by Josie Brown
When completed, whisk the milk and sugar into the eggs, slowly. Afterward, return this new combination to the saucepan, put it over a low flame, and whisk steadily for twenty minutes, or until it is thick enough to coat a knife. (Be sure this is not the same knife you’ll be using to stab someone later. The coating may make it slip out of your hands.)
Strain into a bowl. Whisk in your whisky. Whisk in your cream.
Then use the whisk to beat silly anyone who claims your eggnog is not the best they’ve ever tasted. They will change their mind even before the first whelp appears. Cheers!
I don’t know why I said yes to going to the Secret Santa party tonight at Acme. I have no reason to be there. But Ryan called up and insisted I come in. “I know it’s only been three days, you need time off to mourn. But Jack drew your name, and he left his gift for you here,” he says, as a way to shame me into it.
I laugh as it hits me. Jack lied about drawing my name, just like I lied about drawing his! We are certainly two peas in a pod.
That is, we were.
I too had already wrapped the heart-shaped jewel box in sparkly tissue paper, topped with a silver bow, and left it at the office prior to party day. Inside I had placed the key that opens it along with a note that reads:
Dear Jack,
Always, and forever, you hold the key to my heart.
Love, Donna
“And besides,” Ryan continues, “without your fruitcake, it isn’t much of a party to begin with.”
He’s right. Spooks may know how to crash a party, but they certainly don’t know how to throw one.
“Okay, yeah, I’ll come,” I said. Then I hung up quickly.
I didn’t want him to hear me choking on my tears.
“Big Foot slipper socks? Gee.” Arnie is certainly disappointed with the gift Emma has given him.
He has every right to be. He rigged the Secret Santa game so that he’d draw her name, and to give her something he knows she wants: a vintage, limited edition Princess Leia twelve-inch action figure from Star Wars Episode 4, New Hope. It is one of the originals, produced by Kenner Toys in 1977, in conjunction with the release of the movie.
When she unwrapped it, Emma squealed, “How did you know?”
Arnie turns beet red. “I . . . um, I took a wild guess.”
He’s such a liar. Knowing Arnie, he hacked her computer and followed her browser history, where she’s been bidding for it on eBay.
He beat her to it.
Now it’s Emma’s turn to be embarrassed. “Wait! There’s something else in there, too! You can feel it in one of the socks. Go ahead, shake it out.”
As he obliges her, a vintage World War II German Army trench knife and scabbard fall to the floor.
Arnie is stunned. “Wow! How did you know?”
She rolls her eyes. “What, do you think you’re the only person in the world who can hack a computer? Of course, I had to drill down through all the porn first.”
Both of those gifts well over the twenty-dollar limit; proof positive that true love is priceless.
Now that all the gifts are distributed, Jack’s present sits alone under the tree. It’s stupid to leave it there, but if I keep it in the house, it will be one more reminder of what we will never share—a future.
While others laugh, sing carols off-key, munch homemade holiday goodies and snag kisses under the mistletoe, I inch my way toward the front door.
But Ryan isn’t going to let me go that easy. “I have something for you. Remember?”
I bite my lip, as he hands me a wrapped present.
“Don’t you want to open it?” he asks.
I shake my head. “I’ll wait until I get home.”
He nods. He understands. “Don’t wait too long,” he murmurs. Then he kisses me on the forehead.
Ryan may not always be my boss, but he will always be a friend.
In the Stone household, a call from Hilldale Middle School is never a happy occasion. “Mrs. Stone, Principal Belding would like to see you as soon as possible,” says the school’s receptionist. Her tone is ominous.
I try to counter it with sweetness and light. “May I ask what this is in reference to?”
Maybe Jeff won some sort of reward…
Oh, who am I trying to kid? The award for, Most Likely to Flip Off a Teacher, doesn’t look great on any future college admissions transcript.
I sigh. “Yeah, okay, what has Jeff done now?”
“We’re not calling about Jeff. It’s your daughter, Mary.”
Mary?
Oh no.
Over the past three days, Mary’s moods have reminded me of my old lava lamp, in the way they’ve flipped and morphed from pale sorrow to red-hot anger to mellow yellow contemplation and back again.
Every day since Jack’s death, she has asked me when her father is coming home. She drills me with the intensity and finesse of a prosecuting attorney. Where did he go? Why did he go? What was the last thing he said before he left? Did he tell you anything, maybe about me? Or Jeff, or Trisha?
Are you sure?
Really, Mom?
My professional training has taught me how to beat a lie detector test, to withstand any interrogator without breaking a sweat. But the fear that my daughter may someday brand me a liar is the ultimate Kryptonite. Like a Geiger counter, she’s hypersensitive to the tremors I can’t keep out of my voice as I swat away her obvious concern with feather light responses.
She may be angry with me for lying, or with her father for leaving us again, but she can’t just come out and say it unless I admit it first.
The most common form of retaliation at the age of twelve is acting out.
I’m scared to ask, but I have to. “Oh, my God! Has she hurt herself?”
The receptionist’s response is a snort. “Hardly. But you should see the other guy.”
Oh heck.
“I’ll be right there,” I say.
Principal Belding’s office is a large, dark tomb. A desk the size of my formal dining table, inlaid with all its leaves, sits up on a foot-high podium. The man himself sits in a chair befitting the captain of the Starship Enterprise.
Okay, I get it. You dah man.
Mary, Trevor, and some very tall boy in a rival school’s team basketball jersey are sitting in the wooden straight-back chairs that face Principal Belding. The kid in the jersey is slumped in his chair, holding his stomach with one hand, and an ice pack over his eye with another. When I come into his peripheral vision, his impulse is to turn, but even this slight involuntary movement has him moaning in pain.
I pat his shoulder in sympathy, but this only causes him to flinch and groan again.
“Oh! So sorry! I didn’t realize how bruised you are…” Then it hits me.
My daughter was the object of the jealous affections of two boys.
How cool is that?
To be sure, it is a welcomed rite of passage for all women. Still, I have to pretend that any punches thrown on behalf of Mary are uncouth and unwelcomed.
At least, on school grounds.
I open my arms wide in an attempt at conciliation. “I presume there was a tussle of some sort? Boys, I’m sure Mary is flattered at having been fought over—”
Mary shakes her head as if the tall doofus’s pain is suddenly all hers.
“Me, fight over her? What, are you crazy?” The tall boy is so moved by my words that he jumps up out of his chair. “Ha! In her dreams!”
Mary looks as if she’s ready to pounce on this creep. I put my hand firmly on her shoulder. “Um . . . excuse me?”
Principal Belding clears his throat. “Alton here is from Beverly Hills Junior High. They played Hilldale in the boy’s basketball playoff game today. Unfortunately, Alton elbowed Trevor on the court.” He glances over at Trevor. “I commend Trevor for keeping his cool. I wish I could say the same for Mary.”
“Mr. Belding, after the game, Alton called Trevor a shrimp, which isn’t true,” Mary protests. “Okay, sure he�
��s shorter than some of us on the girls’ team, but…”
Now it’s Trevor’s time to groan and sink into his chair.
Mr. Belding holds up a hand to silence my daughter. “Mary Stone, coming to Trevor’s defense should not have included an assault of any kind. This means a three-day suspension.”
“But he assaulted me first!” She glares at Alton.
“Wait… This guy touched you?” Trevor jumps out of his chair, upset. “But you told me I was imagining that.”
Mary’s anger turns to contrition. “I—I didn’t want him to beat you up. He’s so much bigger than you, and… Well, I can take care of myself.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Trevor plops back down in his chair.
“Trevor, I… what I meant to say is…” She knows her pleas are useless. Slowly she turns to Alton, and mutters, “Next time, keep your hands to yourself.”
“Hey, no worries, ninja chick! You’re one scary ho!”
At this point, I’m barely able to tamp down my impulse to kick this kid silly.
Whereas I’ve had years to hone the skills needed to laugh off benign threats from blowhards, Mary hasn’t. Her well-aimed shot to his midsection has him doubled over again. She follows that with an elbow to his right kidney. Ouch!
He drops to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
I purse my lips and hold my hands to my side to keep from shouting, “That’s my girl!” or “Way to go,” and high-fiving Mary.
Now that it’s obvious to everyone that Mary’s suspension will be extended, it looks like we’ll have a lot of mother-daughter time on our hands.
Perhaps it’s time for a trip to the mall.
Yes, yes, I know. It was poor form on her part to lose her temper at that bully. But due consideration must also be given of the precision and speed of her front kick.
And let’s face it. She’s got man trouble and needs a shoulder to cry on.
My little nut did not fall far from this tree.
“So, who taught you jujitsu?” I say it nonchalantly and I try to keep my eyes on the road. Although I think I already know the answer to my own question, I want to hear it from her.
She looks down at her hands in her lap. “Dad. It’s what we’ve been doing after school together. It’s been a lot of fun.”
“I can imagine. I mean… Well, I think it’s smart for a woman to know how to take care of herself. There are a lot of bullies out there.”
Mary nods silently, but doesn’t look up.
“What I don’t understand is why you and Dad felt you had to keep a secret.”
She shrugs. “It was my idea to keep it on the QT. I was sort of jealous of you, when Trevor crushed on you. I mean, if anything, I should be proud that my mother kicks ass—”
“Mary, please. Language.”
She laughs. “I’m just telling it like it is! Mom, seriously, you’re… you’re awesome.”
Okay, now I’m grinning, too.
“But it was Dad’s idea that I copy you. He said he always wanted to know that I can protect myself. Just… just in case.”
Just in case.
It looks as if the Stones will always have a reason to be warriors.
First Carl, then me.
No, Mary can’t follow in our footsteps. But there is nothing wrong with her protecting herself.
Just in case.
“I guess I thought Trevor would be impressed if I whupped up on that douchebag. You know, like you did on those thugs in the parking lot.”
“Sweetheart, I understand how martial arts can give you confidence. But I think your plan would have worked better if you had given Trevor the opportunity to protect you, as opposed to protecting him.”
Her eyes open big. “Are you kidding? Didn’t you see the size of that dude? Trevor would’ve been killed!”
“Yes, I get it. He’d have gotten his butt kicked. But he would also have had an opportunity to protect and to impress you. And, Mary, believe it or not, that’s all men really want to do—protect those they love.”
We’re both silent while this sinks in. “But if you can protect yourself, why would any guy bother?”
“It’s built into his DNA. ‘Protect and defend.’ That’s what people do when they love each other. Parents do it for children. Parents do it for each other.”
“I’d do it for you,” she says shyly.
“I know you would. And I’d be honored.” I pat her hand. “Hey, when we get home, why don’t you give me a little demonstration of what Dad’s taught you?”
The smile fades from Mary’s face. “Dad and I were going to put on a show this week if… if he hadn’t gone away. Mom, please tell me. I promise I’ll… I promise I’ll be okay. Where is he, really?”
It’s not the lump in my throat that’s keeping me from telling her the truth. It’s the fact that I haven’t accepted it myself. I mean, let’s face it. I haven’t even had the guts to open his Secret Santa gift to me. I’m afraid that finding a note inside with his handwriting will start me on another crying jag.
Instead, I force my lips into a smile. “Well, let’s see. It’s fourish, so right about now, he should be going to bed after a hard day of auditing some terribly run London bank. If he weren’t so exhausted, I’m sure he’d have called by now. I’ll see if I can reach him tomorrow. Or maybe the next day.”
She doesn’t smile or nod or anything.
All she does is turn her head toward the window, where the real world is passing by.
It’s much less toxic than this fantasy I’m spinning about Jack.
We both know it.
Chapter 17
Roast Beef, Turkey, or Ham? Oh My!
What to serve as the main course on Christmas Day is strictly a matter of taste: yours.
Traditions vary from country to country. Whereas roast goose and suckling pig is the meat of choice in Germany, tamales are served in Honduras. In the Netherlands, prawns are served, whereas Holland feasts on duck, pheasant and rabbit. In Scandinavia, lutefisk and mashed rutabaga will do.
The United States takes its traditional meal from the United Kingdom, where turkey, roast beef or ham finds its way onto the dinner table, along with cranberries, roast potatoes, and Brussels sprouts, with plum pudding or mince pies for dessert.
Your family has its own traditions, which you and future generations carry forward. If you want to make something new or create a new tradition, no doubt your family will appreciate it.
Remember, it is a time to break bread, not crack heads. Bury the hatchet during this joyous and peaceful meal.
Just don’t bury it in someone’s back.
“Here, take a sample of my newest flavor,” Abu says. “I call it ‘lemon coconut.’ Not exactly original, but I’m not Sprinkles or Martha Stewart. I’m a zookeeper. Just look at these animals!”
He’s not kidding. His line of hungry customers wraps nearly around the block.
As I’d predicted, the cupcake truck has been a big hit in the neighborhood. No need to exert energy to get your four o’clock sugar fix when it can come directly to you, right?
“Yum! Lemon coconut?” asks the ever-nosy Cheever. “Hey, how come that one’s not on the menu board?”
Abu frowns down at him from his window. “What, you want another? Jeez, kid, you’ve already had four—and none of them were the vegan ones. Your mom’s going to kill me.”
“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” Cheever flashes that annoying little smirk of his.
“Well, at least save some for your pals.”
“My money is just as green as anyone else’s, ain’t it?”
Abu shrugs. The kid has a point. “Go ahead, pick your poison,” he finally says.
While Cheever peruses the bakery case, Abu hisses at me, “Don’t eat it. When you jump in the car, pop a finger in the center. And remember that time is of the essence.”
After hopping into the car, I lock the door, although I don’t know why. Like most thirty-something wom
en in SUVs, I’m practically invisible to the outside world. Following Abu’s instructions, I break open the cupcake. Inside, an edible note reads:
Yesterday plus 11 / Big Bird / Temp Nest / Lily Bart / at home
Deciphered, that means I’m to go to LAX (Big Bird) tomorrow at eleven o’clock (Yesterday plus 11) to the lost suitcase office (temp nest) and pick up some item under the name of Lily Bart, which is one of my fake IDs. I’m then supposed to drop it back at Acme’s office.
Easy enough to do. And the timing is good, because the kids will be in school.
I’m glad to have something to get me out of the house. Otherwise, all I do is lie in bed and cry over Jack.
And fantasize about ways to torture Carl.
“So, you’re Lily Bart?” The lost-and-found clerk says as he stares at me as if I’ve got a third eye in the middle of my forehead.
I tap the photo on my Lily Bart passport with my index finger. “What you see is what you get.”
The woman stares down at it, then back up at me.
I smile innocently. Shit. What did Ryan send me to get, and why am I getting the third degree?
She shakes her head in wonder. “Huh. Well, you were shorter, younger and blonder five minutes ago, when you asked me to hold onto it until you came back from the ladies’ room.”
“Oh, really? That must have been my sister. We’re twins, just not identical.” I hold my passport next to my face. Obviously I am who I say.”
The clerk shrugs. Giving me grief isn’t worth putting aside People magazine’s expose on Honey Boo Boo. She lumbers over to a shelf and pulls down a candy-apple red zip tote with big black buttons. It’s got a lock on it.
Very nice! Kate Spade. I wonder if Ryan will let me keep it, after he removes the brick inside, which makes the thing so damn heavy.
