Glare Ice (9 page)

S
HE
tried to get people to call her Beatrice when she first met them, but after a while everyone seemed to want to call her Bea. She didn’t like being a letter of the alphabet, a buzzing little creature that gathered nectar, a verb form. She wanted to be the lover of Dante. But no one else wanted to give her that.

“Introduce me as Beatrice,” she told Rich when he came to pick her up. “Oh, the snow, should we really be doing this?” she asked him as she bundled into her black cashmere coat with the white ermine collar.

“You look lovely, Mom. I will introduce you as Beatrice. Don’t worry. The roads were fine. I just drove them.”

“But I have packed a small overnight bag in case I am forced to stay at your house.” Beatrice pointed to her little carry case, sitting next to the door.

Rich leaned over and picked it up. “Good idea.”

“I thought it wise.”

“You are nothing if you are not wise.”

She stepped out the door with him and locked it behind, checking it twice. “You humor me, Rich.”

“Of course I do. You are my mother. It’s my job.”

She had raised her son well. Even though she had married beneath her, married a man she loved dearly and never minded the sacrifice she had made for him—and a sacrifice it had been: killing fowl with her bare hands, cooking for large groups of people, rising at an ungodly hour to feed the livestock—even though Rich had been raised on a farm, she had done a good job with him. He had very nice manners and was good to his mother.

“I hope I will like this new woman in your life,” she said as Rich handed her into the car. She was worried that the woman wouldn’t like her. His ex-wife had hated Beatrice. No matter what she said, she had planted her foot firmly in her mouth with that woman, who seemed to take even compliments as criticism. Beatrice vowed she would try hard today to be gracious.

“I’m sure you will.”

“Sometimes your taste in women has been questionable.”

“But that’s all in the past.”

“I do hope so, Rich.” She flipped down the mirror in the visor and looked at herself. Her lipstick was on straight, and there were no traces of it on her teeth. She would just avoid looking at the wrinkles. She had slept so poorly last night, fretting about the long drive ahead of her and the huge dinner. She fluffed her white hair, but with no humidity it had fallen a little flat. “But a policewoman?”

“Even the criminals adore her. You’ll see.”

“Who else will be there?”

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about that. There will be her daughter, Meg, who is a very bright child, and then her sister, Bridget, will be there, and her young daughter.”

“How young?” Beatrice asked suspiciously.

“Well, quite young.”

“Yes?”

Rich started the car and drove out of her underground parking lot and into the falling snow. “Rachel was born more than three weeks ago.”

“Dear God, a newborn.” Beatrice felt herself cringe. Babies never seemed to like her. They always cried when she held them. She was afraid she would drop them. No proper conversation could take place when one was around.

“Mom, you managed with me.”

“Yes, but I had to. It was the only way to get you to a respectable age. Why do you think I had no more children?”

“I know. You’ve told me many times.”

“I will do my best.”

They drove awhile in silence. But finally Beatrice tired of staring at the falling snow and turned on the classical music station. It added depth to the landscape. A little Bach, rather tinkly, but good.

“What are you thinking of doing with this Claire?”

“What do you mean?”

“Will you marry her?”

“Might. Don’t know that shell have me, but I will probably ask her at some point. But not for quite a while, I think. She’s still recovering from her last marriage.”

“And what happened?”

“I told you, Mom. Her husband was killed.”

He probably had told her. How could she have forgotten that? Killed, my goodness. “That is drastic.”

“She lived up in the Cities then. That’s one of the reasons she moved to the country. To get away from all that violence.”

“What will she and I find to talk about? I know nothing about murder and mayhem.”

“She’s just started quilting. You could ask her about that.”

“Quilting. I didn’t know anyone did that anymore.”

“Mom, you’re a snot.”

“Well, darling, someone needs to raise the level of society these days.” Beatrice leaned her head back. She really hadn’t slept at all well. Her eyes closed on their own, and the last thing she heard was the end of the Bach piece, fading in her head like bits of snow sparkling in the wind. Tinkly.

Then Rich was shaking her gently and saying, “Mother, we’re here.”

Beatrice sat up. She felt so unprepared. “Don’t manhandle me, Rich. There’s really no need.”

He stepped back and waited for her to gather herself together. “Have you got the chestnut dressing?”

“Mom, you never gave it to me. Is it in your carry case?”

“No, I would never put it in there. I must have left it on the kitchen table. Rich, what should we do?”

“It’ll be fine. They won’t know what they’re missing.”

“I can’t believe I’ve gone and left that behind. I worked so hard on it.” Everyone always loved her chestnut dressing. How could she have forgotten it? She got out of the car, and Rich took her arm.

They walked up a shoveled path to the front door of a small white clapboard house. At their knock, she could hear feet running inside the house, and she braced herself. When the door opened, a small girl’s face smiled up at them with lipstick smeared across it. The girl was wearing a velvet top that matched her lipstick, and her mother came and stood behind her.

Oh, her son had gone and found himself a beauty. The woman was tall and full figured, with dark hair that she was wearing in a low roll. A white blouse and black velvet pants looked very smart on her.

“Mrs. Haggard, we’re so glad you could come,” the woman said.

“Please call me Beatrice,” Beatrice said as she stretched out her hand.

“What a lovely name,” the woman said. “I will call you that if you will call me Claire.”

“Are you as clear as your name?” Beatrice asked her.

“I try to be.” Claire pointed down at the girl who was standing next to her. “This is my daugher, Meg. She’s been waiting very hard for you to come.”

“I’m pretending you’re my grandmother today,” Meg said.

“Oh, you are?” Beatrice was surprised. “I’ve never had a grandchild.”

Meg wrinkled her nose. “You haven’t? You look like you’re old enough to have one.”

Rich reached over and tousled Meg’s hair. “Age isn’t the only prerequisite.”

“May I touch your coat?” Meg asked.

“I suppose you may.” Beatrice leaned over and let Meg stroke her collar. “It’s ermine. Winter ermine, they turn pure white, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know that. So they blend into the snow?”

“Yes, so they blend in.” Beatrice remembered her hostess gift. “I have something for you and your mother.” She unzipped her carry case and pulled out her present. She had left it in a brown paper bag but put a big red bow on it.

Claire undid the bow, reached into the bag, and pulled out the large, dark bulb. Beatrice realized it looked rather awful. She should have potted it up. What had she been thinking?

“What is that shriveled thing?” Meg asked.

“It’s an amaryllis. It will be a thing of beauty in a month or so.” Beatrice took the bulb from Claire’s hand and showed it to Meg. “You see this little green shoot? It will turn into a big stalk, and then a flower will explode from the end. This variety is called Picotee. They are my favorite. And I have a long history with amaryllis. It produces a glorious white flower just tipped with red.”

“Oh,” Meg’s face lit up. “Like a Kleenex dipped in blood.”

Beatrice was nonplussed. It didn’t happen to her very often. What kind of life was this child leading?

Claire also looked aghast. “Meg, what made you think of that?”

“I had a bloody nose the other day.”

“Well, that’s enough of that talk.” Claire reprimanded the child. “It sounds lovely, Beatrice. I’m sure we will enjoy it.”

Bridget looked at her watch. She had told Claire she would be there by two, and it was almost three. She had just driven through Pepin and would soon be to Fort St. Antoine. The snow was slowing her down. Surely Claire would understand.

Rachel was sleeping, the little brat. She always slept in the car. What Bridget should do was to get Chuck to drive them both around so she could get some sleep too.

She had a bag full of three kinds of olives, two kinds of pickles, and Ziploc bags full of cut-up carrots and celery. It would have to do as the relish dish. She had found a great old relish tray from the sixties, lime green with starbursts. She thought it would be festive for the occasion.

As she slowed to come into town, she noticed that someone was stuck in their driveway. She slowed down more and saw that it was a woman, standing by her car. Bridget couldn’t just drive past her. Maybe she needed help.

She slowed the car down and rolled down the window, hoping the cold air wouldn’t wake up Rachel. “Do you need some help?”

The blond woman looked over at her and said, “No, thank you. I called a neighbor. He should be on his way soon. Don’t worry about it.”

“Were you going someplace for Thanksgiving?” Bridget asked, feeling sorry for her day ruined.

“No, not exactly.” The blond woman was holding something wrapped in an afghan. “I just need to get out of here.”

“Do you have a baby?” Bridget asked.

“No,” the woman lifted off part of the blanket, and the head of a small dog peeked out. “I have Snooper.”

Just then Rachel let out a shriek.

“Do you have a baby?”

“I do. I better go. She won’t stop screaming until I pick her up. Happy Thanksgiving.”

The woman waved as she drove away. Bridget wanted to try to remember to mention the woman’s predicament to Claire, but when she got to the house, there was so much going on with unloading the baby that she forgot all about it.

Claire came running out and took the wailing Rachel. “She’s getting big.”

“I know, and mouthy.”

“Just like her mom.”

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Not to worry.”

“Is everyone here?”

“Yes,” Claire whispered. “The queen has arrived.”

“How’s it going?”

“This woman has watched too much PBS. She thinks that there is such a thing as
Upstairs, Downstairs
in America, and she’s upstairs and all the rest of us are downstairs.”

“Oh, great. That will make me the scullery maid.”

Claire leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Bridget felt her love for her sister. “We haven’t been together on Thanksgiving since Dad died.”

“Too long.”

Bridget thrust her grocery bag into the air. “Lead on to battle.”

When she met Mrs. Haggard, or Beatrice as she wanted to be called, Bridget warmed to her. She was a tight, tall woman, handsome and nervous. Bridget thought she had a lot of backbone but wasn’t always sure of herself. It made her caustic. Bridget put Rachel in Meg’s lap, curled up next to the two girls on the couch, and watched Claire and Beatrice converse in the kitchen.

Beatrice stood as if overseeing everything and questioned Claire. “How are you enjoying working for a sheriff’s department in this small county? Is it quite different than working in the city?”

“Oh, my, yes,” Claire answered as she mashed the potatoes. “The biggest difference is the slower pace of work. I am very happy about that. I get to spend more time with my daughter. But the other thing that is different is that I know so many of the people I’m working for. I will know most everyone in the county soon. It gives it a very different feel. I’m defending and protecting my neighbors.”

“What a nice way to put it,” Beatrice said. “Are you making gravy?”

“Rich’s got it going.”

Bridget watched Claire try to do it all and was glad that Meg was holding Rachel and that she got to sit quietly on the couch and drink a glass of wine. It was only her third glass of wine since the baby was born, a special occasion.

“Any big cases?” Beatrice asked.

“Not on a holiday,” Claire answered, then said, “Everybody to the table.”

Rich lifted up the silver platter with an enormous turkey on it and carried it to the wonderfully set table. Claire had used their parents’ good china, rimmed in gold. Bridget stuffed pillows around Rachel on the couch and hoped she would sleep for a while so she could be adult and eat at the table.

Jack watched the snow move across the road like a hail of white bullets. He had braved the storm because he decided he needed to check on Stephanie. He hadn’t heard from her for a few days. He figured they had things to talk about. And, after all, it was a holiday. Family was family.

Bring her a little Thanksgiving cheer. See that she was doing all right. He had bought a bottle of champagne and hoped that she might be cooking a turkey. She would be surprised to see him. They had their problems once in a while, but she understood him in a way that no one else did. He needed her.

When he slowed to turn into her driveway, he saw that her old beater car was stuck at the end of her driveway, packed to the gills. Then she stepped out of her house, holding something in her arms. What the hell was she up to now?

He parked his car as far off the road as he could manage. The snow was letting up a bit. Visibility wasn’t too bad. He’d leave his parking lights on.

“What’s going on?” he asked her.

She came running down from the house when she saw the car and then slowed when she saw it was him. As he walked toward her, he saw that she was carrying a small dog in her arms. Didn’t she know he hated dogs? Whiney, yippy curs. Who had she been waiting for? Another boyfriend?

“Jack, get out of here!” she screamed at him.

He ignored her anger. Maybe they could move past it today. “I see you need some help.”

“Someone is coming any minute.”