Diva Runs Out Of Thyme

TWO

From “Ask Natasha” :

Dear Natasha,

I have no idea how to decorate my home for Thanksgiving. Pumpkins and gourds seem tired. Any suggestions?

—Lost in Louisa

Dear Lost,

Create a nut garland to add that special touch.

Using an electric drill, make holes in assorted nuts. You may need a vise to hold the nuts. String them on rough twine to make your own harvest garland. Mix the nuts for a variety of textures and colors.

—Natasha

I joined Nina at the window. “I don’t see anything.”

“He disappeared behind the colonel’s house.” Nina downed the rest of her coffee. “I’m outta here. I’ve got enough problems of my own with my mother-in-law arriving tonight. My house will never be clean enough for that woman. I have to go by the shelter, too. We’re fostering a golden retriever until they can place it.”

“And you want to be sure that person you saw isn’t lurking behind your house now?”

She laughed. “You know me too well.”

I tamped down the fire while she let herself out. She might have tried to laugh it off, but I could tell she was worried about the man she’d seen.

That prompted me to have a look at my own backyard from the glass-enclosed sunroom on the back of the house. Sure enough, a few flowerpots lay on their sides as though they’d been knocked over. I consoled myself with the notion that the police knew about it and the guy probably wouldn’t return.

After a quick shower, I pulled on a long-sleeved amber sweater. Checking to see if my roots needed a blonde boost yet, I popped hot rollers in my hair. Jeans seemed like a good idea for my grocery run. Except I couldn’t find a pair of jeans that I could button at the waist. I hated to acknowledge that Mom was right, but I was developing curves where I shouldn’t have any. I caved to comfort and put on khaki trousers with elastic around the back.

The car Mars called Nike on Wheels was still packed with votive candleholders and tablecloths from a charity dinner the night before. I never knew what kind of cakes, plants, flower arrangements, and odd decorations I might have to cart around in a pinch, so I’d insisted on a hybrid SUV. Mars had hated it. At least the car was one thing we didn’t squabble over.

Too lazy to unload it, I shoved all the supplies together to make room for groceries.

The drive to my favorite natural food grocery store didn’t take long, but the parking lot was jammed and I had to park around the side of the store. When I stepped out, a short, stocky man approached with a banana box in his hands. I braced myself and prepared to say no to whatever he was selling.

“Could I interest you in a kitten, ma’am?”

I didn’t look. I didn’t dare see it. “No, thanks.”

“He’s awful cute. Purebred ocicat.”

“Aussie-what?” No. Say no, Sophie. Walk away now.

“Ocicat. My wife breeds ’em, and this little guy got stripes instead of spots so nobody wants to buy him.” He held up an adorable kitten with huge green eyes.

Say no, Sophie, I chanted to myself. Think of Daisy. She had a sweet disposition, but I had no idea how she’d react to a kitten. The wind kicked up again and assorted bits of paper trash swirled past. I smiled at the man, said, “Good luck,” and ran for the store entrance to extract myself while I could.

I grabbed a cart and headed straight for the turkeys. I selected a twenty-five-pounder, far larger than we needed, but I rationalized that everyone loves turkey sandwiches. Cranberries, organic gold Yukon potatoes, fresh green beans, almonds, butter, but no matter where I shopped in the store, I couldn’t get the bright eyes of the poor little kitten out of my mind. That man was willing to give it away to anyone. What would happen to it? I placed canned pumpkin in my cart for the soup my mother thought was so important and decided that if the man was still there when I left, I would take the kitten to Nina. At the very least, she’d make sure it got a decent home.

With that off my mind I was able to concentrate and checked my lists—one for the stuffing contest and the other for Thanksgiving dinner. I was picking out a chicken for stock when Tamera Turner, a local news anchor, cornered me.

“Sophie, they don’t have squab and they’re out of acorn squashes. Where are you going to get yours?”

A well-fed, bespectacled man leaned over the poultry selection as though he was trying to listen in. A fan of Tamera’s?

“I’m not doing Natasha’s dinner.”

“You’re not?” Tamera placed her hand on my arm. “What are you making? My Thanksgiving is already a disaster. I have to work. I don’t have time for this.”

“Mostly family, right? Are you having a formal sit-down dinner or will the guys be watching football?”

“My husband made a deal with me. As long as he can watch all the football he wants, he’ll smoke the turkey. I thought I’d set up a buffet.”

“Then why are you serving broth? You know all they want is turkey, stuffing, and potatoes. Maybe a little pie for later. Besides, it wouldn’t be practical for your guests to carry around acorn squashes with soup in them.”

Tamera smacked her forehead. “You’re so right. What was I thinking?” She thanked me and bustled off, relief evident on her face.

The pudgy man smiled at me. “Are you Sophie Winston?”

I assumed the gentleman had an event in mind and handed him one of my business cards.

He reached out to shake my hand. “Dean Coswell. How very fortunate that I ran into you. I was going to give you a call this afternoon. Your ex-husband, Mars, thought you might be the right person for a project I have in mind.” He adjusted his glasses with his thumb and middle finger. “My wife wasted yesterday looking for squab and acorn squash. This morning I had to take her to the emergency room because she mangled her finger with the electric drill trying to make a nut garland. Can you imagine—she was their seventh nut garland victim this morning. Anyway, it occurs to me that despite Natasha’s popularity, a lot of people dislike her. My newspaper is planning a column called “The Good Life.” Think you could bring back some good sense to the good life?”

“Me? Write a column?” It was like a dream come true. I didn’t even care if they paid me. The opportunity to vie with Natasha would be cathartic. “Yes!”

Coswell raised his arms and cheered, “I’ve found my anti-Natasha! Could you have something ready for the Thanksgiving edition?”

Why was it always like this in life? I’d taken time off work so I could prepare for my family’s visit. One day would be eaten up by the Stupendous Stuffing Shakedown and now, already pressed for time, I was committing to another project. But this was important to me. I agreed to write something to ease his overstressed wife and he handed me a card with his e-mail address scribbled on the back.

I waited in line for fresh loaves of crusty country bread for my stuffing, amazed by my good fortune. Mars had recommended me? We might be divorced but no matter how I looked at it, he was still a good guy.

When I left the store, I searched the parking lot for any sign of the man with the kitten. I didn’t see him anywhere and guessed he’d moved on. A kitten was the last thing I needed, but I still felt a tiny twinge of disappointment. I just hoped the kitten would be okay.

I loaded the groceries and backed the car out but was blocked by an elderly woman who could barely see over the steering wheel of her ancient boat-sized Cadillac. She was having trouble maneuvering and somehow managed to stop traffic in the parking lot. There weren’t a lot of choices. To give her room, I eased backward toward the rear of the store.

A dark blue pickup truck idled next to a Dumpster, a banana box on the hood. My stomach churned. Surely that man hadn’t tossed the poor kitten? Driving too fast, I slid alongside the truck.

The insistent wind blew mercilessly and the box threatened to tumble. I hopped out, raced for it, and caught it before the wind could sweep it away. Inside, the tiny kitten stretched toward me. I couldn’t mistake the huge curious eyes. I scooped it up and held it close, immediately rewarded by baby purrs.

I could feel my face turning scarlet with anger. What kind of person would throw out a kitten? Where was that jerk?

Outraged, I assured the little guy I would take care of him. He mewed and I realized I would have to go back for kitten food. He was probably starved.

I didn’t want to put him back in the box. It seemed like a symbol of the horrible man’s callous treatment. Steaming mad, I picked up the box, stepped over to the Dumpster, and threw it in.

And then I saw it. A trail of glistening blood on the asphalt. A crimson smudge on the rim of the Dumpster. I stepped on a concrete block and peered over the edge.