The Mistletoe Promise (8 page)

CHAPTER

Twelve

Even in the darkest of days there are oases of joy. And there’s usually pie.

Elise Dutton’s Diary

As a rare gesture of magnanimity, Mark closed the office two hours early on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. On the way home from work I stopped at the grocery store for pie ingredients. It had been years since I’d made pies. I unearthed the old cookbook my mother had written her pie secrets in; that cookbook was one of the few possessions I got after my mother’s death.

Before settling in to bake I put the Mitch Miller
Holiday Sing Along
CD on my stereo to set the mood. The truth was, I was already in a good mood. It seemed that I always was when I was about to see Nicholas.

Nicholas arrived at my apartment a little before six. I had finished making all the crusts, and the cherry and apple pies were in the oven, along with a baking sheet spread with pecan halves.

“I got here as soon as I could,” he said apologetically. He carried a paper coffee cup in each hand, and a large white plastic bag hung from the crux of his arm. He breathed in. “It smells heavenly.” He handed me a cup. “I got you a salted caramel mocha.”

“How do you always know what I want?”

“It’s easy. I find the sweetest thing on the menu and order it.”

“You’ve pretty much got me figured out,” I said.

“It’s probably sacrilege, but I brought us Chinese for dinner. I got wonton soup, sweet and sour pork, walnut shrimp, and pot stickers.”

“Which will all go nicely with pumpkin pie,” I said. We walked into the kitchen. Nicholas set the bag of Chinese down on the table.

“So, I’m making apple, cherry, pumpkin, and pecan,” I said. “The apple and cherry are already in the oven. They’re just about done.”

Nicholas examined the latticework on my apple and cherry pies through the oven window. “Those are works of art,” he said. “Where did you learn to make pies?”

“My mother. She was famous for her pies. Well, about as famous as you can get in Montezuma Creek. She won a blue ribbon for her cherry pie at the San Juan County fair. It was the only prize she ever won. She hung it in the living room next to my father’s bowling trophies.” I opened the oven and took out the pies, setting them on the counter to cool. “I don’t have a lot of happy memories from my childhood, but when she made pie, life was good. Everyone was happy. Even my father.”

“My mother always made pies at special times,” Nicholas said, “like the holidays or special family get-togethers. But my favorite part of pie making was after she was done and
she would take the leftover dough, sprinkle it with cinnamon and sugar, then bake it.”

“I know, right!” I said, clapping my hands. “Piecrust cookies. They’re the best. Which is why I made extra dough.”

“You’re going to make some tonight?” Nicholas asked.

“Absolutely,” I said. “When the pies are done.”

“So, what fat do you use for your crust? Butter, shortening, or lard?”

“My mother was old school. She said that lard made the flakiest piecrust. She thought butter was lazy and shortening was a sin. She was religious about it.”

“People get a little fanatic about pies,” Nicholas said.

“I’m just getting ready to mix the pecan pie filling. Would you mind getting the pecans out of the oven? The mitts are right there.”

“On it,” he said.

While he brought the baking sheet out of the oven, I mixed the other ingredients.

“Where do you want the pecans?” he asked.

“Go ahead and pour them in here,” I said.

“The pecans rise to the top?”

“Like magic.”

In the end I made four regular-size pies for Thanksgiving as well as two tart-size pies—one pecan, one pumpkin—for us to eat with our dinner.

After the last of the pies were in the oven, we sat on the floor in the living room and ate our Chinese food with chopsticks. This was followed by the small pies for dessert and piecrust cookies as a post dessert with decaf coffee.

As I finished my coffee I lay back on the carpet. “I’m too full for Thanksgiving dinner.”

“No, we’re just stretching out our stomachs to get ready for Thanksgiving dinner,” Nicholas said.

“That’s a brilliant excuse for gluttony,” I said.

“My father used to say that,” he said. “He used to make a big breakfast Thanksgiving morning.”

“I bet your mother loved that.”

“Oh yeah, a dirty kitchen to start with.”

“Thanks for bringing us dinner,” I said. “What was the name of that restaurant?”

“Asian Star,” he said. “And it was nothing. If I’d known you were such a good cook, I would have added a clause in the contract requiring you to cook for me.”

“You didn’t have to,” I said. “I’m happy to cook for you whenever you want.”

“There’s an open-ended commitment,” he said. “Speaking of commitments, how is the contract going?”

“Our contract?”

“The Mistletoe Promise,” he said.

I wondered why he was asking. “I think it’s going very well.”

“So you’re glad you signed?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he said.

We decided to watch television as we waited for the last of the pies to bake. I turned the lights out, and we sat next to each other on the couch. I handed Nicholas the remote, and he channel-surfed for a few minutes until we came to
It’s a Wonderful Life
on PBS.

“Let’s watch this,” I said. “I love Jimmy Stewart.”

“And that Donna Reed,” Nicholas said. “That is one low-maintenance woman.”

“Like me,” I said.

He smiled. “Just like you.”

I must have been exhausted, because I don’t remember falling asleep next to him. Actually, on him. I woke with my head on his shoulder. I jumped up.

“You’re okay,” he said.

“The pies?” I said. “I didn’t hear the buzzer.”

“I got them out. They look perfect. Marie Callender herself would be proud.”

He turned off the television, then walked me to my bedroom. I sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing my forehead and yawning. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll just let myself out.”

“Nicholas,” I said.

“Yes?”

“Are you glad you signed the contract?”

He smiled, then came up next to me and kissed me on the forehead. “I’d do it again.”

CHAPTER

Thirteen

It seems a long time since I remembered all I have to be grateful for. Perhaps that’s why it’s been such a long time since I’ve been really happy.

Elise Dutton’s Diary

Thanksgiving arrived with a heavy snowfall, and I woke to the sound of plows scraping the road. Around nine the snow stopped, and the roads were clear by the time Nicholas arrived at two. Traversing a slippery sidewalk, we carried the pies out to his car, laid them on lipped cookie sheets on his backseat, and drove off to Thanksgiving dinner.

“Tell me about the Hitesmans,” I said as we drove.

“You’ll like them. Good people. Scott is one of those small-town boys who made good.” He turned to me. “He grew up in Burley, Idaho, working the potato fields. Went to Yale for law. The firm picked him up out of college.”

“What’s his wife’s name?”

“Sharon. You’ll love her. She’s one of those people who’s always baking bread for the neighbors or visiting people in the hospital.”

The Hitesmans lived in a medium-size home in the northernmost section of the Avenues. A large pine wreath garnished their front door. Nicholas rang the doorbell, then
opened the door before anyone could answer. We were engulfed by the warmth of the home, the smell of baking, and the sound of the Carpenters’ Christmas music playing from another room.

A woman walked into the foyer to greet us. She looked to be about my age, pretty with short, spiky auburn hair. Over a red knit shirt she wore a black apron that read:

THE ONLY REASON

I HAVE A KITCHEN

IS BECAUSE IT CAME

WITH THE HOUSE

“Nicholas,” she said joyfully. “And this must be Elise. I’m Sharon.”

“Hello,” I said. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Happy Thanksgiving to you too,” she returned. She looked down at the pies we carried. “Those look delicious, let me take that from you,” she said, taking the cookie sheet from my hands. “Boys, come here. Fast.”

Two young boys, close in age, appeared at her side.

“Carry these into the kitchen and don’t drop them.”

“Okay,” they said in unison.

“Now we can properly greet,” she said, hugging me first then hugging and kissing Nicholas. “It’s so good to see you. You haven’t been around much lately.”

“Work,” he said. “And more work.”

“You lawyers work too much. But Scott says your absence might have something to do with your new friend,” she
said, looking at me. “Elise, we’re so pleased you’ve joined us. Nicholas has told us so much about you.”

“Good things, I hope.”

“All good,” she said. Suddenly her brow fell. “Wait, have we met before?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You look familiar. I have a pretty good memory for faces. You aren’t famous, are you?”

“No.”

“You haven’t been in the newspaper or on TV?”

I froze. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked, but I was always caught off guard. “I . . .”

“Sharon,” Nicholas said lightly, “stop interrogating her. She just has one of those faces.”

Sharon smiled. “She definitely has a pretty one. I’m not often wrong about things like that, but there’s always a first.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Now come in, come in. We’re almost ready to eat. Make yourself at home. I need to check on the rolls, but let me take your coats.”

I shrugged off my coat and handed it to her. As she started to turn away, a man, stocky and broad shouldered with blond hair neatly parted to one side, walked up behind her. “St. Nick,” he said, extending his hands to Nicholas in greeting.

“Hey, buddy,” Nicholas returned. They man-hugged and then, with his arm still across the man’s shoulder, Nicholas said to me, “This is Scott.”

Scott reached his hand out to me. “So glad you could come. Nick’s told us so much about you.”

All I could think of was Nicholas’s description of Scott as a potato picking Idaho farm boy, which was exactly what he looked like, except without dirt beneath his fingernails. I took his hand. “Thank you. I was glad to be invited.”

“I guarantee you won’t go away hungry,” Scott said. He turned to Nicholas. “I hate to do this today, but can I ask you something about the Avalon case? I’ve got to get back to them by seven.”

“No rest for the wicked,” Nicholas said. He turned back to me. “Sorry, I’ll be right back. Just . . . mingle.”

As they slipped off to Scott’s den, I walked into the living room and kitchen area. Adjoining the living room was the dining room, with a long table that was beautifully set with a copper-colored linen tablecloth, gold-trimmed china plates on gold chargers, and crystal stemware. There was a floral centerpiece in autumn colors with two unlit red candles rising from its center.

The two boys were now lying on their stomachs, playing a video game in front of the fireplace. Across from them, on the sofa, was an elderly woman I guessed to be the grandmother. She looked like she was asleep. I drifted toward the kitchen, where Sharon was brushing butter over Parker House rolls.

“May I help?” I asked.

“I could use some help,” she said. “Would you mind opening that can of cranberry sauce and putting it on a plate? The can opener is in that drawer right there.”

I found the can opener, opened the can, and arranged the sauce.

“Your pies look divine,” Sharon said. “Nick usually just picks them up from Marie Callender’s.”

“Thank you. I like making pies. Except mincemeat. We bought the mincemeat.”

“I’m not a mincemeat fan either. It’s really just for Grandma.”

“That’s what Nicholas said.”

“He didn’t bring it one year. Grandma let him know that she wasn’t happy.” We both looked over at the old woman. “It’s a lot of work making pies. Especially the lattice tops,” Sharon remarked.

“I enjoy making them,” I said again. “And Nicholas helped.”

She looked at me with surprise. “Nicholas helped you make pies?”

“Yes.”

“Wow,” she said. “You domesticated him. Things must be going well with you two.”

I didn’t know how to respond. Finally I said, “We’re having fun.”

“Fun is good. He said you met at work.”

“Sort of. We work in the same office building. I’m four floors beneath him.”

Sharon donned hot mitts, then opened the oven. “Time to bring out the bird,” she said as she pulled a large roaster out and set it on the granite-topped island in the middle of the kitchen. She lifted the lid, exposing a large browned turkey.

At that moment, Nicholas walked in, trailed by Scott. “I see you put her to work,” Nicholas said to Sharon.

“I did,” Sharon said.

Nicholas said to me, “She comes across as nice, but she’s really a heartless taskmaster. Last year she made Scott and me put together the boys’ Christmas bikes before we could eat.”

“Shhh!” she said. “They’re right there. Santa brought those bikes.”

Nicholas grinned. “Sorry.” He turned to me. “Did you meet Grandma?”

“Not yet,” I said. “She’s asleep.”

“And don’t wake her,” Sharon said. “Let sleeping dogs lie.”

“I heard that,” Grandma shouted. “I’m not a dog. I’m old, not deaf.”

I glanced furtively at Nicholas, who looked like he might burst out laughing.

“I want a Dr Pepper,” she shouted. “No ice.”

“Would you mind?” Sharon said to Nicholas. “There’s one in the fridge. She likes it in a plastic cup, no ice.”

“Sure,” he said. He retrieved the soda, poured it into the cup, then took my hand and led me over to the woman. “Here you go, Grandma,” he said, offering her the drink.

She snatched it from him, took a long drink, burped, then handed the half full cup back to him without thanks.

“Elise, this is Grandma Wilma,” Nicholas said. “Grandma, this is Elise.”

“Did you bring the mincemeat?” she said.

“Of course.”

“One year he didn’t bring it,” she said to me.

“That must have been really awful,” I said.

Nicholas stifled a laugh. Grandma just looked at me. “Who are you?”

“I’m Elise.”

“You his wife?”

“No. We’re just friends.”

“There’s nothing wrong with marriage,” she said. “No one gets married these days. Why would they buy the cow when the milk’s free?”

“Grandma,” Sharon said from the kitchen. “That’s enough.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I said.

“It’s time to eat?” she said back.

“She said
meet,
” Nicholas clarified.

“We got a turkey,” she said. “That’s all the meat we need.” She turned to Sharon. “When do we eat? I haven’t got all day.”

“Nick,” Sharon said. “Will you carve the turkey? Then we can eat. Scott, take the rolls in. Boys, stop playing that stupid game.”

The boys just continued playing. Nicholas walked over to the bird. “Where’s your electric knife?”

“I don’t know where it went,” Sharon said. “I think Scott ruined it making the boys’ pinewood derby cars.”

“That’s possible,” Scott said.

“You’re going to have to do it the old-fashioned way,” Sharon said.

Nicholas pulled a knife from a wooden block and began carving while I helped Sharon carry the last of the food over to the table.

“I’d have Scott do the carving,” she said to me, loud enough for her husband to hear, “but he just makes a mess of it. I end up using most of it for turkey noodle soup. You’d think, being raised on a farm, he’d know how to carve a turkey.”

“I know how to raise and
kill
a turkey,” Scott said.

“Fortunately, this one came dead,” Sharon replied. “Boys, put away the game and help Grandma to the table.”

After we had all settled in at the table, Sharon and Scott held hands and Sharon said, “Nick, will you say a prayer over the food.”

“I’d be happy to,” he said. He took my hand, and we all bowed our heads.

“Dear Father in Heaven, we are grateful for this day to consider our blessings. We are grateful for the abundance of our lives. We are grateful to be together, safe and well. We ask a blessing to be upon this home and Scott and Sharon and their family. Please bless them for their generosity and love. We are grateful that Elise has joined us this year and ask that she might feel as blessed as she makes others feel. We ask this in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”

I looked over at him. “Thank you. That was sweet.”

“He says the best prayers,” Sharon said. “That’s why we always ask him to pray.”

“I want turkey,” Wilma said.

“Scott, get her some turkey,” Sharon said. “Just white meat.”

Scott was right: there was no way we were leaving the table hungry. There was turkey, corn-bread stuffing, pecan-crusted candied yams, mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet corn, Parker House rolls, apple-pineapple salad, and green beans with bacon. By the time we were through eating, I was too full for pie. We all helped with the dishes. Then Nicholas said, “I think I need a walk.”

“I’ll join you,” I said.

We retrieved our coats and went outside. The sun had just fallen below the western mountains, and we walked out into the middle of the vacant, snow-packed street. Nicholas turned to me. “Having fun?”

“Yes. They’re nice people. Grandma’s a hoot.”

“I know. Every year they say this is her last year, but it never is. I think she’ll outlive all of us. When death comes for her, she’ll slap his face and tell him to get her a Dr Pepper, no ice.”

I laughed. “Why do you think old age does that to people?”

“I don’t know. Old age seems to make some people meaner and some sweeter. Maybe it’s just an amplifier.” I slipped on a patch of ice, and Nicholas grabbed my arm. I noticed that he didn’t let go. “So how does this compare to your normal Thanksgiving?”

“The food is better. The company is
much
better.”

“I’m sure the harem isn’t the same without you.”

“Dan will survive.”

“So what is Dan like? Or have I crossed the line of addendum one.”

“We have pretty much obliterated addendum one,” I said. “How do I describe Dan?” I thought a moment then said, “His good side, he’s not bad-looking and he’s ambitious. He has big dreams. Not really practical ones, but big. At least he did when we were dating.”

“And the dark side?”

“He’s got a nasty temper and he’s a narcissist. He’s insecure but conceited at the same time. He’s a chronic womanizer. On our wedding day he flirted with some of the guests. Probably the best compliment I could give him is that he’s not my father.”

“That’s a short measuring stick,” Nicholas said.