Рита Браун - Santa Clawed

Harry parked her truck behind Susan’s Audi station wagon and Racquel’s sparkling new Range Rover. She hastened to the front door, picked up the pineapple brass door knocker, and gave two sharp raps.

Jean opened the door. “Harry, come on in. Cold, isn’t it?”

“Does bring a tingle to the toes,” Harry agreed as she shed her coat, which Racquel hung in the small cloakroom.

Harry then handed her hostess a small, nicely wrapped Christmas present.

“Harry, you shouldn’t have.”

“It’s a small thing, but you’ll use it.” Harry had found some Crane paper with a gold pineapple on it.

Jean loved pineapples as the symbol of hospitality, plus she liked eating them.

Harry had also found some special stationery for Racquel, from the firm Dempsey Carroll. Whereas Jean’s paper was cream, Racquel’s was stark white with a green grasshopper at the top. Racquel liked drinking grasshoppers. Of late, Racquel liked drinking.

Harry would give Susan her gift on Christmas Eve.

Ushered into the dining room, which was Williamsburg in inspiration, Harry hugged and kissed everyone. Women have to make a fuss or everyone assumes something is wrong.

She handed Racquel her gift as she sat down. Her place was marked by a card executed with perfect penmanship and held up by a tiny brass pineapple.

“Jean, thanks for doing this, and at Christmas no less. Your tree is gorgeous.”

Harry noticed that Jean had put her own card next to Harry’s. As they were four and on good terms, no need for Jean to head the table. She was quite sensitive and proper about these things.

“I’ll admit this to you. I hate stringing lights on a tree, and Bill makes such a fuss... well”—she didn’t need to mention how this could sour a holiday—“this year I hired two women to purchase a tree to my specifications and to decorate it.Victorian.”

“It’s stunning.” Susan sipped her white wine. “Given that I have slave labor”—she meant her children, who were adults now—“I put them to work. What a mean mother I am.”

They laughed because Susan, a devoted mother, had proved smart enough to know when to cut the apron strings.

Lunch started with a salad. Harry loved the tiny mandarin oranges. Next came a hot potato soup in homage to the season, and that, too, was delicious. Then Jean served the main dish, which was sliced capon with a light currant sauce, wild rice, and snow peas.

The four ate with enthusiasm. Harry, although not a gourmand—a hamburger girl, really—did appreciate that such a meal took time and thought, plus it tasted wonderful.

By the time dessert came, called “the Bomb” by Racquel, life was good. The Bomb proved to be a round ball of chocolate chip ice cream on a thin brownie with raspberry sauce drizzled over it.

“Do you call it the Bomb because it looks like a cannonball?” Susan inquired.

Racquel, on her second glass of crisp white wine, laughed. “No.The calories. It will just bomb your diet to bits.”

“Honey, you don’t have to worry about that,” Susan complimented Racquel, who was five foot eight and rigorous about her appearance.

“You’re too kind. Middle age...” She paused. “Let’s just say when your metabolism changes you have to be vigilant.”

“Oh, Racquel, you’ve been dieting since college,” Jean, who was five foot two and tiny- boned, teased her. “Then when you had Tom and Sean you were sure you’d turn to fat. And look at you.”

Racquel soaked up the praise but pretended she didn’t deserve it, which she did. “We all aspire to keep trim like Harry.”

“Easiest diet in the world: work on a farm,” Harry said.

“How’s the vineyard doing?” Jean politely asked.

“Well, you can’t harvest the first year, but I had a bumper crop. Of course, without Patricia Kluge’s guidance, I think I would be sending out engraved invitations to my first nervous breakdown,” Harry said.

Susan added, “When Mother Nature is your partner, who knows?”

“Bryson and I visited Patricia’s vineyards at harvest time. I can’t believe how much she and Bill have done.” Racquel mentioned Bill Moses, Patricia’s husband.

“He always says he’s the only Jewish acolyte in Virginia.” Harry laughed.

Patricia worshipped at a small Catholic church built on the estate. Bill always attended with her. Like many people not born to the Church of Rome, he found some solace in the ritual while sidestepping the dogma.

“This entire state is in Felicia Rogan’s debt.” Racquel lifted her glass to the woman who, as imposing as Juno herself, had revived the wine industry in Virginia, an occupation begun by Dr. Thomas Walker before the Revolution.

The Revolution, the War of 1812, and finally the War between the States, sixty percent of which was fought on Virginia soil, destroyed whatever progress had been made by vintners. One remarkable woman named Felicia Rogan changed all that in the 1970s, with vision, drive, and tenacity.

“I dream about a tiny vineyard but, you know, we can never leave town. Bryson needs to be close to the hospital,” Racquel lamented.

“Do you ever miss it?” Susan asked.

“The hospital? Being a nurse?” Racquel’s large domed gold ring caught the light.

“Yes,” Susan affirmed.

“Funny you ask that. In some ways, I do. I like the operating room. The adrenaline, the tension. It sounds crazy, but that appealed to me. You can’t think of anything but what needs to be done. When you’re finished, you’re exhausted, but you feel you’ve made a small difference in the world.”

Finally, they couldn’t stand it anymore.

Racquel said, “Isn’t it odd that we spoke of Christopher Hewitt when we made the wreaths and then . . . well, you know. What could we have done?”

Susan immediately said, “He cost some people millions with the fiasco in Phoenix.”

“We may never know. Best to let the sheriff do his job,” Jean replied thoughtfully.

“I suppose.” Racquel hooted. “But, you know, what has occurred to me is that families are so vulnerable when one of their own is dying. Yes, the order does provide care and comfort. Bryson tells me about it. There may be Christian love involved but I think that order is becoming rich. I thought they took vows of poverty.”

“Never thought of that.” Harry hadn’t, either.

“Like pocketing some donations?” Susan couldn’t think of anything else.

“What an awful thought.” Jean’s hand flew to her heart.

“Cure the disease and there go the profits.” Racquel’s eyes narrowed. “If a disease is manageable, then profits soar.”

“Do you really believe that?” Harry was aghast.

“I do. Susan, you asked if I miss nursing? What I didn’t say is I don’t miss the utter corruption of medicine by pharmaceutical companies and insurance companies. And let’s not forget our precious government, which believes it, too, can dictate to medicine. Bryson can hardly practice anymore. It’s utterly insane and so corrupt it turns my stomach. And, trust me, the vested interests protect themselves just like the oil companies. There isn’t one scrap of concern for the public welfare. It’s all profit- driven.” She paused, somewhat surprised at her own vehemence. “When Tom was born I could retire, so to speak. If I’d stayed in medicine, I think one day I would have shot off my mouth and hurt my husband’s career.”