Christmas In The Country

by Muriel Jensen

  Chapter Twelve

  Bill was beside them in a moment, his mouth tight, his hands steady as he felt for a pulse.

  Liza rubbed Sherrie’s wrist without any real idea of what purpose it served, except that she’d often seen characters do it in old movies. “She’s been working since dawn and I don’t think she’s taken the time to eat anything,” she told Bill.

  Jeff put an arm around each of the boys and drew them back while Bill sat Sherrie up and cradled her in one arm.

  Bill tapped her face lightly. “Sherrie? Sherrie!”

  She winced and groaned.

  “What is it?” Liza demanded.

  Bill ran a hand over his face in relief and sighed. “Just fainted, I think. Nerves, exhaustion, I don’t know. I’d better run her into the ER to make sure.”

  He seemed to realize suddenly what that meant to the show. He cast her an apologetic glance as he braced Sherrie against his knee and placed an arm under her knees to lift her.

  “Absolutely,” she said, helping to steady Sherrie as Bill stood with her.

  “I want to come,” Travis said firmly.

  “Me, too,” Davey sobbed.

  Again he looked at Liza in apology.

  “Take them,” Liza said, “if they won’t be in the way.”

  “Trav, keys to the car are in my side pocket,” Bill said. “I need something to cover her with.”

  Liza pointed to a crew member near the entrance to the dining room. “Would you get the quilt off the back of the sofa in the living room?” To the boys who were running to the back door with the keys, she shouted, “Don’t forget your coats!”

  The quilt was passed from hand to hand and Liza put it over Sherrie and tucked it around her. Jeff got Bill’s jacket and Liza and Jeff followed him out to his car.

  Sherrie came awake. “What are we doing?” she asked. “Where are we…Bill?”

  “You fainted,” Bill said patiently as he put her inside the front seat while Travis held the door open.

  “But…” Sherrie looked around, obviously confused. “The show. Bill, the show!” She tried to push against him to get free of the seat belt he snapped into place around her.

  “Stop it, Sherrie!” Liza said as Bill walked around to the driver’s side, not bothering to argue with her. He let the boys’ into the back seat while Liza tucked the quilt around her sister. “We’re going to be fine. You have everything almost done.”

  “No, I don’t.” Sherrie leaned toward Liza worriedly. “I was working in a fog the last couple of hours. It should all be done by now, but I felt…”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Liza insisted. “Bill’s taking you to the hospital to make sure you’re okay.”

  Sherrie tried to fight off the confinement of the blanket. “I am okay! Liza, please!” She got a hand free and grabbed the front of Liza’s sweater in a fist. “Sis, if you try to finish this dinner on your own, you’re going to have the shortest TV career in the history of the tube!”

  Bill turned the key in the ignition.

  Liza replaced Sherrie’s hand under the blanket, leaned into the car to hug her, then closed the door on her.

  Liza rubbed her arms against the cold as she watched the Mercedes back out of the driveway and head for the road to town. The cold seemed somehow significant—a harbinger of what she could expect herself to be out in once the show was over.

  Jeff put a fraternal arm around her shoulders. “Come on inside. If it is the shortest career in TV history, you don’t want to face it with a red nose and your teeth chattering.”

  “I should have been more help to her today,” Liza said, looking over her shoulder in the direction the car had gone.

  Jeff drew her toward the house. “You tried, but everybody needed something from you today. And she seems to be pretty driven in the kitchen.”

  “I should have made her eat something.”

  “She just got busy and forgot. It was nobody’s fault.”

  She stopped by the back door and looked up at him in surprise. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  “Yours,” he replied instantly. “Always have been.”

  “But you don’t love me anymore.” She was just trying to get things in order in her mind. The moment defied logic.

  “I’ll always love you,” he corrected, reaching for the doorknob. “I’m just smart enough to back away from something that will never work.”

  He pushed the door open and Liza walked into the kitchen.

  It looked as though no one had moved in the time it had taken her and Jeff to walk Bill and Sherrie and the boys out to the car.

  The crew remained where they’d been standing when Davey had shattered Liza’s world of illusion by leaning over Sherrie and calling her Mom. Except that someone, a young woman, was cleaning up the spilled apples.

  Chris Page, headset on, clipboard in hand, stood with Whittier, whose expression was a curious combination of perplexity and horror. Liza guessed that he couldn’t quite figure out what had just happened but seemed to know that it did not bode well for the show. Not well at all.

  Dora, with Betsy in her arms, watched worriedly.

  Liza glanced up at the kitchen clock. There were nineteen minutes until the titles began to roll for “Christmas with Liza De Lane.”

  She assumed a determined stance and faced the confused crew.

  “All right,” she said, propping a hand on a kitchen chair for support. “I owe you an explanation. There isn’t time at the moment to go into why I did this, but I imagine it’s clear to you by now that the boys and Betsy are Sherrie’s children and not mine. And you could probably tell by the way Bill McBride hurried to Sherrie’s rescue that he’s her husband and not mine. Well, he isn’t yet, but he will be on New Year’s Eve.” She expelled a sigh because it seemed to be required to remain upright. Her broken heart and her nervous stomach felt as though they were in collusion to drive her to her knees. But it was her fault that everything had come to this point. It was her responsibility to see it through.

  “But, what’s worse than that,” she went on, “is that my sister has all the cooking skills. All I have is the ability to write about it, and to stand in front of a camera and talk about it.”

  She swept a hand toward the array of half-prepared dishes covering the long kitchen counter. “The big problem is that she wasn’t feeling very well, so things aren’t as far along as they should be, so I don’t think I’ll have a finished meal for those last few minutes of the show.

  “But, if you’ll bear with me, I’ll try to make up an excuse to the viewers and show everything as a work in progress rather than a finished meal. It won’t be as effective, but it’s the best I can do.”

  “But the opener we filmed,” Chris said, “introduces your family. How are you going to explain that they’re not here?”

  “I don’t know,” she said calmly. “I’ll think of something in time.”

  Chris stared at her for a moment as though she’d just stabbed him in the heart, then he turned to his crew. “Okay, people. We’ll be fine for the first half. We have the intro, we have the tour of the house…” He turned to Liza with a look of sudden fear. “You can still do the tour? You can explain the decorations and…”

  Liza nodded. “Yes, I can.”

  “Okay. And we have the angel segment just before the station break.” He patted his chest right over his heart, as though it took beating his heart by hand to keep it functioning. “So we’re fine until eight-thirty.”

  He seemed to take comfort in that as he glanced at the clock and gave a few last-minute instructions to the crew, who were suddenly spurred into action. Liza thought it strange that his nerves were soothed by the well-structured first thirty minutes. All she could think of was the impossible-to-assemble second half of the show.

  She knew she was facing the death of her career. The most difficult part to deal with was the knowledge that she deserved it.

  On the chance that that hadn’t occurred to her, Whittie
r was quick to point it out.

  He backed her into the far corner of the kitchen, his face pale, his eyes filled with thwarted greed. He looked deadly.

  “I don’t know how in the hell you intend to save your bacon, young lady,” he said. “But you had damn well better, because if I fry with you, you will not be able to get a job writing obituaries anywhere in this country! Do I make myself clear?”

  She couldn’t decide if this was the real Whittier talking, or if the unbearable tension of the moment was responsible. Either way, she was toast. She smiled to herself, finding it ironic that toast was the only thing she could prepare.

  “You’re smiling,” Whittier observed grimly. “Apparently it hasn’t come home to you that whether you carry this show off or not, you’re history at Wonder Woman Magazine.” And on the chance that that wasn’t clear, he added, “Fired. Sacked. Bounced. Terminated. Stricken from the rolls!”

  Panicky tears stood right behind her eyes and Liza fought them, knowing she had about five minutes to air time.

  “I understand, Mr. Whittier,” she said with forced dignity. “Now, speaking of rolls, I have to cut some, so if you’ll excuse me…”

  “I’m not through with you yet,” he said, shaking a finger at her, apparently prepared to use the next five minutes to heap on more threats.

  But Jeff caught him by the arm. “Yes, you are,” he said. “Come on. I think Chris is hoping to fill some time by using you in the second half, and he wants to talk to you about it.”

  “Oh.” Whittier allowed himself to be drawn away, distracted from his tirade by the promise of air time.

  Liza opened the utensil drawer and took out the biscuit cutter. She knew there had to be more productive things she could do at this midnight hour of preparation, but she didn’t know what they were. And she did know how to cut biscuits. That was, she hoped she did.

  “If we could bring in the playpen,” Dora said, onehandedly shaking the contents of a pan on a low setting on the stove, “I could help, but she’ll scream if I put her down out of sight of us.”

  Liza spared a precious instant to kiss Betsy’s cheek and stroke her hair. “Mommy’s going to be fine, sweetie. Don’t you worry.”

  “All right, tell me what to do.”

  Liza looked away from Dora and into Sylvia Stanford’s face. The woman looked eager, and, more interesting than that, she looked confident.

  “Sylvia, it’s four minutes to air time,” Liza demurred. “I appreciate your offer, but I don’t think…”

  “Where’s the menu?” Sylvia looked around, then went to the refrigerator, where an eight-by-eleven sheet was stuck to the door with a magnet.

  “The famous apricot-glazed ham. Right.” Sylvia looked up from the sheet. “It’s in the oven?”

  “Yes, but it went in late. It won’t be ready in time for the—”

  “Doesn’t matter. We can turn up the heat so that it’s glazed and crusty on top. If we don’t slice it, no one will know it isn’t done inside. Baked onions…”

  Liza pointed to the pan still on the counter. “They take almost an…”

  Sylvia nodded, apparently knowing how long they took to bake. “Maybe we can rush them in the microwave. Cranberry-apple relish…”

  Liza pointed to the apple slices still on the cutting board. “But they’re oxidizing. It’ll—”

  “Won’t matter,” Sylvia said, running her finger down the list. “The cranberry will color them and it’ll be beautiful. Those will be ready before the station break. Oven-browned white and sweet potatoes.”

  Dora smiled. “I think I’m unnecessary.” she said. “Betsy and I will see you after the show.”

  Liza was beginning to feel the guillotine halt its downward slide toward her neck. “Those are peeled and in water in the refrigerator ready to go into the oven. I saw them.”

  “Good. I’ll put them around the ham right now. We’ll get them nice and glazed looking, too, and no one will know they’re still hard. Whoa. Cider pie? That’s a new one on me.”

  “Um.” Liza tried to think. “Sherrie makes it for special occasions. It’s raisins and brown sugar and all kinds of other stuff.” She pointed to a pile of recipe cards in the corner of the counter. “All her recipes are there. Oh, Sylvia.” She caught her by the arms at the prospect that they might be able to pull the show off after all. “Do you think you can make this work?”

  “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But I’ll do my darnedest. You’re my hero, you know.”

  “Opening music!” Chris called, indicating that the station was rolling titles and would soon be starting with the welcoming segment Liza had filmed earlier with Bill and the children.

  “You obviously didn’t hear what just happened,” Liza said, starting to cut biscuits.

  “You have to roll it out first, sweetie,” Sylvia said, taking’ the cutter from her. “Finish slicing the apples, then put them in the saucepan with the cranberries. No, I didn’t, but Jeff gave me a brief rundown of the last few days.”

  Liza sliced apples. “And you’re still willing to help me. I mean, considering you…you know…”

  Liza watched in astonishment as Sylvia cut biscuits with one hand, caught them in the other and put them on a pan.

  Sylvia glanced up with a smile. “I’ll always love Jeff, but…he told me gently but convincingly that it’s not going to happen between us. And, anyway, I don’t think that’s what I came for. I needed to know that he was all right. And I needed some time.” She kept cutting biscuits as she talked. “We just didn’t shake the earth for each other.” She made a face, but Liza saw a real sadness behind the attempted jocularity. “Then I met Bobby, and the earth shook so much it was all I could do to remember my name. I married him and moved to Dallas. But he wants a society wife like his mother and sisters-in-law, and that just isn’t me. I have to be preparing the food, not having it served to me. So here I am.”

  Liza tossed apples into the pan of cranberries.

  Sylvia pointed to the refrigerator. “Your sister’s recipe calls for a can of apple juice concentrate to go in that. Then you just bring it all to a boil.”

  Liza found the can, opened it and added it to the mixture. “I’ll introduce you to my boss after the show,” Liza promised as she worked. “My job will be open. If you’re interested, I think you’ll have a good shot at it. Particularly if this all works.”

  Sylvia beamed.

  “Liza!” Chris shouted. “We need you to intro Jeff! Now!”

  Liza pulled off her apron and put it on Sylvia, then ran to find her spot. She felt as though her brain had been in a blender and that everything she’d ever learned was still there, but somehow liquefied. Run together. One unsortable mass of detail.

  She hadn’t a clue what her first line was and searched anxiously for the cue card girl. She was there with an encouraging smile.

  The segment was scheduled right after a commercial and began with a news clip of Father Chabot being interviewed by a reporter and hailing Jeff as a hero and the man who’d saved his life. Then Liza was on live to introduce Jeff to the viewing audience.

  She sat on the sofa and described Jeff and Father Chabot’s six-day ordeal.

  “And now, as our Christmas gift to you,” she said, “we’d like you to meet our holiday houseguest, Jeffrey James. Jeff?”

  Jeff walked into the room and came toward the sofa. Liza extended her hand and he took it as the script required. Miraculously, her brain clicked on and seemed to remember what it had to do.

  She asked him the questions on the cue cards and was amazed to find that she could concentrate on his answers. Her mind wasn’t panicked over what came next.

  He had the easy manner of a man at peace with himself, and while she noticed that, she refused to let herself think about it. In view of Sylvia’s denial about their relationship, a wonderful new door had opened, but she might have already slammed it on her own foot.

  But if she had, she didn’t want to know about it until the
show was over.

  “I can’t tell you how pleased we all were at Wonder Woman,” she read off the cards toward the end of their exchange, smiling for the camera over the vagaries of fate, “to know that it was a Liza De Lane recipe that led you home.”

  He smiled for the audience. It was a sweet, endearing smile, she noticed. “I’ve corrected you on that a few times since I’ve been here, and, even though Bill is at the hospital tonight with a patient instead of home with us, I think your viewing audience is sufficient chaperon for me to say that you brought me home. You embodied for me the warmth and the spirit of family holidays, and though I had no one to come home to, you made me believe that love is there for all of us.”

  Liza was speechless for a moment. That response had not been in the script. They were supposed to banter about the ham and that would allow her to plug the second half of the show filled with her recipes, and then they would go to commercial.

  When she continued to stare at him, he turned to the camera and smiled. “I believe we’re going to a commercial break, and when we come back you’ll have the privilege of seeing the wonderful Christmas decorations in this great old Federal mansion. We’re all so lucky to have been invited here.”

  “Yes!” Chris said triumphantly when the station told him they were on break. “Good save, Jeff. Liza, come with me. And try to wake up, honey. You’re doing well, but you’re a little too ethereal for prime time. Come on. We’re starting by the fireplace.”

  The crafts portion of the show went beautifully. “My sister, Sherrie, decorated the house,” she explained as they began the tour. “We wanted you to see how natural things—holly, cedar, juniper—bring the outdoors into your home any time of the year, but particularly for the holidays when we share with nature the miracle of Christmas.”

  She showed the garlands, the wreaths, the table decorations made with the most unlikely combinations, like the roses and the radishes in the kitchen.

  The camera featured Sherrie’s quilts strewn throughout the house, the wreaths on every door— particularly the one made of old toys on the boys’ bedroom door—the candles on bedside tables, the water jug filled with holly in the dry sink in Bill’s room.