“In a little while. I think Molly is nearly ready.”
“A professional cook and she takes this long to get the meal out? I’m sure she doesn’t keep her customers waiting this way. She would never stay in business.”
Emily took a bite of a canapé before she answered. It looked like some sort of toasted cheese on a cracker. It did smell appetizing, Lillian had to admit. But she didn’t dare chance it.
“I’m sure dinner will be worth waiting for, Mother. It always is.”
“I might debate that,” Lillian replied, lowering her tone. “But it would hardly be polite.”
“Hardly,” Emily agreed, seeming amused. Lillian resented that look, which was a bit smug. Why did her children find her so awfully entertaining?
Emily was suddenly called away by her husband, Dan Forbes, and Lillian had no chance to ask her.
Lillian contented herself with glancing around at the tall windows, strung with garlands of autumn leaves, and the huge fireplace, its mantel decked with white chrysanthemums and golden candles. Molly Willoughby Harding had done very well for herself, now that she was the most famous cook in town, with a thriving business. This was a fine house, even though it was not to Lillian’s taste. A mini-mansion, she supposed you’d have to call it. Molly had married well the second time around, nabbing herself a doctor, even though she had barely finished high school. But she was smart, no doubt about that. She didn’t start her business on his money either—she did it all on her own.
Who would have imagined she’d get this far way back when? Lillian certainly had not. She knew Molly when she was a cleaning girl . . . her own cleaning girl, in fact.
People can change. Rarely. But some managed it. Still, Lillian was not that impressed. Some might rave about Molly’s cooking, like her daughters and their husbands. But Molly’s recipes were not for anyone dieting or prone to digestive upset. She, for one, would eat sparingly today, and with care. She hoped Ezra would, too, though she doubted that.
She caught her husband’s eye as he rounded the appetizer table, drawing him to her side with a glance.
“Enjoying yourself?” she asked him.
“Yes, I am. At least one of us has to. What are you doing hiding in the corner, Lily? Do you feel all right?”
“I might ask you the same. When did you develop such a passion for football?”
“They call it socializing, dear. You should try it sometime.”
She shrugged and smoothed her skirt. “I’m too old to learn new tricks. You know that. Do you think they’ll shut off that infernal TV during dinner?”
“One of the guests has a son playing on a college team, starting lineup. The game is over. The boy’s team won by one point, with a forty-yard field goal. Very exciting.”
“How interesting . . . rah, rah.” She picked a bit of lint off her sweater.
Ezra laughed and shook his head, then offered her his hand. “Come along. I think you just need some attention. Did you see the place cards? We’ve been seated next to Sara and Luke,” he added, mentioning her oldest granddaughter, who had once lived with Lillian and maintained a close relationship with her. Sara was married now and lived in Boston, where she worked as a reporter for the Boston Globe. Sara’s visits home were a rare treat, for both of them. “That was very thoughtful of Molly.”
“Yes,” Lillian had to agree. Molly probably thought Sara and Luke were the only couple who could tolerate my company, she added silently. But it would be nice to visit with her granddaughter. She and Sara loved to talk books and debate politics.
Lillian took her husband’s arm and allowed him to help her to the table. She actually needed her cane to get around, but hated to be seen using it anywhere outside of her home. Ezra knew that and always obliged without her asking. A true gentleman.
Dinner was ready, and the other guests were seeking their places as well. Ezra found their seats and pulled out her chair.
“Thank you, Ezra,” she said as she sat.
“Not at all.” He pulled out his own chair and sat beside her, gazing around the table with total contentment. “What a lovely table setting, and what a pretty centerpiece. Don’t you think? Everything smells so good. It’s going to be a wonderful dinner.”
She didn’t reply, but she really didn’t have to. Ezra was pleased enough for the both of them. Pleased as punch. She had once thought him a bit of a fool. Well, more than a bit, to be perfectly truthful. But she had long since revised—and even reversed—that opinion. Now she actually envied his ever-sunny disposition. You could drop him in the middle of the Sahara, and he’d praise the sand dunes and sunshine.
Lillian opened her napkin and spread it on her lap. It was going to be a long and trying day for her, but she would put a good face on it. For Ezra’s sake and for her family’s. After all, it was a holiday. She knew she should be thankful just to be celebrating another one, even if she didn’t feel particularly grateful right now. She would be happy when it was over and they were home again, just the two of them, in the quiet sanctuary of their own home. For which she was most sincerely thankful.
Dear God, thank you for my mobility, the invitation to join this party—noisy and confused as it is—and sharing this meal today. Thank you for dear Ezra. I don’t know how he puts up with me. No one else will. And thank you most of all for our home and independence. I pray that we may spend the rest of our days there together.
* * *
LILLIAN WASN’T SURE WHY SHE HAD WOKEN UP. A DREAM, PERHAPS, that she couldn’t remember even as she opened her eyes and got her bearings. She soon realized Ezra was not beside her . . . and not in the bathroom either. She put on her robe and slippers and slowly made her way to the staircase. From the landing, she saw the lights on downstairs and heard the sound of newspapers rattling.
She carefully made her way down and found him in the living room, sitting in a wing chair, working on a crossword puzzle.
“Why are you up, Ezra? Don’t you feel well?”
Ezra shook his head. “A little heartburn, that’s all.”
“I’m not surprised.” She gave him a knowing look, but he ignored her.
“Neither am I. I can’t possibly be the only man in America who’s up right now, feeling as if he ate too well.”
“If you’d passed on that stuffing, like I told you—”
“I wouldn’t be human,” he finished for her. “No stuffing on Thanksgiving? That’s positively unpatriotic, Lillian.”
“It was loaded with sausage and those strange mushrooms she uses.”
“It was delicious, every bite. And so was the second slice of pie. There, I’ve saved you the trouble of scolding me for that, too.”
She sat on the sofa, across from him. “Well, now you’re paying for it. Something’s disagreed with you—maybe just the general mayhem over there. I like a quiet day, the kind I used to host here. Not a big hullabaloo.”
Ezra put his glasses back on and picked up the crossword puzzle. “A little hullabaloo now and again isn’t the worst thing. Gets your blood up.”
“Your blood pressure, you mean.” She sighed and shook her head. “How are we related to Matt and Molly Harding anyway? My son-in-law’s sister? That’s stretching it a bit, don’t you think?”
“You know full well that Jessica’s husband, Sam Morgan, is Molly’s brother. Besides, Matt Harding is a good man and a fine doctor. I trusted him to take over my practice, you may recall. I think that counts for something.”
“A tenuous connection, at best. I, for one, resent the way we’re just dragged along like baggage if we want to spend the day with our real family. Matt may be an excellent physician, but why does he need such a big TV? Shouldn’t the TV screen be smaller than the actual football field?”
Ezra finally looked up from his newspaper, laughing. “Good one, my dear. I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy yourself, but I had a wonderful time. It’s good for us to get out and socialize. I just read the other day that social connections are vital for a long, healthy l
ife. And to keep the gray matter healthy.” He tapped his temple with his pencil.
“So I should regard these events as a necessary evil, like eating my vegetables? Isn’t my conversation stimulating enough to keep your mind keen? You were buzzing around me like an amorous bee for years before we married, for just that reason.”
“I am still buzzing around you, dear. You’re still my queen bee; never doubt it. I’ve been thinking we ought to have a big party for our wedding anniversary this year. It will be four years this coming Valentine’s Day. Did you realize that?”
“Is it that many already? How quickly time passes.”
“When you’re having fun. Don’t forget that part,” he said, catching her eye with a twinkling glance.
Lillian didn’t reply but also could not suppress a small smile. She and Ezra did have fun. A type uniquely their own, which would probably not even seem amusing to anyone else. But they did enjoy their life together. They were so perfectly suited to each other.
She could never understand now why it had taken her so long—so many decades, in fact—to see that. Who else had known her and loved her as long? Or loved her as well? Who else truly understood her or could put up with her many moods the way Ezra did? Not even her own daughters. She and Ezra Elliot had traveled a long road together, and she could still finish the crossword questions he left blank. And he could do the same for her.
“Are you stuck on that puzzle?” she asked suddenly, backing away from her sentimental turn of mind. “Give it here.”
She reached for the folded sheet of newspaper, but he pulled it back, teasing her. “Not so fast. I’m just getting warmed up.”
She sat back, feeling frustrated. He peered at her. “All right, I guess I can use some help. Chatty. Nine letters, ends in S.”
She thought about it for only a moment. “Oh, that’s easy. Garrulous.”
He checked the spaces. “Right on target . . . All right, you take over. I’m going to make some ginger tea. That should settle what ails me.” He rose and rubbed his stomach. “Want some?”
Lillian eagerly took the newspaper and pencil from him, feeling victorious. “I would like some, thank you. With a drop of honey. I bet I can finish this before you come back.”
“Really? I’ll take that bet. Loser cooks breakfast—and washes up.”
“You’re on.” She nodded and focused on the puzzle, knowing that no matter which of them actually won, Ezra would probably make breakfast anyway. He was a far better cook. She had been known to burn water.
With Mrs. Fallon gone these past few days, they had to share the housework. They were quite spoiled, Lillian knew. She looked forward to Mrs. Fallon’s return—was counting the hours, if the truth be told. The house just didn’t seem right without her.
Lillian’s thoughts wandered as she examined the puzzle’s empty spaces. She could see where Ezra had gotten stuck. Thirty-four down. The clue was “steeple,” five letters. The answer had to be “spire.” But it didn’t fit because he had put the wrong answer in thirty-one across.
“I see where you’ve gone off track,” she shouted to the kitchen. “Thirty-one across. It’s ‘poisonous.’ Not ‘pernicious.’ And you’ve spelled it wrong. Otherwise it never would have fit,” she mumbled to herself.
“Are you sure?” He poked his head out the door a moment, then went back into the kitchen. “No wonder I was in a—”
Ezra abruptly stopped talking midsentence.
Lillian sat up alertly, listening. “Ezra . . . what did you say?”
When he didn’t answer, she turned and stared at the doorway, which was now empty.
Then she heard a low gasping sound and a horrendous clatter. It sounded as if a metal pot and even some dishes had crashed to the floor . . . and as though Ezra had fallen, too.
She dropped the newspaper and used both hands to lift herself up off her seat as fast as she was able, not so silently cursing her age and infirmities and the stiffness in her legs that kept her from running to him.
“Ezra? What’s happened? Did you fall?”
She stumbled across the living room, her cane swinging wildly, ignoring a searing pain in her hip and knee, listening for his answer beyond her heaving breath.
All she heard was a long, low moan.
“Dear God! You’ve hurt yourself . . . I’m coming, Ezra . . . I’m right here . . . don’t move a muscle . . .”
Finally, she saw him—sprawled out on the floor, curled on his side, his arm twisted at an odd, painful-looking angle. Blood oozed from a cut on his head where he had struck the edge of something sharp. She tossed the cane aside and kneeled down as best she could next to him. His eyes were closed. She prayed to God he was conscious.
“Ezra . . . ?” She patted his cheek. “Can you hear me? Open your eyes, Ezra, please.”
His eyelids fluttered a moment, then finally opened. “Lily . . . I blacked out. A pain in my chest . . . So sharp . . . it came on me so . . .”
“Don’t try to speak. Save your strength. Just try to stay awake. I’m calling an ambulance. Don’t close your eyes, Ezra. Try to stay awake,” she implored him.
She could see him swallow back another groan as he nodded. Lillian clung to a kitchen chair and then to the edge of the table, slowly levering herself off the floor. She stumbled to the phone and quickly dialed 911.
“I need an ambulance right away. My husband has fallen and I can’t get him up. He may have had a heart attack,” she quickly told the operator.
The dispatcher asked a few questions, and Lillian tried to answer calmly, without losing her temper. “Yes, please. Thirty-three Providence Street. Come to the back door. We’re in the kitchen.”
“The ambulance is on the way, ma’am,” the operator said, and finally Lillian was able to hang up. She walked to the back door and unlatched it, then returned to Ezra.
“They’re coming. It’ll be just a few minutes. Please don’t close your eyes like that.” She walked over to him and, this time, sat in a chair beside his prone body. She would have gotten closer but she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to get up and open the door when the ambulance came. She knew she should call someone else, her daughter Emily probably. But she didn’t want to leave Ezra again. She leaned down and took his hand. His ice-cold touch gave her gooseflesh.
“Can you hear me?” she whispered. “Can’t you open your eyes just a little and look at me?”
He blinked, trying to respond. But finally, his eyes didn’t open.
“Oh, Ezra . . . don’t leave me. Not yet . . . I couldn’t bear it.”
Chapter Two
AS YOU ALREADY KNOW, EZRA, YOUR INJURIES AND THE trauma from the fall are one issue,” Dr. Newton explained. “The heart attack is another—”
“Mild heart attack,” Lillian clarified. “No need to exaggerate the situation.”
“Mother, please. Just let Dr. Newton finish.” Emily gave her a look.
“Go on, Doctor. You were saying?” Ezra prodded him.
“Yes, thankfully, it was a mild heart attack, but it was not the first one, which, as you know, makes any cardiac event more significant. Still, you’re coming along nicely, Ezra. You’ll probably be ready for release on Tuesday. But I strongly advise that you move from here to a rehab center for your recovery.”
Ezra looked surprised by this suggestion.
Lillian was, too. “Do you mean a nursing home?”
“Not a nursing home, no,” Dr. Newton replied carefully. “Though many facilities that provide rehabilitation also have sections that care for permanent residents.”
“Permanent residents, hah!” Lillian nearly spat the term back at him. “Inmates,” she mumbled under her breath.
Emily gave her another look. “Why do you suggest the rehabilitation facility, Doctor? Can you please explain?”
“And how long would I be there?” Ezra asked.
Lillian glanced at him. You’re not going anywhere, she telegraphed with her eyes. She sat back in a chair next to Ezra’s b
ed. He was sitting up against the tilted mattress. Only one tube extended from his arm today. That was a good sign. He had more color in his cheeks, and his voice sounded stronger, too. Pretty good progress for only two days after the fall. And at his age. She had nearly had a heart attack herself when it happened. But here they were, back to fight another day.
Ezra’s grip felt stronger, too, as he took her hand in his and gently squeezed.
“About six to eight weeks,” Dr. Newton replied, “depending on how quickly you heal. From what you and your wife told the home care counselor, it sounds as if there isn’t adequate support at home to fully facilitate your recovery.”
“Oh, fiddlesticks. Speak English,” Lillian snapped. “Aren’t you just trying to say we’re two decrepit codgers who can barely take care of ourselves when we’re healthy, much less when dealing with a setback? Is that it?”
Dr. Newton wasn’t cowed. “Mrs. Elliot, I need to be sure your husband will have the care he needs, which will include daily physical therapy once those casts come off. There’s no question he can get all that in a skilled-nursing facility. I’m not at all sure he can get it at home.”
“That’s true, Mother. Please try to think of what’s best for Ezra,” Emily advised.
Lillian sat back and pursed her lips. Ezra wouldn’t be happy apart from her. That would slow down his recovery as much as anything. Didn’t Emily and this doctor realize that?
“There’s a very good facility in Beverly that may have an opening,” Dr. Newton continued.
“Beverly? How am I supposed to get down there every day—fly on my broomstick?”
Ezra laughed and patted her hand. The doctor looked like he wanted to laugh, too. Emily looked annoyed. “Jessica and I can drive you,” she said. “And I’m sure Sam and Dan will pitch in. We’ll all help.”
“You say that now, but when the time comes, there’s always something more important. Some emergency with the garbage pickup in town or the parking meters. Your sister is the same with her priorities. I know how that goes.”
“Calm down, dear. We’ll figure it out.”
Songs of Christmas Page 3
