Merry blushed—hard—but she refused to drop the subject. “Dolly, you don’t understand about my parents…”
“What’s to understand? You love them, don’t you?”
Merry made a face.
Dolly whapped Merry with one of the pillows—gently, but hard enough to make her point.
“Yeah. I guess.” Merry sighed.
“And they love you, don’t they?” Dolly persisted.
“I assume so,” Merry allowed, “though sometimes it’s hard to tell.”
Dolly didn’t smile. “You ought to know better than that, child. They just flew halfway around the world to see you, didn’t they?”
To scold me, Merry thought. To bend me to their will. “It’s complicated,” she said.
Dolly rolled her eyes. “When isn’t family complicated?”
Right. Dolly had a troublesome family member of her own breathing down her neck in the person of one John Dixon. I need to get my head out of my ass and remember I’m not the only person in the world with problems. And mine are the kind plenty of people would be glad to have.
“Seems to me you’ve got yourself a golden opportunity to straighten things out, child,” Dolly said, interrupting her thoughts. “Whatever’s between you and them, if you don’t work it out now, I guess you never will.”
I could have lived with that, Merry thought. But there was no help for it now. “I hear you, Dolly, and I appreciate what you’re trying to do. I just don’t want them to ruin your holiday, is all.”
“Way I see it, the only one fixing to ruin the holiday is you, child, if you don’t adjust that attitude. So slap on a smile and help me make your folks feel welcome.”
Merry plastered a hideous grin across her face. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
* * *
My mother ruined Thanksgiving.
A woman of unparalleled grace, charm, and breeding, she is also the last person you want in your kitchen. (Sorry, Mom, but it’s true.)
Or your mudroom, in the chill confines of which Dolly had left the turkey to brine. Apparently the vinegary scent of the mixture—Dolly’s patented secret recipe—proved too much for my mother’s nostrils in the night, and she left the exterior door open to ventilate the hacienda.
Someone—or—something—took this as an invitation to abscond, Grinch-style, with the gobbler.
There was only one thing for it. Café Con Kvetch.
* * *
“I’m dreadfully sorry, Mrs. Cassidy,” Gwendolyn said. “I’m afraid I’ve spoiled your festivities.”
They were gathered in the hacienda’s kitchen, staring out into the mudroom at the remains of the brining bag that were scattered, reeking of apple cider vinegar, across its floor. Of the turkey itself, there was no trace.
In addition to their mortified expressions, Pierce and Gwendolyn had on matching dressing gowns in maroon quilted silk. It was scarcely dawn, the light just peeking over the snowcapped mountains, the air cold enough to make Merry, clad only in Sam’s hastily donned red union suit, shiver uncontrollably. Sam, in just jeans and the Carhartt jacket he’d snatched up at the sound of Gwendolyn’s screams, chafed Merry’s arms to warm them. He started to give her the jacket, but Merry shook her head sharply, giving him a warning look. She had no desire to scandalize her parents with the sight of Sam’s brawny naked chest. Pierce and Gwendolyn hadn’t questioned the sleeping arrangements last night, and Merry wasn’t eager to announce she was shacking up with her host’s nephew—if the union suit hadn’t already given it away. We’ve got enough to deal with around here, she thought. Hardly need Dad grilling my boyfriend about his prospects and intentions.
The fact that Sam was—or wanted to be—her boyfriend, was still far too new. But pretty awesome, Merry had to admit. Unable to help herself, she leaned subtly into him. Sam leaned back, just as subtly, but she had a feeling she wasn’t fooling her sharp-eyed mother. After the night they’d shared, Merry was lucky the hobbit hole was halfway across the ranch, or her parents would have gotten an earful. Instead, they’d woken to an earful of Gwendolyn’s even more impressive screeches, along with the howling of wild animals fighting over Dolly’s heritage turkey.
“Thought I heard the call of the wild Hollingsworth Manning,” said Marcus, wandering through the front door sporting a wifebeater and low-slung pj bottoms. “What’s cooking?” He yawned, looking over their shoulders to survey the crime scene.
“Not us, apparently,” Merry muttered. She yanked Marcus’s pj’s up before he could moon them all, and he returned the favor with a wedgie that made her yelp and dance away. “Quit it,” she whispered, smacking his arm. “This is serious business.”
“If you wanted to be taken seriously, you should’ve worn something a little less Honey Boo Boo,” he said. “So what’s going on? Heard a noise outta Mom I didn’t think was humanly possible.”
“It was the most ungodly cackling sound,” Gwendolyn said, one hand held to her throat. “Just like those jackals—remember, Pierce, when you were stationed in Egypt and we spent the night bivouacked in the Valley of the Kings? On our honeymoon?”
“How could I forget?” Pierce said, his expression saying he remembered the occasion fondly. “It did sound like jackals.”
“Coyotes,” Sam corrected. “They’re all over the place round here.”
Gwendolyn tied the sash of her dressing gown tighter around her waist. “I’d no idea,” she murmured. “Of course, I should have realized, we’re so far from civilization…”
Merry winced at her mother’s snobbery, but neither Dolly nor Sam blinked an eye.
“You weren’t to know about the coyotes,” Dolly said to Gwendolyn. Already dressed for the day in a flowered cotton shirt and corduroy pants, she was also wearing what Merry had come to know as her “brave face.”
“When I went out to investigate,” Pierce explained, “I saw a pack of animals running away, carrying the turkey with them. It was too late to intervene, I’m afraid, and I don’t suppose they’d have listened to reason even if I’d had my wits about me to sit them down at the negotiating table.” He smiled at his own joke.
“We had the occasional fox at Father’s hunting lodge,” Gwendolyn added apologetically, “but they’d never be so cheeky as to run off with one’s supper.”
“We’ll just run down to the market and buy another turkey,” Pierce offered, patting his wife’s shoulder. “There’ll still be time, won’t there, if us boys head off now for the store?”
Dolly sighed. “Nearest grocery’s a forty-minute drive, and it’s closed for the holiday anyhow. I got my bird from a fella who raises ’em on his spread across the valley, but he’ll have sold ’em all by now, even if we had time to slaughter and pluck a new one.”
Gwendolyn looked a bit green.
“What if we ate at that café we passed on the way in yesterday?” Marcus asked. “I think I saw a sign that said they’d be open for the holiday.”
Now Dolly looked green.
“I think it’s a great idea!” Merry said. “I’m sure Bob would be happy to have us. And Thanksgiving is all about mending fences, after all…right, Dolly?”
Dolly was all too aware of Merry’s meaning. “Touché, child,” she murmured. “Sam, why don’t you call over there once the sun’s more up, and tell Bob to expect six more for supper.” She headed for the sink. “Meanwhile, who’s for coffee?”
Four hands shot up, and four sets of eyes stared at Dolly like dogs begging for a treat. “Alrighty then. Tea for you, Gwen?” Dolly asked.
“If you have it,” Gwendolyn said, not correcting Dolly’s use of the diminutive, though it looked like it cost her. Points for class, Mother, Merry thought. But then, class had never been Gwendolyn’s issue. Warmth, on the other hand…
“While it’s brewing, you might like to put on some clothes,” Dolly said, eyeing Merry’s union suit and Sam’s bare chest. Merry blushed.
“Excellent idea for all of us,” Pierce said heartily. “Come, darlin
g, let’s make ourselves scarce.” They decamped. Marcus seemed in no hurry to take off, however. He was too busy trying to sneak pics of Merry’s onesie with his phone, which he’d had tucked in his pajama pocket.
“That goes for you too, Crest Commercial,” Dolly said tartly. “Quit cluttering up my kitchen and go get decent. I got Jane coming over in a bit to check on the new cria, and I don’t want you upsetting her with all that handsomeness.” She ignored his baffled expression and shooed him out the door. “Go on now.”
It was a less disheveled Manning clan that reconvened around the kitchen table an hour later. Dolly was doling out flapjacks adorned with fresh fruit, maple syrup, and homemade whipped cream, and an enormous rasher of bacon sat in the middle of the table.
Sam dove in, and Merry couldn’t blame him. It had been a very active twenty-four hours, after all. Pierce, too, helped himself to a healthy portion, eyes alight with pleasure at the homely fare.
“Your cholesterol, dear,” murmured Gwendolyn, placing a hand on his wrist.
“My cholesterol is on vacation, dear,” he said, stuffing a bite of pancake in his mouth.
She tsked, but she left him to it.
“None for you, Gwennie?” Dolly asked.
“Oh, no thank you. I don’t eat…” She waved at the stack of crisp, golden goodness.
“Mother doesn’t eat anything that tastes good,” Merry explained.
“Meredith, please…” Gwendolyn sighed.
“Well, you can’t go all morning on an empty stomach,” Dolly exclaimed.
Merry was fairly certain Gwendolyn had gone the better part of the nineties on an empty stomach.
“Come now. What can I make you, Gwen honey?”
“Perhaps just some egg whites if you have them, Mrs. Cassidy.”
“Sure, I can do that,” she said, “if you’ll call me Dolly like I asked. But what about you?” she asked Marcus, whose plate was also empty. “You on hunger strike as well?”
“My trainer says carbs are off-limits until after the 2(x)ist shoot next month.” Merry could swear tears were gathering in Marcus’s eyes.
“I don’t see any trainers at this table, young man,” Dolly said, waving a thick, perfectly fried slice of bacon under his nose.
“Hm, that’s true.” He perked up. “Fuck it!” A second later his plate was packed full.
“Language, darling.”
“Shorry, Muffer,” Marcus said around a mouthful that threatened to choke him. “Oh mah gah, thish ish so fugging goo.”
There was silence for the next few minutes while the Mannings masticated. Merry, having little appetite, fiddled with her fork, then caught her mother’s reproving expression and set it back down. For good measure she removed her elbows from the table. “So,” she said brightly, “when are you all headed home?”
Sam choked on his pancake.
“We have family business to discuss before anyone goes anywhere, Merry,” Pierce said. “We’ve been patient while you’ve sorted yourself out, but now it’s time to make decisions. It can’t be put off any longer.”
“Pierce, darling, I hardly think it’s proper to discuss this in front of the Cassidys,” Gwendolyn murmured.
“No,” Merry said. Her gut was churning. “I’ve got no secrets from Sam and Dolly—or if I do, I don’t want to anymore.” She took a deep breath. “Truth is, Sam, I’m worth twelve million dollars.”
Sam swallowed his bite, took a sip of coffee. “That a fact?”
“Well, that’s what I’m worth if I play Mother’s game. If I leave the Last Chance and never come back.” Merry’s voice was rising, but she couldn’t seem to control it. “If I spend the rest of my life raising money to renovate drafty old castles in Cornwall and sipping martinis with her bridge partners or betting on polo matches with Dad’s diplomat cronies.”
“Meredith! Is that what you think of us?”
“She did kinda hit the nail on the head, Mom,” Marcus said, chomping more bacon.
Merry shot him a look. “Not helping, Banana Hammock.”
“Just sayin’.”
“Marcus, this is between your sister and us. You’ve already made your decision about your bequest.”
“Cool,” he said, rising from the table with lazy grace. “I’ll be off then. Got about ten thousand crunches to do if I’m going to work off all those pancakes. Great grub, Dolls,” he said, flashing Dolly his signature smile as he made to leave.
“Marcus, stay,” Pierce said in his nonnegotiable voice. “Merry, we’ll discuss this with the gravity it deserves—and in private—after the holiday.”
“There’s nothing to discuss, Dad,” Merry said. Her hands were shaking, her breath coming fast and tight. She felt as if she were standing at the top of some insanely steep chute she’d never skied before, preparing to hurl herself into the unknown. Come and get me, debt collectors, she thought. Here goes nothing! “I’ve made my decision,” she told them. “I’m not taking the money. And I’m not coming home.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Meredith. You need this!” Gwendolyn snapped. Then she shut her mouth, mortified at having been caught arguing over something so gauche as money in front of outsiders. “Pierce, talk some sense into your daughter.”
“We’ll have plenty of time to talk everything over at the appropriate time and place,” he said soothingly. “Right now, how about we focus on accepting the gracious hospitality of our hosts while we’re at the Last Chance?”
“We’re happy to extend it, for as long as you care to stay.” Sam slugged back the last of his coffee and rose from the table, freeing them all from the awkward tableau. “Delicious breakfast, Aunt Dolly. How about I help clear?”
“No, you go on and look in on the critters.” Dolly paused. “Actually, now that I think on it, since we’ve got the morning unexpectedly free, why don’t we all show Merry’s folks around the ranch? Jane’ll be here in a moment to check on little Bill.”
Merry winced. After the scene she’d just made, she’d rather hide in a pile of llama beans than hang around with her parents in Dolly’s barnyard. “Oh, I’m sure they wouldn’t care to…I mean, Mother hasn’t got the shoes for it, and I’m sure Dad wouldn’t want to slog around…”
“We’d be delighted, Mrs. Cassidy,” Pierce answered for all of them.
This will not end well, Merry thought.
“Alright then, go get suited up for the outdoors, folks. Looks to be a beautiful day for it.”
“Beautiful day for what?” asked a voice from the doorway.
“Jane—right on time.” Dolly smiled at her friend. “Everybody, this-here’s Jane Kraslowski, our resident vet, and the reason my fluffies stay that way. Jane, these are Merry’s parents, Pierce and Gwennie—”
“Gwendolyn,” Gwendolyn gritted.
“I didn’t know you had parents, Merry.” Jane grinned.
“Seems I do,” Merry said, cheered by the sight of her friend. “A brother too. That spaz over there is Marcus.”
“Right, I think you mentioned him once.” Jane’s gaze barely glanced off the supermodel. “C’mon, let’s go see about that cria.”
And out they trooped, into the barnyard.
Thanksgiving might have started with an unfortunate incident, but there soon proved something to be grateful for. A mystery was solved this morning. And it was my darling brother Marcus who proved the catalyst.
“Merry, can I ask you something?” he whispered to me. We were touring the ranch with our parents, Dolly, Jane, and Sam leading the way, but Marcus held me back with a hand on my arm as the others kept going. “You’re going to think I’m crazy, but…is that cabin haunted?”
My mouth dropped open. “Why, what did you see?”
“It wasn’t seeing, so much, as, um…I don’t know…smelling. Hearing things.” My sibling shook his head. “It was dark, so I couldn’t tell what was going on, but, ah, something was definitely with me overnight. I could hear some sort of…snuffling. And something stank. And when I woke up,
all…” He stopped.
“All what?” (I couldn’t wait to hear.)
He squirmed. “All my, er, underwear was gone.”
I stifled a laugh. “The 2(x)ist samples they sent you?” (Marcus was to be the face—and more importantly body—of their newest campaign.)
Marcus blushed. “Um, yeah. I mean, they weren’t my favorite or anything—even I think there should be limits on how teeny a guy’s bikini should be—but it’s kinda freaky, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I’d say that qualifies as freaky,” I replied. “But not as freaky as that.” I pointed to the goat pen we were approaching.
And to the baby goats who were, with evident delight, munching on his multicolored banana hammocks.
In the midst of her offspring, proud as a mama could be, stood Betty White.
Wearing a pair of Marcus’s panties on her head.
It all made sense now. It wasn’t a poltergeist who’d been haunting the cabin. It was a poltergoat.
* * *
“You doing alright, honey?” Sam asked, pulling her aside as they continued their rounds. The sun was beaming down on a scene of such bucolic splendor one could almost hear Edvard Grieg’s Peer Gynt playing. The alpacas were frolicking, the goats were pronking, and the llamas looked on languidly as they chewed their cud. The air was fresh and crisp as only New Mexico could scrub it, and snow frosted the distant mountains, sharp against the cloudless blue sky.
Ah, go fuck yourself, Merry told the day.
“Not even a little bit,” she told Sam. She dug her hands into her hair, ready to tear out chunks. “Jesus, Sam, why did they have to come here? I was just starting to feel good about myself. It’s like they’ve got a sixth sense that tells them when I’m about to have some self-esteem, so they can swoop in and obliterate it.” She kicked a clump of cholla, then regretted it when the spines stuck in her boot.
Last Chance Llama Ranch Page 37
