Diva Runs Out Of Thyme

ONE

Live on Good Morning Washington!

Special guest in the Washington, DC,

television studio: Natasha

“My very favorite holiday is Thanksgiving. No other day is so much about family and friends and fabulous food. By now, I hope everyone has sent out their invitations. We crafted these darling ones by ripping recycled natural-colored paper into the shapes of maple leaves. Don’t cut them or you won’t get this lovely soft frayed effect. Glue each leaf to a square of darker linen. Ours has a slight golden cast to it that says autumn. Then, with a calligraphy pen, handwrite a special note to each guest. Don’t forget to make matching envelopes out of the recycled paper.”

Natasha’s velvety voice drifted up the stairs. I clenched my teeth at the sound. In sixth grade she started a rumor that I wet the bed at her slumber party. That scandalous lie had followed me to graduation.

I didn’t actually hate her but found her annoying in the way perfect people so often are. Even though I felt fairly content with my life, Natasha had a tendency to pop up and make me feel inadequate, like an embarrassed sixth-grader again.

We’d competed against each other for almost everything when we were in school—sports, grades, honors. Competition became the norm for us. I fought it but Natasha loved to act superior, which brought out the worst in me. I never entered her world of beauty pageants, though. She did quite well, but I took some satisfaction in the knowledge that she never won a Miss Congeniality title.

Who’d have imagined that Natasha would have her own lifestyle TV show on a local cable channel in Washington, DC, not to mention a lifestyle advice column? And now that my ex-husband, Mars, had set up housekeeping with her, the sound of her voice made me boil. It seemed like she was turning up everywhere lately. But not in my house!

I pounded down to the family room off my kitchen. My mother immediately changed the channel.

My sister, Hannah, reached for the remote. “Mom! I was watching that!”

Dad leaned against the doorway to the sunroom, a mug of coffee in his hand. “I warned them. You shouldn’t be subjected to that woman in your own home.”

“It’s been two years since Mars and Sophie split. She told me she’s moved on. Besides, it’s not like Natasha had anything to do with their divorce.” Hannah tugged the remote from Mom and switched the TV back to Natasha’s show.

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.

Dad’s blue Buick pulled away from the curb and Nina Reid Norwood, who lived across the street and one house over, jogged across to me.

On the day Mars and I moved in, before the movers managed to bring in one piece of furniture, our new neighbor, Nina, barged in carrying a wriggling black-and-tan hound puppy. Mars and I immediately adored the puppy with one freckle on her nose who happily followed us up and down the stairs. We adopted sweet Daisy the next day. Nina later confessed that adoption had been her goal but she wanted to check us out first.

Nina’s husband, a renowned forensic pathologist, traveled constantly, leaving her plenty of time to help homeless animals. The daughter of a professor of pathology, Nina met her husband at a backyard barbecue hosted by her parents. She claimed the serious young doctor was just the antidote for her first marriage to a man who never met a woman he didn’t like.

She must have been right. I’d never heard her utter one negative word about her current husband, although she had plenty to say about his mother.

On the sidewalk, Colonel Hampstead sang “Walkies, walkies!” and waved as he walked his bulldog, MacArthur. His ever present walking stick tapped along the brick walk.

I whispered to Nina, “Do you think he has anyplace to go for Thanksgiving?”

She gave me a sad puppy-dog look.

“Colonel!” I sprang after him. “Would you care to join us for Thanksgiving dinner?”

The grateful look in his eyes told me everything.

“You can bring MacArthur if you like.” I bent to pet him. “You like turkey, don’t you, fella?”

“MacArthur and I would be delighted to accept your kind invitation.”

Shivering, I told him I’d call about the time and raced back to the house.

In her North Carolina drawl, Nina said, “My mama would die of a conniption right here and now if she could see me standin’ on the neighbors’ lawn talking in my bathrobe.”

I had no doubt that she would. Nina had a voluptuous figure, and even in the November cold, she didn’t mind showing a little cleavage. Maybe Mom was right about married women and flannel. Nina’s quilted silk bathrobe was certainly more seductive than my jammies.

We dashed inside and Nina warmed her hands by the fire while I poured more coffee. I made a point of putting extra sugar in mine.

“So how’s it goin’?” she asked.

“They’re making me crazy already.”

“They’re supposed to. That way you don’t miss them so much when they leave.”

“I just wish the stuffing contest wasn’t the day before Thanksgiving. It’s putting a big crimp in my preparations for the grand feast.”

Nina accepted a cup of coffee from me. “My mother-in-law has informed me that she expects place cards à la Natasha. Now, assuming I had the time, which I don’t, or the inclination, which I don’t, why on earth would I make place cards out of moldy old moss and dirty leaves?” She straightened Aunt Faye’s picture. “At least you don’t have to put up with your in-laws anymore.” Still standing, Nina asked, “When is Daisy coming back?”

A peculiar question. Neither Mars nor I could stand giving her up, so we shared custody. “After Thanksgiving.”

Nina stared into her coffee. “Last night while you and your family were out at the charity dinner, Francie called the police about a Peeping Tom.”

“What?” Francie, the elderly woman next door, was prone to unusual behavior.

“I’m afraid so. They found some evidence of an intruder behind her house and she swears she saw him in your yard, too.”

I hadn’t noticed anything disturbed. Then again, I hadn’t looked. “I’m sure it was a fluke. He probably won’t be back.”

“I hope not. I’d just feel better if Daisy were around when your family leaves.”

She turned as though she was going to sit. Instead she craned her neck and walked around the table to the bench in the bay window. “I swear I just saw someone sneaking around the colonel’s house.”