oh yeah!” I tell her. “I totally forgot. That’s really sweet of you.” I give her a hug and so does Becca.
“Sorry we don’t have anything for you,” she says.
“That’s okay,” Emma replies. “I hope you have a great time on your cruise. We can’t wait to hear all about it.”
“And I hope you and Jess have fun in New Hampshire,” I tell her.
Cassidy looks over at Jess. “Maybe if you and Emma are lucky, there’ll be gnomes in the basement of your aunt and uncle’s inn.”
“You finally read the books!” cries her mother, slapping her a high five.
Dylan and Ryan put down their recorders. “Gnomes? What gnomes? You mean like hobbits or something?”
“Don’t get all excited, guys,” Jess tells them. “Cassidy’s talking about this book we read. One of the characters has a grandfather who keeps his garden gnomes in the basement over the winter.”
“That’s stupid,” says Dylan.
“What was up with that, anyway?” asks Becca. “They were kind of creepy. Do your aunt and uncle have creepy gnomes, Jess?”
Jess shakes her head. “Nope,” she replies. “No gnomes.”
“No gnomes is good gnomes,” says Mr. Hawthorne, poking his head in the front door, and everybody groans.
He grins. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist. And on that note, the Delaney/Hawthorne limo service is ready to depart.”
Four hours, two airport terminals, and one taxi ride later, we arrive at the Port of Miami. Going from cold and snowy Concord to sun-drenched Florida feels surreal. Almost as surreal as the Calypso Star.
“Whoa,” says Stewart, gaping up at the skyscraper of a cruise ship that looms over the terminal. “Are we going on that?”
“What were you expecting, a rowboat?” asks Becca scornfully.
My parents have taken me on a cruise before—we went to Mexico a few years ago—but I’ve never been on a ship this size, and I’m as impressed as Stewart. The Calypso Star is really, really gigantic.
“It’s brand-new—the biggest in the fleet,” says my father proudly, as if maybe he had a hand in building it. “There’s a bowling alley, an ice rink, a rock-climbing wall, an indoor movie theater and an outdoor movie theater—”
“—plus it’s the greenest ship ever designed,” my mother reminds us, like anybody but her cares.
“—and a water slide and a SurfRider,” my father continues, ignoring her.
“I can’t wait to try that,” says Stewart, squatting down and holding out his arms in a surfer pose.
“Get up, you dork!” Becca snaps, looking around anxiously. “Someone might see you!”
Stewart grins at me as he straightens up. He knows I can’t wait to try it, either. I was at Emma’s house one day when he came over, and he showed us a video clip on the cruise ship website. I have no idea how the SurfRider works—I guess there’s a machine that makes fake waves somehow—but it looks incredibly fun.
“There’s a spa, too, right?” asks Becca.
“You bet,” says my dad.
Once we’re aboard, we rendezvous with Becca’s grandparents, then head for the lunch buffet where we’re supposed to wait while our luggage is delivered to our cabins. As we cross the lobby, I practically run into Stewart, who stops smack-dab in the middle of the atrium to gape up at the three-story Christmas tree.
“Awesome,” he says, taking a picture. “Wait until I show Emma.”
It is awesome, and so is the buffet. There are platters of fresh fruit, about a dozen different kinds of salad, every sandwich known to man, cookies, cake, ice cream, and all the soda and lemonade a person could ever want to drink. My dad made arrangements for a big table to be reserved for us, and as we take our seats, Gigi and Becca’s grandmother and our moms all start poring over the brochure listing the activities for the week.
“Look, Megan! They have cookie decorating,” says Gigi. “Maybe we’ll get some ideas for Pies & Prejudice.”
I smile politely, but there is absolutely no way I’m going to waste my time on a cookie decorating class. Not when there are things like a teen pool party, dances, an eighties movie night, and a surfrider competition to choose from. With any luck, Becca and I will hardly see our parents.
Stewart turns to his grandfather. “Grampie, did you see that they have Scrabble competitions?”
Becca looks over at me and mouths the word Dork, making me giggle. The laughter gets caught in my throat when I remember how much Simon loves Scrabble too.
No, no, no! I tell myself sternly. You will not think about Simon Berkeley! It’s hard, though. Everything reminds me of him. But I really, really don’t want to spend this entire vacation moping.
“There’s a towel animal class,” Becca’s grandmother announces.
“What’s a towel animal?” asks Becca.
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Her grandmother gives her a mysterious smile. “Just you wait and see—you’re in for a treat.”
“They’re pretty awesome,” I add. “That class might actually be fun.”
“Mother, do you want to try scrapbooking?” says Mrs. Chadwick. “Or make-your-own Christmas ornaments?”
My mother pounces on this idea. “That’s what you girls should do! It would be perfect for your final Secret Santa gifts. And homemade is always better than store-bought.”
“Oh, darn,” says Becca, trying to sound sincere. “There’s an ice-skating party for teens at the same time. What a shame, Mrs. Wong.”
I kick her under the table, and she kicks me back.
“I almost forgot. I have something for everyone,” says my father, reaching into his tote bag. He pulls out eight walkie-talkies. “Our cell phones won’t work once we’re out of sight of land, and this is a big ship.”
“Sweet,” says Stewart, grabbing one and switching it on. “Houston, we have a problem,” he drawls.
“Will you grow up already?” Becca looks around to see if anyone at the nearby table heard him. Anyone male and cute, that is. But of course no one is paying us the least bit of attention. They’re all busy being as excited as Stewart.
“Now, kids, we don’t want you leaving your cabin without your walkie-talkies, okay?” my mother says. “We always want to be able to get ahold of you.”
“Sure,” says Stewart.
Becca and I nod reluctantly and stash ours in our purses.
“Don’t forget to turn them on,” says Mrs. Chadwick, who has eyes like a hawk.
“Oops,” says Becca, kicking me under the table again. Our big plans for freedom on this cruise are fast being scuttled.
Our parents lay down the rest of the rules: We’re on our own for breakfast and lunch, so we can sleep in as late as we want, but we’re expected to show up at our reserved table every night for dinner, and we need to be back in our cabins by eleven p.m. unless we’re with an adult, or unless we have special permission.
Home for the Holidays Page 12
