Saturday Morning (44 page)

“You scared me half to death.”

“I scared myself.”

They sat just so until he shifted and flinched.

“I’d better get dinner going,” she said, giving him a quick kiss before getting up.

Fifteen minutes later she had a chicken casserole in the oven and a salad chilling in the fridge.

She looked over at Martin and saw him staring out the windows.

Was the stress of his new job the cause of Martin’s heart attack? Or had he been leading up to this for years? The doctor had told him point-blank he would have to make some lifestyle changes. What would Martin do to comply? Would he ignore that suggestion the way he’d ignored the doctor’s order to exercise?

The problem was that this house was surrounded by steps, which would make taking a walk difficult. If only they were home in Medford. He could walk forever among the lavender plants and never encounter a single stair.

Fluffy jumped up on the table in front of the living room window and meowed.

“Hey, boy, what do you want?” Martin asked, moving his head this way and that, trying to see what Fluffy was seeing.

Fluffy sank down on his belly, the tip of his tail twitching back and forth.

Martin got up and went to the window. “Are there birds out there?”

“Maybe its the parrot’s,” Andy said. “I’ve heard them several times, but I haven’t actually seen them.” They were a pair, man and cat, looking out the window.

“I guess it was a false alarm.” Martin returned to the sofa and changed the station to one that played worship songs and hymns. The familiar music lifted Andy’s heart. Maybe that was why the Bible said to sing songs of praise, no matter what. The thought made her smile. Maybe so.

The ringing phone snagged her attention, and she could feel the smile clear to her toes when she recognized Camden’s “Hello.”

“Hey, Son, see you soon.”

“I hope so. I thought I’d better warn you, though, that we have a Northerner coming in, high winds and heavy snow predicted.”

“Oh no. We’ll all be so terribly disappointed if you can’t make it.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow when I know what’s happening.”

Fog blanketed the entire West Coast for forty-eight hours, stopped all incoming and outgoing flights, and closed Interstate 5 in both directions. After the last phone call from SeaTac, Bria had taken Morgan home to her apartment so at least two members of the Taylor family were together. Camden had given up on Wednesday morning and went to stay with a friend.

Andy locked her arms around her middle, hands clutching her elbows. The only reason she and Martin were having any kind of Thanksgiving dinner today was because she had walked up to Speedy’s and bought the last frozen turkey breast they had, along with stuffing mix. Never before had she made Stove Top Stuffing Mix.

To think that she’d left what she thought of as the fog capital of the world only to get socked in in San Francisco. Delayed flights in and out of Medford, however, did not make a difference in worldwide traffic—like SFO. She thought back to the conversation with her daughter.

“We can drive all night, taking turns sleeping and driving,” Bria had offered.

“The news says it is all up and down the coast. I’d rather know you are safe and alive than think of you driving in fog for twenty hours or more.”

Morgan took over the phone. “But, Mom, I want to. I need to see you and Daddy. He needs us.”

“Thanks, sweetheart, but we need you safe even more.” They’d never know what it had cost her to say those words.

“God, right now I am having a real hard time being grateful.” She heard the toilet flush and knew Martin was up. Time to make the coffee and see what he wanted for breakfast. He was moving about a bit more, had even taken Fluffy outside to look for the parrots, but his appetite was still poor. She’d cooked all manner of things to try to entice him, only to have him take a couple of bites and push his plate away. She felt like a short-order cook, a waitress, and a busboy all in one.
Andrea Mane Taylor, you have to do something with all this anger you’re carrying.
She waved away the Bible verse that floated through her mind. So what if Paul had been in jail in Rome when he wrote, “
I have learned in whatever state I am, to be content.”

The coffee fragrance followed her downstairs to find Martin sound asleep again. She glanced at the clock. Nine. “Martin, I’m starting breakfast. What would you like?”

“Huh?” He blinked and glanced over at the clock. “What did you say?”

“Breakfast. You have to eat so you can take your meds.”

“Oh. I—all right.”

“You want help with a sponge bath?”

“I’d give my left arm for a shower.”

“Better keep that arm, you might need it. After you eat, I’ll wash your back and give you a rub if you want.” Keeping the incisions dry was still necessary.

Back upstairs, Andy set water boiling and coffee dripping, fed the cat, and stepped outside to cut lavender stems off the potted plant she’d bought at the grocery store. She cut several and held them to her nose. The scent reminded her of home so much that tears threatened to swamp her.

By now she would have had the twenty-pound turkey on the Weber kettle outside on the patio. The pies would be all baked and the green bean casserole ready for the oven. Her mother would bring candied yams and a salad and some new recipes that she always tried out on them. Some had become classics, like the cranberry salad; others, like the oyster stuffing, had been discreetly set aside after being sampled. Oyster stuffing had turned into a family joke.

This house felt resoundingly jokeless. She wished she could have invited Mrs. Getz to dinner or taken Hope up on her invitation to join them at J House. But the doctor had made it clear that Martin wasn’t to be with other people other than the children. In his present weakened condition, there was too big a risk of his catching something or picking up an infection.

She cracked the eggs one at a time into a saucer and slid them into the softly bubbling water. Plunking the toast down, she set the tray with a fall napkin for decoration, next to the bud vase. It would sure be easier if Martin came upstairs like two nights ago.

With the eggs cooked just the way he liked them, she made her
way carefully down the stairs. All she needed to do was fall and break something.
All right, woman, this is the time to think some positive thoughts, or you’ll be as depressed as Martin.

He pushed his pillows up behind him and smoothed the comforter to make way for the tray she set across his knees. “Thanks.”

She slid her plate out from under his and transferred one of the eggs and a piece of toast to her plate. “You need anything else?”

“No, this is fine.” He rubbed his chest.

“Hurt?”

“No, itches.”

She watched as he ate a couple of bites and then moved the rest of the eggs around on the plate. “You have to eat.”

“If you knew how I feel … ” He focused on his buttered toast and drank from the cup. The orange juice sat untouched.

“Taking those stupid pain pills makes me constipated.” He rubbed his abdomen.

The phone rang, and he looked toward her to answer it.

“Martin, it is right by your hand.” At his look of beaten supplication, she set her plate and silver on the end of the bed and huffed her way to the phone. This was getting ridiculous. “You don’t have a broken arm. Hello?”

“Happy Thanksgiving.” Both Bria and Morgan spoke together.

“Happy Thanksgiving to you, too. Did you have a good dinner?”

“Bria sure knows how to order in.”

“Don’t give away my secrets.”

Andy laughed at their antics. They sounded like her children of a few years ago.

“Mom, are you all right?” Bria’s voice clicked into concern.

“Of course.” Andy forced herself to sound cheerful. “How’s Seattle? It’s clear here.”

“No flights yet, although it isn’t as bad as yesterday. So did you get groceries to make dinner?”

“Frozen turkey breast and Stove Top Stuffing.”

“Mom, you didn’t.” Morgan burst into laughter.

“It was better than frozen TV dinners.” Andy laughed again with her girls.

“Is Daddy near the phone?”

“He’s right here. I’ll talk with you later. I love you, and have a fun weekend together.” She handed the phone to Martin, then picked up his tray, added her things to it, and headed up the stairs.

How do I keep from comparing this Thanksgiving to the years before? Pretty soon I’ll feel as depressed as Martin does. Lord, this isn’t fair, You know that?

“Roger, I have a favor to ask.” Clarice was placing turkey-shaped cookies on the serving tray.

“Sure, what’s up?” He turned to smile at her, continuing to peel potatoes, as he and Alphi had been doing since early morning.

“I would like to go find Angel Annie and invite her here for dinner. Would you drive me? Julia would, but she has no idea where AA hangs out.”

“She’s usually over on Market. Sure, but don’t be too disappointed if she refuses. She’s not known for her sociability.”

“You keep saying that, but she saved my life. She didn’t have to take care of me like that.”

“True. You know that Angel isn’t her first name?”

“To me she is. And if she won’t come, then I’ll take dinner back to her.”

“The irresistible object has met the immovable force. We’ll see who wins. When do you want to go?”

“Well, I thought we could offer her a shower and maybe clean clothes, if she’ll let us.”

“We can offer. Let me get these potatoes soaking, and then we’ll go.”

“Roger Benson, you get my vote for sainthood.” Clarice leaned over and kissed the top of his head.

“You messed his hair.” Alphi slapped his knees and nearly fell off his stool laughing.

Roger smoothed a hand across his spreading dome. “Knock it off, kid, or you peel by yourself.” He pointed to the forty-pound bag still to be opened. Several of the women working at the counters around the room joined Alphi’s giggles.

“Not much to mess with, is there?” Celia didn’t even try to stem her taunting laughter.

“There’s too much jollity going on in here.” Hope paused in the doorway. “And Roger, it sounds like they are picking on you.”

He nodded, trying to look pathetic, which set Alphi off again.

“Roger, the can opener is stuck again,” Tasha called from across the room.

“You got to admit, you one popular dude.” Celia nudged him on her way back to the stove.

Roger heaved himself to his feet, giving the stool a slight kick so that it banged against Alphi.

“Hey, Dude.” He strung the short word into three syllables.

Clarice rapped Alphi on top of his head. “What’s seven times nine.”

“Not math on Thanksgiving. Dis a holiday.”

“Come on.”

“Sixty-three.”

“Yes, you, boy, are the winner.” Clarice handed him the tail part of a turkey-shaped ginger cookie.

“How come I don’t get one?” one of the girls wailed.

“This was broken, so it needed to be eaten before it dried out.”

“Gee, and since it was broken, all the calories ran out.”

“You like him better’n me, that’s all.”

“My kind of cookie.” The banter kept up, bouncing around the room like a wayward SuperBall.

Clarice checked the yeast dough she’d set to raise at five thirty this morning. “Someone want to form the rolls?”

Two hands went up, so she beckoned the two girls over. “You ever made rolls before?”

Both girls shook their heads.

“Okay, I’ll show you a quick way.” Clarice sprinkled flour on the steel table surface, cut off two pieces of dough, set them on the flour, cupped her hands over them and rolled each bit of dough on the counter into a ball, then plopped them in the pan.

“Hey, cool.” One girl tried it, but her dough didn’t look anything like the smooth balls Clarice had made.

She showed them again and began cutting pieces of dough, while they practiced until they were both laughing at their success.

“You teach me that?” Fawna, their chef-in-training, came over to admire the smooth balls of dough lining the pans.

“Watch them.” Clarice nodded to the girls, who were racing to see who filled a pan first.