by T. E. Woods
Sydney leaned against the dining room wall and watched her mother lose herself in the music. Nancy was transformed from a sixty-four-year-old widow carrying twenty extra pounds around her midsection into a twenty-year-old wrapped for the first time in the arms of a man who’d be the only one to hold her from that dance forward.
A knock on the door pulled them both from their reverie. Sydney went to answer while Nancy slipped back into her shrug and patted her gunmetal hair back into place.
“Kitz!” Horst Welke pulled Sydney into a hug with one hand while hoisting two bottles of wine in the other. “Happy Thanksgiving to my two favorite girls.” He released her and nodded over his shoulder. “I got two stragglers right behind me.” He stepped into the foyer and made himself at home hanging his parka in the closet.
“Gobble gobble!” Dr. Veronica Pernod, Sydney’s best friend since they shared a kindergarten class, was next through the door. “Hot damn, this place smells terrific. A haven from the storm. I’d ask if you’ve taken a look outside, but with your view it’s like you’re living in it.” She slipped off her boots and pulled bedroom slippers out of her purse before handing her coat to Horst and heading across the room to give Nancy a hug.
“I guess I’m bringing up the rear.” Clay Hawthorne was the last through the door. He leaned in and kissed Sydney’s cheek, allowing her to take in his masculine scent. On impulse, she wrapped her arms around him and held him close.
“You two kids watch it now,” Horst jokingly admonished. “There’s other folks in the room.”
Clay gave her a wink when she released him. She looked at the bottles in his hands.
“Those for me?”
“For the feast.” Clay handed her two bottles of wine and another of brandy. “Where do you want them?”
Sydney took them while Horst took Clay’s coat. “I’ll search, but we’re running out of room. I don’t know what I’m going to do with all this food.”
“Well, then.” Horst rubbed his hands together. “Perhaps we had best get started.”
—
Roland had sent over an assortment of appetizers. Clay handled bartending duties and kept everyone’s glasses full while the five of them noshed on broiled shrimp, crab puffs, and mushrooms stuffed with sausage and fennel. Ronnie told the story of nearly missing the dinner. A patient of hers had been in labor for nearly twenty hours and still the baby seemed in no hurry to make his entrance into the world.
“I finally told Dad it looked like he was going to miss every football game. You should have seen him. It was like he’d forgotten today was Thanksgiving. Next thing I know, he’s up by his wife’s face, calling out push, push, push like he’s the leader of one of those skull races. Twenty minutes later one healthy baby boy pops into view. Mom and Dad are doing great, I get a couple hours of sleep, and here I am.”
Compliments flowed when it was time to take a seat at the dining table.
“This is my contribution,” Sydney told them. “Decorating I can do. Cooking?”
Her four guests joined in a unison affirmation that she’d made the right choice in staying out of the kitchen.
—
They took time with their meal. Horst told funny cop stories. Nancy added to the lightness with offerings of the latest Roland Delmardo shenanigans. Clay related an article he’d recently read about the emerging popularity of jazz in eastern Europe.
“It’s a shame jazz is on the decline here in America. This is where it was born.”
“Your place is full every night,” Sydney commented.
“That’s the difference between blues and jazz,” Clay explained.
“Meaning the Low Down is in good shape for the long run?” Nancy asked.
“I don’t see the blues disappearing anytime soon. Everybody can relate to feeling lost. Alone. It’s that driving two-four beat and the words of woe that bring folks in night after night. Happiness? That comes and goes. But the blues, man, that’s forever.”
“I’ll tell you what.” Ronnie speared another bite of sage stuffing onto her fork. “Ain’t no way anyone’s feeling the blues with food like this in front of them.”
Over a seemingly never-ending array of desserts, table talk changed to what each person was grateful for. Nancy started.
“For health, family, and friends, of course.” She reached to her right and left, grabbing Ronnie’s hand in her right and Sydney’s in her left. “I almost lost these two girls this year.” Her voice cracked, threatening tears. “Bullets and beatings. I don’t know how I would have survived without you. I’m grateful you’re both here. Healthy. Whole.” She kissed each of their hands before releasing them.
“Well, I’m glad I didn’t die, too,” Ronnie said with a laugh. “It is my profound hope that I’ve seen my last visit to the ICU as a patient.”
“I guess I’m next,” Horst said, when Ronnie looked toward him. “Not a day goes by I don’t miss Joe. He was my partner, my teacher, my brother. I wouldn’t make it through if I didn’t have you, Nancy. Or you, Kitz. Having Joe’s widow and daughter take me in like I’m part of the family. It’s everything.” Horst bowed his head and cleared his throat. “Now somebody else say something before I blow this macho image I’ve taken time to cultivate.”
Clay looked around the table before resting his eyes on Sydney. “I have a great life. I’m grateful for all of it. But this year’s brought me the promise of something more. I’m grateful for the opportunity to explore whatever it is Ms. Sydney and I have going on.”
Sydney felt the odd surge of romantic joy and crushing fear she often did when she allowed herself to contemplate a future with Clay.
Don’t be such an idiot. You spend your whole life fighting the legacy of abandonment your birth parents gifted you with. Now here’s a wonderful man ready to jump into forever with you and you act like he’s ready to infect you with Ebola. What’s wrong with you?
“And that leaves our hostess,” Ronnie said. “What about it, Syd? What’s high on your gratitude meter these days?”
Sydney looked around at the faces at her table. She looked outside to see the wind had settled, but the snow still fell straight and gentle. “This,” she said. “I’m grateful for all of this.”
—
She finally scooted her mother out the door at a little past eight o’clock. Sydney had sent each of her guests home with a box of leftovers sure to keep them stocked for the weekend and still her refrigerator was filled.
“You’re taking this,” she said to Clay. “All of this.”
“First rule of bachelors: Take whatever real food is sent your way.” He was standing by the living room window. The sky was dark. Lights illuminated the buildings below. The snow had stopped, leaving the entire city looking like chocolate nougat floating under a cloud of whipped cream.
“I love winter,” he said.
“Me, too.” She wiped her hands clean and walked over to him. “You know, we midwesterners are supposed to complain bitterly about the ice and dark.”
“That’s just to keep outsiders far away.” He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was filled with an energy that would belie a belly full of turkey. “Let’s go for a ride.”
“Now? In this?”
“Right now. Before the snow has a chance to get dirty. While the streets are empty.”
How could he know it’s one of my favorite times to drive?
“You’re on. But we’re taking my car. Roads like these demand a standard shift.”
His eyes filled with mischief. “Is it that? Or are you finding yet another way to exert control?”
Sydney put up her hands in innocence. “This is a safety thing. Feel free to drive. I’ll put myself completely in your hands.”
He pulled her close and stared into her eyes. “I like the sound of that.” Then he kissed her. Long and slow and deep.
—
A half hour later they pulled into the driveway of his home on Madison’s Near West side.
“I can’t believe how many houses already have their Christmas lights up,” she said as she got out of her car.
“And they’ll keep them up until St. Patrick’s Day.” Clay opened the trunk and grabbed two bags of leftovers. “Damning the darkness of a cold winter’s night, I suppose.”
Sydney grabbed the last bag of goodies and followed him into his cozy living room.
“I’ll just pile these into the kitchen,” she said.
“The fridge is pretty bare. You won’t have any trouble.”
She heard him walk away, toward the bedroom, as she unloaded enough food for another Thanksgiving feast. A few moments later she heard music. The opening strains of Nat King Cole’s “A Christmas Song.”
“I always like to kick off the season with this one,” Clay said as he came back into the kitchen.
“Is that before or after you turn on your holiday lights?”
“I never was one for yard decorations. There’ll be a tree, though. I’m hoping you’ll be here to help me decorate it.”
Again, the defensive pull against planning ahead tugged at her. “I’ll bring the eggnog.”
He took her hand and led her to the sofa. “I got you something.”
“Clay! It’s Thanksgiving. One of the things I love about this holiday is there’s no pressure for gift giving.”
He ran a hand through her ebony hair. “Think of it as a kickoff to Christmas.” He reached behind a pillow and pulled out a velvet jeweler’s box. It was long and narrow. The kind made for bracelets.
Thank God it’s not a ring box.
“Like I said, it’s a little something. But it means the world to me.”
Sydney took the black box from him and opened it. She laughed when she saw the toothbrush inside.
“Soft bristles, too,” he said. “Like the one you have at home. I think the days of you waking up here and using your finger as a toothbrush need to end.” He slid off the couch and bent down on one knee. “Sydney Amelia Richardson, will you do me the great honor of practicing good oral hygiene each and every time you sleep over?”
She fanned her hand over her chest, feigned a case of vapors, and gave her best attempt at a southern accent. “Why, Mr. Hawthorne, this comes as quite the surprise. Are you sure our relationship is ready for a step of such magnitude?”
He stood, pulling her up with him. He led her down the hall, through the master bedroom, and into the adjoining bath. He laid his hand on the wall-mounted holder, where his blue toothbrush hung in lonely solitude.
Sydney pulled the bright yellow toothbrush from the jewelry case and dropped it into an open slot.
“They look good together,” she said.
“Yes, they do.” He pulled her into an embrace. A gentle kiss turned more ardent. His hand slid down her back as she leaned into him.
A noise from the front door froze them both.
Sydney stepped back, at once paralyzed and energized by fear. Memories of darkened rooms, a madman stalking her, a gun pointed in her direction flooded her consciousness. Her eyes were wide and her hands were clinched around Clay’s arm.
“Easy,” he cooed. “It’s probably just a stray cat. Maybe the wind.”
The sound of the front door being heaved open eliminated those possibilities. A small yelp drifted from Sydney’s throat.
“Stay here.” Clay’s voice was a whisper, but his eyes were demanding. “You have your phone?”
She nodded.
“If you hear me yell go, you dial 911. Don’t hesitate. Can you do that?”
She nodded again and reluctantly released his arms.
Clay stepped back into the master bedroom. Though the room was dark, there was enough light from the bathroom to see him pause by the door to pick up a wooden baseball bat before he walked out to the hall.
Sydney waited. The three seconds before she heard his voice felt like three years.
“Oh my God!” Clay called out.
She heard another voice. A man’s. A heartbeat later she heard them both laughing. She put her cellphone back in her pocket and stepped sheepishly toward the living room. There was Clay, standing at the open front door, wrapped in an embrace with a man an inch or two taller than his own six feet. He was thinner by probably twenty pounds, but had the same thick black hair. The same pale skin. When the two of them turned enough for Sydney to see the other man’s face, she drew in a sharp breath. The man’s face was nearly identical to Clay’s. Similar enough to make Sydney believe she was looking at Clay hugging a younger version of himself.
The visitor saw her standing there and stepped away from Clay. “Who’s this?”
Clay’s grin was wide enough to suggest he’d just received the only gift he wanted this new holiday season. He waved her over, still keeping one arm around the man’s shoulder.
“Sydney! Come here! Meet the joy of my life.” He turned to his doppelgänger. “This is Steel. My son.”
Every great mystery needs an Alibi
eOriginal mystery and suspense from Random House
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