Krista Davis - Diva 01 _ Diva Runs Out of Thyme, The

“June! What on earth are you doing here?”

She picked up her bag and walked in.

“Sophie? What’s going on?” I turned to see my mom and dad standing on the stairs.

I shut the door against the cold night. June took off her coat, revealing a fuzzy lilac bathrobe. She hung her coat in the hall closet. “You don’t mind, do you, dear?” She looked up at my parents. “Hello, Inga, Paul.”

The kettle whistled and I ran to silence it before it woke anyone else.

June and my parents followed me into the kitchen.

“Perfect! It’s as though you knew I was coming,” June said. “Have any of your fresh chocolate chip cookies?”

“Of course.” I hauled some out of the freezer, cut the dough into chunks, and popped them into the warm oven.

Mom found china mugs and brewed a holiday tea scented with orange and cloves while Dad threw another log on the fire.

June nestled into one of the fireside chairs and Mochie jumped into her lap. My parents watched her curiously.

“You must think me audacious,” she said, “but I couldn’t stand another minute with that woman. Can you imagine, all I wanted was to put the kettle on for tea and she flew into a rage.”

“Natasha?” asked my dad.

“Every night I pray that Mars won’t marry her. Acted like I was an old coot who couldn’t do anything right. That kitchen of hers belongs in a restaurant. Cold. I think everything in it came from Italy. So many buttons and gauges you can’t tell what’s what. Not like this kitchen where you can settle in and get cozy. Everything about her is cold. Do you know she put plastic under my sheets because she thought I would wet the bed?”

“That doesn’t sound like her at all. Natasha puts a lot of stock in being a gracious hostess,” said Mom.

“You’re welcome to stay with us, June,” I assured her.

“I told her I was going to a hotel, but I didn’t think you’d mind. I’m so much more comfortable in my sister’s home.”

Her words stung even though I didn’t think that was her intent. It was her sister’s house. Maybe Mars should have bought me out and kept it in his family. Just because I liked it didn’t give me special rights to it.

The cookies and tea calmed June. It was creeping up on one in the morning and we were all bushed. Everyone said good night and I carried June’s luggage up to a second-floor guest room with an antique canopy bed that was too big for it. As she sat on the bed, June ran her hands over the coverlet. “Faye always let me sleep in here. There’s something special about this room. Reminds me of a fancy bed-and-breakfast.”

Bidding her good night, I tiptoed downstairs in the dark, trying to avoid squeaky spots on the stairs. With all the commotion, I thought I’d better check to be sure the fire had died down and that I had locked up. After hooking the chain securely on the front door, I shuffled into the kitchen.

Golden embers glowed against the ashes like demonic eyes. In their fading light I made out a horrifying, misshapen face pressed against the window of the kitchen door.

EIGHT

From “THE GOOD LIFE”:

Dear Sophie,

Every year my wife is a basket case trying to make everything perfect for the holidays. Do you have any advice to help her?

—Anxious in Alexandria

Dear Anxious,

Thanksgiving is one of those holidays when people want traditional fare. Your wife doesn’t have to knock herself out coming up with new gourmet twists. Turkey, cranberries, stuffing, and pie. The basics are what most people yearn for. And a lot of those can be prepared in advance.

Besides, no one will remember the perfect Thanksgiving anyway. Five and ten years from now, family and friends will be laughing over the time the turkey burned and you had to order in Chinese food. Or the impossibly hard biscuits Aunt Beth insisted on making every year. All the perfect food will be long forgotten.

Your wife should relax and enjoy herself. It’s the mishaps and the funny incidents that create the best memories.

—Sophie

It clawed at the door and released a mournful wail. I shrank from the sounds before I realized there was something familiar about them. Daisy. But whose face was pressed against the glass?

“Daisy?” I whispered.

More scratching.

Had I been alone I would have been more cowardly about opening the door. All sorts of dire thoughts ran through my head. Maybe Mars had grabbed Daisy and run away from Natasha, too. Maybe the Peeping Tom was back. Or maybe someone had kidnapped Daisy and wanted a ransom. None seemed likely.

I opened the door a crack and Daisy barged in with hound-style enthusiasm, wagging her tail, which in turn wagged her entire back end. She rushed at me, pawing the air.

I grabbed her wriggling body in a big dog hug. To my complete surprise, Mars’s old college chum, Bernie, stood in the doorway.

“Is everything okay?” I asked. “It’s the middle of the night.”

In his delightful British accent he replied, “Natasha was trying to impress some stuffed shirts tonight, and I believe she was trying to hide me. So I snagged the other mongrel without the right pedigree and here we are.”

I’d always liked Bernie, but he was a bit of a wild card. Bawdy, likely to blurt the thing everyone was thinking but was too polite to say, and generally unemployed. His sandy hair was always tousled and he usually looked as though he’d just rolled out of bed or left a pub after a rowdy night of drinking.

I grinned. Bernie probably didn’t realize that Natasha didn’t have much of a snazzy pedigree herself. Her father abandoned the family when Natasha was only seven, leaving her mother to support them by working long days at the local diner in our hometown.

“Daisy offered to share her dog bed with me if I’d bring her home to you.” He tilted his head like a questioning puppy.

“No need to share. That tiny bedroom on the third floor is still available or you can bunk on the pullout sofa in Mars’s old den.”

“The den by all means. Mars didn’t happen to leave any good Scotch in there, did he?”

Mochie scampered into the kitchen.

“Good gods. A kitten!”

It was too late to lunge for Daisy. Bernie and I froze, waiting for hissing, barking, and the inevitable chase that would wake everyone.

Mochie lifted his tiny head to sniff Daisy’s saggy hound jowls. Daisy stepped back, unsure what to think of the little interloper.

When Daisy didn’t pose a threat, Mochie jumped up onto the table to investigate Bernie.

“What a scamp. I’ve only known one cat who wasn’t afraid of dogs. My mother’s fourth husband owned a farm in England and there was a yellow barn cat who bossed the dogs around. Amazing to watch, really.” He scratched Mochie under the chin. “I bet you wouldn’t even be afraid of Natasha.”

I brought Bernie towels and linens and he took to Mars’s old den as though he planned to stay awhile.

Mochie and Daisy followed me to my second-floor bedroom and curled up on the bed, albeit on opposite ends.

On Thanksgiving morning, I slept later than I should have for a person with a house full of guests. Neither Daisy nor Mochie was in the bedroom when I woke. I showered in a rush and pulled on a pumpkin-colored sleeveless turtleneck, beige trousers, and a sweater embroidered with fall leaves. The kitchen would be hot today with both ovens going. I figured I could shed the leafy sweater to keep cool.

I found my guests in the sunroom, which had heated nicely in spite of the crisp weather. The brick floor warmed my feet.

Daisy stretched out next to Bernie, whose bare calves jutted out from under a flannel bathrobe. Daisy didn’t bother to get up but her tail flapped on the floor when she saw me. I bent to tickle her tummy.