A Catered Thanksgiving, page 4
“That was a good one,” Geoff said.
Melissa made a face. “No. It was stupid and unnecessary. You could have burned my jacket.”
“So what?”
Melissa stroked the lapel of her starter jacket. “So, it’s my lucky jacket.”
Geoff snorted. “Give me a break.”
“Seriously. It is.”
“Well, given the way things are going for you these days, maybe you should trade it in at the school rummage sale and get a new one.” Geoff was about to say more when he spied Bernie and Libby and the fallen box. “Oops,” he said, coming to a dead stop.
Melissa, who was slightly behind her brother, bumped into him, which propelled him forward. “What the hell?” Then she saw why her brother had stopped. “Sorry,” she said to Libby and Bernie. “I didn’t know anyone was out here.”
Chapter 4
“I’m so, so sorry,” Geoff said to Libby for the third time. “I didn’t realize you were so sensitive to noise.”
Libby’s cheeks began to burn. She felt like a fool for reacting the way she had. “I’m not,” she retorted. “The noise just startled me.”
“It could be worse,” Bernie said, finding herself to her surprise consoling Geoff, who, she decided, looked like a puppy that had just gotten hit. “Someone could have gotten hurt.”
Libby glared at her. She couldn’t believe her sister was siding with the people who had frightened her. Talk about loyalty.
“Well, it’s true,” Bernie hastily said.
“I told him not to do what he was doing,” Melissa informed Libby as she stood and watched her brother root around in the snow for fallen vegetables. “I told him it was dangerous. I told him it wouldn’t work, but he never listens. He’s always playing around with that stuff.”
Geoff brushed the snow off of a bunch of celery and handed it to Libby before replying to his sister. “I wasn’t playing around,” he objected. “I was trying something new. Pyrotechnics is a competitive business, and you always have to have the next best thing. People get bored with the same old, same old.”
Melissa stuck her hands in the pockets of her jacket to warm them. “That’s fine if you know what you’re doing,” she told her brother.
Geoff brushed a snowflake off the tip of his nose. “Of course I know what I’m doing.”
“No, you don’t,” Melissa retorted.
“I most certainly do. It’s in my blood.”
Melissa pointed to Geoff’s hand, which bore the obvious marks of skin grafts. “Need I say more?”
Geoff scowled. “I was young when that happened, okay.” He turned to Bernie. “I’m more careful now,” he explained. “And, anyway, it’s like the mark of the clan.”
Melissa rolled her eyes. “Puh-lease. Let’s not over-dramatize.”
“Well, it is,” Geoff insisted. “Everyone around here has gotten stung by the dragon and usually more than once. You work with this stuff long enough and it’s gonna happen. That’s just the way it is.”
“Dragon?” Libby asked.
“Explosives,” Geoff clarified.
Melissa rolled her eyes again. “Don’t listen to him,” she told Bernie and Libby. “It’s the mark of stupidity is what it is. He’s lucky to have a hand.”
Geoff gestured toward the bunker with his chin. “Like you haven’t had any accidents in there, Melissa.”
“Not like that I haven’t,” Melissa snapped back. “And you know why? Because I measure. I don’t just throw things together to see what happens.”
“Sounds like cooking,” Bernie noted.
“Well, in a funny way it is,” Melissa replied as she spotted an onion that Libby had missed sitting in the snow by the van. She walked over and picked it up.
As Bernie watched Melissa, she thought once again that at least Libby hadn’t dropped the box with the pies. Thanks be to heaven for that. You could always wash off a vegetable, but you couldn’t reassemble a pie. Or a cheesecake, for that matter.
Melissa held the onion up. “What do you want me to do with this?” she asked.
Bernie nodded toward the back of the van. “Just throw it in one of the cartons.”
Melissa nodded. “That’s a lot of food,” she commented as she inspected the contents of the boxes sitting in the van before tossing the onion into the nearest one.
“What do you expect, sis?” Geoff asked. “After all, there are nine of us and this is Thanksgiving.”
Bernie stopped brushing the snow out of her hair and thinking about how she wanted to get inside the house, where it would be marginally warmer. “Nine?” she said.
“Nine?” Libby repeated, halting her search for the orange bell peppers, which had mysteriously vanished under the snow. “I thought there were only supposed to be six for dinner.” In fact, she knew there were only supposed to be six for dinner. She might make mistakes, but not like that.
Melissa turned and looked at Libby. “There were, but now we have three more coming. Why, is that a problem?” she asked sweetly.
Bernie was just about to say, “Problem? Why should it be a problem? We’ll just snap our fingers and get whatever we need. So nice of you guys to let us know.” But before she could, Libby answered.
“Fortunately not,” she replied after making a mental inventory of the menu.
In truth, it would have been a disaster if they’d been serving single-sized portions of something, like steak, but they were serving an eighteen-pound turkey instead, so three more people wouldn’t be a big deal. In fact, they could feed ten more people if they needed to. And the new dessert Libby was planning on making wouldn’t hurt, either. On the way out of the door she’d decided that the menu needed something a little lighter in the dessert department, which was why she’d grabbed some extra pears, another bottle of red wine, and the brioche that hadn’t sold yesterday.
She was going to poach the fruit in red wine flavored with orange and lemon peel, a touch of cloves, and cinnamon, then reduce the wine and serve the reduction and the fruit over slices of brioche sautéed in butter. That would be quite tasty, actually, and a nice change from the usual holiday fare, although Libby had found that when it came to food and holidays, most people did not like change in their menus—not even the smallest amount. Witness the menu they were serving today. If that wasn’t a poster child for culinary conservatism, she didn’t know what was.
“How much are the extra people going to cost, anyway?” Melissa asked, interrupting Libby’s train of thought. “Because I don’t think I should pay for them, since I haven’t invited them.”
“First of all,” Geoff said, rounding on his sister, “that isn’t these people’s problem. You should talk to Uncle Ralph and Percy about that.”
“Well, I don’t see anything wrong with trying to keep track of money.”
Geoff smirked. “Coming from you, that’s a laugh.”
Melissa drew herself up. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what I said, and money aside, these people are your cousins.”
Melissa sniffed. “I know who they are, for heaven’s sake. I just wonder what they want. I mean, they practically invited themselves.”
“Maybe they want to mend fences with us, Melissa.”
Melissa put her hands on her hips and scowled at her brother. “And maybe it has to do with the business, Geoff. Maybe they want Dad to invest in another of their lame-brained ideas. Have you thought about that?”
“Their last one didn’t do so badly.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“Either way, what difference does it make?”
Melissa gave an incredulous laugh. “It means there will be less for you. What are you? An idiot?”
“First of all, don’t call me names, because I’m not greedy like you.”
“That’s a laugh,” Melissa shot back.
Geoff pointed to the house. “And second of all, lower your voice, Melissa,” he hissed. “They’re inside.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “They can’t hear me.”
“They can if they’re standing near the front bay window. I don’t think you realize how loud your voice is.” Geoff blinked. “Oh, oh,” he said. “Here they come.”
Libby followed his glance. She saw Melissa’s father, Monty Field, coming out of the front door of the house. Two men and a woman followed him. Libby couldn’t help noting the expression of extreme dislike that crossed Geoff’s and Melissa’s faces before they plastered smiles on them. But their eyes still held sparks of hate that they couldn’t conceal as their father and their cousins approached them. This was not, Bernie decided, going to be a pleasant meal people interaction–wise. But at least no one would be able to say anything bad about the food.
“Why are you all standing around like lumps?” Monty Field snapped at his children.
Bernie hadn’t seen him in a long time, and he looked even skinnier than she remembered him. He was wearing an ill-fitting Harris tweed sports jacket that was probably twenty years old, a dingy white shirt, and a pair of corduroy pants that looked to be of a similar vintage to the jacket.
In contrast, Geoff and Melissa’s male cousins were both dressed in expensive suits and sheepskin jackets, while the woman had on a designer puffy jacket, one of those fox Sherlock Holmes–style hats, and enough make-up on her face for a glossy photo shoot. Bernie figured the three cousins to be in their late twenties, early thirties. And whatever business they were in, judging by their appearance, they were obviously doing well.
“Why isn’t the van by the kitchen door?” Field asked his children.
“Because we can’t get there,” Libby replied, answering for Melissa and Geoff.
Field rounded on her. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
Libby blinked. “Excuse me,” she said.
Field waved his hands in the air. “Sorry if I was rude. It’s this dratted weather that’s making me crazy. I hate being closed in.” He turned and pointed a finger at Geoff. “Didn’t I tell you to shovel a path to the kitchen so these people could use the back door?” he demanded. “Isn’t that what I sent you out there to do?”
Geoff gestured toward the snow coming down. “But, Dad, there’s a blizzard out,” he protested.
“So what?” Monty Field shook his head in disgust. “You really are worthless,” he said to his son.
Geoff’s face got red. Bernie could see him clenching his fists.
“And you are, too,” Field said, turning to his daughter. “Can’t you even do a simple thing like shovel properly? Is that too much to ask of you? Evidently it is,” he replied, answering his own question.
Melissa scowled. She put her hands back on her hips. “What’s the point?” she demanded of her father. “It’s snowing too hard. Given the circumstances, that van couldn’t make it to the back door even if there was a path.”
“How do you know if you don’t try?” Field demanded. “Answer me that? That’s right. You don’t,” he said to Melissa, who was now kicking at the snow with her boot.
The taller of the male cousins tapped Monty Field on the shoulder. “Do you want me to shovel?” he asked. “Bob and I would be happy to.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Audie,” Field told him before turning and going back in the house. “You’re my guests. And, anyway, since when have you and Bob ever done anything even remotely like physical labor? You’re too wussy for something like that.”
Audie made clucking sounds with his tongue as he watched Monty Field disappear into the house. “I swear, he gets worse every time I see him.”
“And he wasn’t that good to begin with, right, Greta?” Bob said.
Greta gave a noncommittal grunt.
“I only hope we’re not stuck here tonight,” Bob continued. “I think I’ll die of hypothermia.”
“And boredom,” Audie said. “Monty doesn’t even have cable. He told me it’s not worth the money.”
Greta pursed her lips before carefully rearranging her cashmere scarf around her neck. “Personally,” she said, “I’ve always gotten along with Monty. I don’t understand what the problem is.”
“The reason you get along with him is because you’re his spy and his lackey,” Geoff told her. “You do whatever he wants.”
Greta shrugged. “You can think whatever you want, little man,” she said.
“Little man?” Geoff squeaked.
“Did I say that? Oops.” Greta put her hand to her lips. “I’m sorry. I must have slipped.”
Bob and Audie smirked. Greta turned to them.
“Come,” she said. “There’s no reason for us to be standing here. Let’s go back inside, where it’s warm and dry.” Then she linked arms with the two men and led them toward the house.
Geoff stood there, watching them go, while he clenched and unclenched his fists. “I hate that bitch,” he finally growled just before he stalked off toward the house with Melissa in tow, leaving Bernie and Libby standing in the snow beside the van.
“What now?” Libby asked as she watched the front door slam behind Melissa.
“Now we ring the doorbell,” Bernie said as she grabbed a box and marched through the snow. “Either we go through the front way or we don’t go through at all. I mean, there’s no way I’m walking through the snow with boxes to get to the side door. If they don’t like it, too bad. We’ll just turn around and go home.”
Libby looked at the snow on the ground. It was halfway up the hubcaps. “If we can go home,” she said. “The way things are going, we may be sleeping here tonight.”
“Heaven forbid,” Bernie said, thinking of the people inside the house. “I’d rather sleep in the van.”
Libby sighed. Her feet were cold and her hair was wet. “Don’t even think something like that, much less say it.” She blinked the snow out of her eyes. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all.”
“Maybe not,” Bernie conceded. “But we’re here now.” She glanced at her watch. “Come on,” she told her sister. “Let’s get the show on the road. We’ve got to put the turkey in the oven now. We’re already running late.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Libby said, and she grabbed a box, marched up to the door, and rang the bell.
Chapter 5
Two minutes later Perceval answered the door.
“Sorry, but there’s no way we can use the side entrance,” Bernie told him as she stepped inside.
Libby followed her sister, shutting the door behind her. The hallway floor was marble, while the walls were papered with chinoiserie wallpaper, the kind, Libby knew from reading her sister’s decorating magazines, that cost at least 120 dollars a roll, if not more. A round, inlaid rosewood antique table sat in the middle of the foyer, supporting a large blue and white Chinese porcelain vase filled with an expensive arrangement of exotic blooms.
We should have charged them more, Bernie thought as she took in the whole setup. “Nice flowers,” she observed. “Where did they come from?”
Perceval let out a long sigh. “Bogart’s.”
Bogart’s was one of the premium flower vendors in Westchester County.
Then Perceval sighed again. “Only the best for my brother will do.” And he gestured at the wallpaper.
“So I see,” said Libby, who was also thinking that they should have charged Ralph and Perceval more.
“Usually,” Perceval said, continuing on, “we have people like you—”
Bernie interrupted. “Like me?”
Perceval gave a vague wave in the air. “You know, tradespeople—”
Libby interrupted. “Now, there’s an expression I haven’t heard for a long time.”
Perceval shrugged. “As I was saying, we usually have tradespeople go in the servants’ entrance. However, due to the weather, Monty is prepared to make an exception in this case.”
“How nice of him,” Bernie said, not having gotten over being addressed as “you people.” She could feel her temper flare.
“Uncharacteristically so,” Perceval replied, choosing to ignore the sarcasm in Bernie’s voice.
Libby said nothing, preferring to concentrate on signaling to Bernie that she should let the comments go. For her part, she was just glad to be in out of the snow.
“My brother is really very peculiar about certain things,” Perceval informed them as he studied his reflection in the gilt mirror hanging on the wall. “Obsessively so, really.”
“It’s so quiet,” Libby noted just to have something to say as she wiped her feet on the entrance mat.
Perceval patted his hair down and picked a piece of lint off his jacket before replying. “That’s the way my brother likes it,” he said as he gave his hair another tweak. “Not that the rest of us do,” he confided in a lower voice after looking around to make sure no one was there. “Monty doesn’t even have cable in this place. He says the programming isn’t worth the money. He says it’s all garbage. I feel as if we’re back in the nineteenth century.”
“That’s a drag,” Bernie observed at the same time Libby said, “Sounds good to me.”
Perceval scowled. “I’m definitely on your side,” he told Bernie. He was about to say something else when he heard footsteps. “My brother,” he said, straightening up. “Here. Let me show you the kitchen.” And he set off at a brisk pace, with Bernie and Libby trailing behind him.
As they walked, Bernie noted that the hallway looked like something out of Architectural Digest, with its deep-gloss eggplant-colored walls and ornate gilt mirrors hung every twelve feet or so. The living room and the dining room had been furnished by someone with an English country house fixation. There was chintz on the sofa, leather on the armchairs, oriental rugs on the dark wood floors, and what looked to Bernie’s eyes like a really good selection of paintings hanging on the walls. She was sure she’d seen some of the artists in the Met.
“American Impressionists?” Bernie asked Perceval.
