Home for the Holidays

by Heather Vogel Frederick

  Cassidy’s mother opens it and draws out what looks like a long, hollow metal rod with holes in it. Whatever it is has been dipped in glittery silver sparkles.

  “What the heck is that?” asks Cassidy.

  “Um, let me read the card,” her mother replies. She scans the note, and her puzzled expression vanishes. “Ha!” she says. “Very clever. ‘To Betsy from her Magic Wavers: Merry Christmas from one who’s stuck on you. Looking forward to another year together.’ It’s a curler,” she explains, dangling it in the air. “Remember how Betsy always agonized over her straight hair?”

  “It’s from me,” says Mrs. Wong, looking pleased with herself. “Homemade.”

  “I never would have guessed,” says Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid, winking at the rest of us. “It’s perfect, Lily, and perfectly hilarious.”

  “You’re due an ornament too, Lily,” says my mother, passing another little box to Megan’s mother.

  Inside is a tiny horse and buggy. Mrs. Wong passes it around as she reads the card: “‘To Betsy from Old Mag. I may not be as up-to-date as you’d like, but my carbon hoofprint can’t be beat. I’m more economical, get great gas mileage, and you can fertilize your roses with my emissions.’”

  Mrs. Wong laughs so hard that she starts to cough, and Mr. Wong has to pat her on the back.

  “It’s from me,” says Mrs. Hawthorne with a grin. “I couldn’t resist.” Gigi reads her card before opening her box. “‘Bon voyage, Betsy! I can’t wait to hear all about your adventures in the Great World! Don’t forget to pack your la de da! Love, Julia.’”

  Across the table, Becca and Megan smile at each other.

  Gigi opens the box and takes out a small Eiffel Tower. “How perfect! Thank you.”

  “I thought you’d like it,” says Mrs. Chadwick.

  “You didn’t get one yet, Mom,” says Dylan, who’s been keeping careful track.

  “You’re right, I didn’t,” my mother replies. “Let’s see what we have here—oh, look! This one is for me!” She passes it to him. “Would you like to open it for me while I open the envelope?” My brother takes the box as she slips the card out and reads it to us: “‘To Betsy from Tacy: Here chickabiddie, chickabiddie! Remember when we caught the hen and put it in a box and tried to train it to lay eggs? I’m glad our friendship was more of a success. Love, Tacy.’”

  Across the table, Cassidy gets a mischievous glint in her eye.

  “Buck, buck, buck, bugaw!” she clucks softly, cracking Emma and me up. I’ll definitely miss Cassidy’s sense of humor if she moves to California.

  My mother’s smile broadens as she looks inside the box. “How lovely,” she says, taking out a large decorative egg. It’s covered with a delicately painted design of flowers and birds.

  “The egg is a symbol of good luck in Hong Kong,” says Gigi.

  “I love it,” my mother tells her. “Thank you!”

  “And how appropriate for Half Moon Farm,” adds my father. “One thing we have plenty of around here are chickens.”

  My friends and I are all giggling now, and my father looks at us all, puzzled. “What’s so funny?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing, Dad.”

  My mother taps her water glass again. “There’s one last ornament—Phoebe, I blew it back at your house as far as the element of surprise goes, and I’ve blown it again because I left your gift in the keeping room. Jess, would you mind getting it, please? The rest of us can adjourn to the living room for predessert after-dinner mints.”

  I manage to keep a straight face as I push back my chair and reach for my crutches. “Darcy, can you give me a hand?”

  “You bet.” He follows me out of the dining room, through the kitchen, and out the back door. “Where the heck are we going? I thought your mom said it was in the keeping room.”

  “It will be in a minute,” I tell him, wishing I’d grabbed my coat. The wind is bitingly cold. “I will be so glad to get this cast off,” I grumble as we cross the yard to the barn.

  “Two more weeks, right?”

  “Feels like forever.” I flip on the light in the tack room, revealing two cardboard boxes—a large one and a small one. I quickly close the smaller one before Darcy can see what’s inside, but he does a double take when he sees what the big one contains.

  “Uh-oh,” he says. “What are you and your friends up to?”

  “I need you to not ask any questions, okay?” I transfer the boxes carefully into two separate oversize gift bags. “What I need you to do is carry these inside, and put the little one in the keeping room. That’s the one from my mother. The big box is from Cassidy and Emma and Megan and Becca and me. Your mother’s getting ours first.”

  He grins, shaking his head. “Man, you are in trouble already. You’ll be grounded for weeks!”

  “I’ll risk it.”

  “Hey, Jess,” he continues, his voice softening. “Cassidy’s right, you are going to nail that audition.”

  I sigh. “I hope so.”

  “I know so. You’re amazing, and the song sounds amazing the way you sing it.” He pulls his cell phone out and looks at the time. “Hey, guess what? It’s midnight.”

  He grins at my startled look. “Midnight somewhere, right?” he adds. “Do you mind if I wish you Happy New Year a little early? I’d rather not do this when everybody else is around.”

  I feel a prickle of anticipation as he reaches for my crutches and sets them down. “You won’t be needing these,” he says, slipping his arms around my waist and pulling me close. I lean in and rest my cheek on his chest, enjoying the warmth of his hug.

  “Happy New Year,” he murmurs, kissing my hair.

  “Happy New Year back,” I reply.

  Darcy marches a line of soft kisses down the side of my face. He kisses my eyelids and my cheeks, lingering on the tip of my nose before his lips finally come to rest on mine. I put my arms around his neck and kiss him back. I love Darcy’s kisses.

  “We’d better go back inside,” I tell him after a while. “Everybody will wonder what’s taken us so long.”

  “I think they can probably guess,” he says, grinning at me again.

  He hands me my crutches and picks up the gift bags, and I swing my way out of the barn and across the yard toward the house, feeling giddy and breathless.

  “Hurry up, Jess!” calls Cassidy from the living room, as we come through the back door. “I want dessert!”

  “That’s a big surprise,” I call back, and everybody cracks up at this.

  “Sorry, no banana splits on the menu tonight,” says Gigi. “You’ll have to settle for chocolate fondue.”

  A cheer goes up from the living room at this, and I have to say I feel a wave of relief. Entrusting the Wongs with dessert carried a certain element of risk—none of us will ever forget Mrs. Wong’s tofu cheese-cake—but Megan assured us that Gigi would come through.

  Darcy puts the smaller box in the keeping room as instructed, then follows me into the living room with the bigger one. My mother raises her eyebrows when she sees it.

  “That’s an awfully big box for an awfully little—,” she starts to whisper.

  “Just throwing Mrs. H off track, Mom,” I whisper back, as Darcy sets it down on the coffee table.

  “Ah. Good thinking. Phoebe will never guess what’s inside.”

  I shake my head, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. Her words are truer than she could ever imagine.

  Mrs. Hawthorne opens the card. “Oh, look!” she says. “It’s to Miss Sparrow from the Kelly family. How fun.”

  Mrs. Chadwick reaches for her camera as Emma’s mother starts to read: “‘This tiny reminder of England comes from our house to yours, to warm both your hearth and your heart.’ My goodness, how poetic. I can’t imagine what it could be. I’m sure it will look lovely on our tree, though.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I see Becca and Megan clutch each other. Emma is literally covering her mouth to keep from screaming with laughter, and C
assidy’s knee is bouncing like a jackhammer.

  Mrs. Hawthorne lifts the box out of the gift bag and opens the lid.

  “BWACK!” A chicken explodes from within. Mrs. Hawthorne shrieks and lurches back against the sofa.

  For a minute, it seems like everybody’s shouting at once as the indignant hen—Carrie Underwood, one of my mother’s prized new Buff Orpingtons—flaps her wings and clucks furiously, scrabbling around on the coffee table as she tries to elude my father’s grasp. Chickens are notoriously difficult to catch, and Carrie is particularly wily. Which is why I picked her, of course.

  “BOYS!” shouts my mother, as Carrie hops down from the table and dives under Mr. Wong’s legs. He lifts them high in the air, squawking nearly as loudly as the chicken.

  Dylan and Ryan, who have been gleefully joining in the chase, stop in their tracks. My mother’s face is like thunder. She points to the front stairs. “GO TO YOUR ROOMS! NOW!”

  “But Mom—”

  “NOT ANOTHER WORD!” she cries. “I’ve HAD it with you two and your chicken pranks!”

  “But—”

  “But NOTHING! UPSTAIRS! You’re both grounded for a MONTH!”

  My little brothers’ mouths drop open. Dylan looks like he’s going to cry. Cassidy looks over at me and raises her eyebrows. I shake my head. Let them dangle a bit longer.

  “You heard your mother,” my father warns them. “Best do as she says.” He shakes his head sadly. “I’m very disappointed in you two. This was a very unkind and thoughtless thing to do to our guest. You’ve scared her half to death. The rest of us too.”

  Dylan and Ryan start to slink from the room, glancing sorrowfully at Mrs. Hawthorne as they pass the sofa. She’s fanning herself vigorously, still breathless from the shock. All of a sudden she lets out a snort, which quickly turns to a giggle, and then full-blown laugh. She laughs so hard she cries.

  “What I want to know is,” she finally gasps, “what on earth does a chicken have to do with England?”

  “Well, for Pete’s sake, Phoebe, I didn’t really mean to give you a chicken!” says my mother, exasperated. “Obviously there was a mixup.” She glares at the boys, then tilts her head, her scowl deepening. “Wait a minute—how did you two—Jess?” She looks over at me. “Didn’t you suspect something when you brought the box in from the barn?”

  “She was too busy spooning,” says Cassidy.

  “Cassidy Ann!” exclaims her mother as my face goes beet red.

  Cassidy grins. “Just giving her an alibi, Mom. I couldn’t help noticing that Darcy is covered in lip gloss.”

  Darcy swipes at his face. “Let me help you with that,” says Stewart, reaching over and dabbing at it with a napkin. Darcy swats him away, but he’s grinning.

  “That’s my boy,” says Mr. Hawthorne proudly. “Chip off the old mistletoe block.”

  “What about the chicken?” says Mr. Wong, who’s still holding his feet well above the floor. Megan’s father isn’t exactly the barnyard type.

  This sets us all off again, and the living room echoes with laughter as the chicken hunt resumes. My father finally corners the runaway hen by the piano.

  My brothers, meanwhile, are lingering hopefully in the doorway.

  Cassidy and I exchange another glance, and I nod this time, finally ready to let the little weasels off the hook.

  “I have an announcement to make,” says Cassidy, rising to her feet. She crosses the room and stands over my brothers—towers over them, really—folding her arms across her chest and staring down at them. Her face is expressionless. They look up at her fearfully, wondering what’s coming next. “You two,” she says, “have . . . been . . . PRANKED!”

  Emma and Megan and I all erupt in whoops and hollers, and Becca does her touchdown cheer.

  “What?” says my mother, mystified. “Why? I don’t get it.”

  “Dylan and Ryan switched all our Secret Santa gifts,” I tell her finally, when I’m able to stop laughing. I explain about the mix up and its aftermath. “It was just a little payback.” I glance over at Mrs. Hawthorne. “Sorry, Mrs. H.”

  “No harm done,” she says. She looks down at the card she’s still holding. “But does this mean I don’t get an ornament?”

  “What’s the matter, Phoebe,” says my father, “you mean you don’t you want a CHICKEN on your Christmas tree?” He pulls the squawking bird out from behind him and thrusts it toward her, setting off another round of shrieks and flapping wings.

  “Michael Delaney!” cries my mother. “You’re as bad as the boys! I mean the girls! I mean—oh, for heaven’s sake, get that bird out of here!” She collapses on the couch and puts her arm around Mrs. Hawthorne. “Jess, would you please go get Phoebe her real present?”

  Darcy and I duck out of the room.

  “That went well,” he says.

  “Everything but Cassidy’s dumb smooching comment.”

  “Nobody cares, Jess. They know you’re my girlfriend.”

  I love it when he says that I’m his girlfriend. It makes me feel—happy. Really, really happy. “Yeah, I guess.”

  He tugs my braid. Darcy Hawthorne will probably be tugging my braid until I’m ninety. “So what’s in the other box, a goat?”

  I give him a mischievous smile. “Pretty small goat,” I reply, handing him the box. “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Things have settled down a bit by the time we return. Carrie Underwood has been banished to the chicken coop, my brothers are back in my mother’s good graces, and Mrs. Hawthorne has regained her composure. She smiles as Darcy gives her the box, but I notice she still opens it gingerly.

  “Oh!” she cries in delight. “Oh my!” Reaching in, she lifts out a kitten. Our barn cat Elvis’s daughter, the little gray one with the white paws and bib. Around her neck is another gift tag, and Mrs. Hawthorne practically swoons when she reads it aloud: “‘For Miss Sparrow from the Kelly Family: Please take care of Lady Jane Grey for us while we’re out at Murmuring Lake for the summer.’” How utterly perfect!”

  “You mean purr-fect,” says Dylan, rolling his r’s.

  Mrs. Chadwick snaps a picture. “Mother won’t believe this.”

  “We know that nothing will ever replace Melville in your hearts,” my mother tells Mrs. Hawthorne, “but a house as cozy as yours deserves a cat.”

  Mrs. Hawthorne nuzzles the kitten. “She’s beautiful, Shannon. Thank you.”

  “Can I hold her too, Mom?” asks Emma, and her mother hands the kitten over.

  “Hello, Lady Jane,” coos Emma. “Pip is going to be beside himself when he sees you! He’s been wanting a pet of his own.”

  “Me too,” says Megan, holding out her hands. Emma surrenders the furry bundle, and Megan kisses it on the nose.

  “The perfect accessory for a fashion designer,” says Gigi. “Don’t you think so, Lily?” She gives Megan’s mother a sly look, and Mrs. Wong sighs.

  “Mother, we’ve talked about this before. No pets.”

  “Oh, but look at how cute she is. A kitten is more like a family member than a pet.”

  Mrs. Wong shakes her head.

  “She is pretty cute,” says Mr. Wong, reaching over and stroking the kitten’s ears.

  “We have two more to give away,” says Mrs. Delaney.

  Mrs. Wong sighs again. “We’ll see,” she says finally, which is almost always mom-code for “No way.”

  The kitten makes the rounds of our living room. By the time she gets to me, she’s pooped from all the excitement, and she snuggles against my chest and goes to sleep, purring.

  “Dreaming, dreaming, of your sweet paws I’m dreaming,” I sing softly to her.

  “This is the best New Year’s Eve ever,” says Emma. “I wish it could go on and on. I love happy endings!”

  “It’s not over yet,” says Cassidy. “There’s still dessert.”

  Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid shakes her head. “I swear you have a hollow leg.”

  “You know who else liked happy endings?�
�� says Mr. Hawthorne. “Who?”

  “Charles Darwin.”

  Mrs. Chadwick frowns. “What does Charles Darwin have to do with Betsy-Tacy, Nicholas?”

  “Nothing at all,” replies Mr. Hawthorne. “Just a random fun fact.” He pulls the little notebook he always keeps with him out of his shirt pocket. “I came across this quote the other day while I was reading a new biography of him. Let me see, yes, here it is. Darwin once wrote, ‘I often bless all novelists. A surprising number have been read aloud to me, and I like all if moderately good, and if they do not end unhappily—against which a law ought to be passed.’”

  “I agree,” I say firmly. “It should definitely be a law. Let’s make a book club New Year’s resolution: nothing but happy endings.”

  Gigi springs to her feet. “Speaking of happy endings,” she says, “who’s ready for chocolate fondue?”

  Becca

  “Ring out the old, ring in the new . . . Betsy.”

  —Betsy in Spite of Herself

  “Welcome to Heinz’s Restaurant!” says Megan’s grandmother, throwing open the door to her tea shop.

  Pies & Prejudice has been transformed. A HAPPY NEW YEAR! banner obscures the tea quote on the far wall, and there are silver balloons and streamers dangling from the ceiling, along with a glittering disco ball.

  The tables have been pushed together to make two long ones, and the yellow-and-white color scheme has been replaced by sophisticated black and white—tablecloths, napkins, chair cushions, everything. I’m betting Megan had something to do with this. It looks really cool—especially with the black-and-white tiles on the floor. Mr. Wong must have been on the decorating committee too, because there’s a big flat-screen TV set up on the hutch, and a slide show of pictures taken at various events over the past year is playing on it. Cassidy at the rink with Tristan. Mrs. Bergson. Our trip to England last summer. Darcy making the winning touchdown at the Thanksgiving Day game. Megan winces slightly as a picture of Simon flashes on-screen, and I reach over and give her a sympathetic squeeze.

  “Cell phones, please, check your cell phones here,” says Mrs. Wong, coming around the room with a basket. “This is a cell-phone-free establishment.”