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

The baby in the family, Hannah wore her blonde hair long and loose like a teenager and still thought the world revolved around her even though she was about to turn forty.

My brother and I headed for Northern Virginia, just outside of Washington, DC, after college. But Hannah married two losers in a row and remained in Berrysville, Virginia. Fortunately, she turned out to have an uncanny knack for computers, but I wondered if living in the same small town as my parents had sheltered her too much.

I stifled a sigh of frustration and headed for coffee. Less than twenty-four hours with my parents and sister and I already felt like a child again. I was forty-four, a competent, self-sufficient woman. How did they do that to me?

A fire crackled in the stone fireplace in the kitchen, dispelling the November chill. My dad must have lit it. Just being in my kitchen made me feel better.

Antiqued cream-colored Old World cabinets with plenty of glass doors had replaced drab brown ones. The new hardwood floor still gleamed, as did the Madura Gold granite countertops. But the very best part was the stone wall we uncovered when we renovated. Most likely part of the original house, the rough stones were thought to be ballast stones, used to weigh down ships crossing the Atlantic, then discarded in the streets in colonial times. A four-foot-tall fireplace with hooks for kettles made the wall the best feature in the room.

Built in 1825, my house retained its original Federal-style exterior with red brick walls and tall windows. But when Mars and I inherited it from his aunt Faye, the interior had been authentic 1960s flower power. Twiggy would have been at home in the kitchen with orange countertops and faded mod daisy wallpaper.

The heavenly aroma of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon wafted to me, and Mom joined me. I flashed her a grateful smile as I poured coffee into a Spode mug. I couldn’t remember the last time someone else had fixed breakfast.

“Well, anyone can see you’re single again,” she said. “Married women don’t wear flannel pajamas.”

Ah. I’d been married long enough to have forgotten her rules for catching men. I leaned against the kitchen counter and dumped an extra spoonful of sugar into my coffee along with nonfat milk.

Mom, petite and trim, moved the sugar bowl away from me. “Now that you’re single again, you can’t afford to keep eating this way. That sugar will settle right on your hips.”

How many times was she going to say “now that you’re single again”? Would that be her constant refrain?

She handed me a plate with bacon and pancakes. A chunk of butter melted on the top pancake. I could eat this but wasn’t supposed to take sugar in my coffee?

As though she could read my mind, she said, “They’re pumpkin spice pancakes.” Was the bacon made out of pumpkin, too?

“Your aunt Melly made the boysenberry syrup that’s on the table. She was sorry she couldn’t drive up for Thanksgiving, but she and Uncle Fred will join us for Christmas.”

I straightened the picture of Mars’s Aunt Faye that hung over the fireplace, poured syrup on the pancakes, and settled into my favorite armchair by the fire.

Mom busied herself at the sink like the Energizer Bunny. “I didn’t get an invitation to Thanksgiving.”

She was here, wasn’t she? “You’re the one who told me it would be at my house this year. I didn’t think an invitation was necessary.”

“Do you have an extra one? I’d love to see them.”

I didn’t want to spark an argument by telling her I hadn’t sent invitations. It was just family; it wasn’t like they didn’t know where I lived.

“What kind of soup are you serving?”

“Soup?”

“Sophie! Haven’t you worked out a menu yet? You know everyone has high expectations because you throw parties.”

“I don’t throw parties, I plan events.”

“Natasha’s serving squab and leek consommé in hollowed-out acorn squashes.”

“Squab? She’s serving pigeon broth?”

“Not pigeon, squab. Don’t you watch her show? I think it’s very appropriate for Thanksgiving. Where does a person buy squab?”

I had no idea and I didn’t care. The thought of cooking pigeons was revolting. Besides, could anyone really tell the difference between squab broth and chicken broth?

“Natasha smokes her turkey. She did an entire episode on smoking meats.”

Wonderful. Natasha probably had an entire kitchen staff on hand to do it all, too.

“Her mother tells me that Natasha is dying to get her show on a national network. I’m sure it won’t be long before people in California love her as much as we do. That girl perseveres until she gets what she wants.” Mom frowned at me. “Do you always eat in that chair? Just because you’re alone doesn’t mean you should be sloppy.”

I stuffed my mouth with pancake so I wouldn’t be tempted to snarl at her.

“Hannah,” she called into the family room, “are you dressed yet?” She turned back to me. “We’re swinging by Saks because Hannah says they have gorgeous wedding gowns. We’re having lunch in Georgetown and in the afternoon we’ll pick up her fiancé at the airport.” She walked over to me and kissed my forehead. “I’m so glad to see you, sweetie. I know you’re busy with that stuffing contest coming up, but don’t you think you could find time to squeeze in a haircut?”

My mother, the micromanager who’d have had Thanksgiving dinner planned a month in advance, didn’t wait for an answer. I watched her flounce from the kitchen and told myself not to be upset. She lived in a different world.

Dad’s timing, as he settled in the other chair by the fire, made me suspect that he’d been waiting for her to leave. “Are you really over Mars or is that a line you gave your sister to shut her up?” His square brow furrowed in concern.

Dad looked young for a retiree. His dark hair hadn’t thinned much and he’d kept himself in good shape.

“It’s true.” I took a deep breath and mustered up a strong voice and a big grin. “I’ve moved on.”

“You two finally come to a decision about the house?”

“Thank goodness that’s over. It’s all mine now.” I wasn’t about to mention that my savings had dwindled and I’d given up my rights to Mars’s retirement funds. No point in worrying Dad. “I think Natasha still wants to buy it from me . . .”

The picture of Aunt Faye that hung over the fireplace slid to a slant.

Dad looked around. “That’s odd.”

I swallowed the last bite of pancake. “Happens sometimes. Something about the draft from the fireplace, I think. Anyway, it’s not for sale and especially not to Natasha.” My home was the one thing she couldn’t have. I loved the creaky old place with odd drafts that made pictures move and original peg-and-groove floors that canted so anything dropped on the floor in the living or dining room rolled toward the outer wall. And I adored life in Old Town Alexandria, just across the river from Washington, DC. The historic houses and brick sidewalks made it feel like a village instead of a suburb.

I would replenish my savings soon if I could resist the temptation to add a bathroom or renovate the existing one and a half baths. Who was the idiot that started the green-and-black-tile craze? It never was attractive.

It wasn’t as though I didn’t have a decent income as an event planner for A Capital Affair, but I’d taken a hefty mortgage to buy out Mars’s interest in the house.

In a flurry of questions about the best routes to Saks and the airport, Mom reappeared with Hannah, collected Dad, and hurried them out the front door. I watched them from the stoop. A chilly fall wind blew colorful leaves up around them like an image in a snow globe.