DECEMBER 21
Chapter 1
“Blast! You scared it away!”
My grandmother Cordelia turned around and frowned at me. She held a pair of binoculars and stood in front of one of the kitchen windows, so I deduced that my arrival had startled some rare bird into flight.
“And a Merry Christmas to you, too.” I strode over and gave her a hug of greeting in spite of the frown. “Did you just get here?”
“Sorry,” she said, hugging me back. “It’s just that we were so hoping … ah, well. Either it was or it wasn’t.”
“But unless you see it, you won’t be able to add it to your life list,” I said. “What unique and fabulous feathered creature did I deprive you of seeing?”
“Nothing rare,” she said. “I’ve seen thousands of Junco hyemalis in my life. It’s just that it would be encouraging to see one here today.”
“Why?” I asked. “Is the dark-eyed junco in danger of extinction?” I was rather proud of myself for being able to come up with the common name, but Cordelia took my knowledge for granted.
“Of course not,” she said. “At least no more than any other common songbird. But they’re well known to be harbingers of snow. You know how much your mother is hoping for snow—I gather it would make these Canadian guests of yours so happy.”
“It’s going to take a lot more than a little snow to make the Canadians happy.” I sighed at the notion, and the flicker of holiday cheer that had started to grow vanished.
Cordelia didn’t say anything for the moment—she was busily tucking up the evergreen garland that swooped down gracefully over the window, blocking a fair portion of the glass. I’d been meaning to mention that garland to Mother, since it broke one of our unwritten but well-understood rules about her Christmas decorating: nothing should cover more than a tiny bit of the back windows. I suspected the offending garland had been the bright idea of one of Mother’s overeager volunteer helpers, but I was still glad to have it fixed. Apart from wanting to let in as much sunlight as possible this time of year, I didn’t want anything that would obscure my view of what the kids, dogs, cats, llamas, and visiting relatives were getting up to out in the yard.
“That’s better,” Cordelia said when she was finished. “It was like peering out of a thicket. So explain to me why the Canadians are here in the first place. Your mother told me quite a lot about how much of a bother they are, but she never did get around to explaining why your brother invited a dozen Canadians to stay here with you over the Christmas holidays.”
“Most of them aren’t that much of a bother,” I said. “And it’s not really Rob’s fault they’re here. They’re with a Toronto-based company that Mutant Wizards is doing a rush project for.”
“An exciting new game?”
“No,” I said. “Remember, Rob’s company does a lot more than games these days.”
“But the games are the interesting part,” Cordelia said.
Yes, and since Rob’s company had started out by developing computer games—including the legendarily successful Lawyers From Hell—most of the world still thought of them that way.
“Actually, this is kind of an interesting project,” I said. “The company’s called AcerGen. They’ve been around for years doing genealogy-related stuff, like letting you research your ancestors and put them into an online family tree.”
“Not exactly a new idea.” Cordelia sat down at the kitchen table and studied another of Mother’s new decorating notions—a centerpiece of holly and red ribbon that concealed a tiny electric potpourri dispenser. “There are already a couple of big commercial sites doing genealogy—Ancestry.com, for example.”
“Yeah, AcerGen is kind of a wannabe Ancestry.com,” I said. “More focused on the Canadian market. And they recently branched out into genetics. You take their DNA test, and then you can connect with any other AcerGen members you share genes with.”
“The big commercial sites do that, too,” Cordelia said. “And I bet they have a lot more people you could connect with than some company that I, for one, have never heard of.”
“AcerGen has figured that out,” I said. “So they’ve hired Mutant Wizards to come up with a lot of cool bells and whistles for their website, in the hope of luring enough people to join them instead of the big sites. Or more likely, in addition to the big sites.”
“None of which explains why they have to work on this new website here in Caerphilly during the holiday season.” Having contemplated the potpourri-emitting centerpiece from close range for a few minutes, Cordelia picked it up and, after a few moments of study, found its off switch. “Or why Rob had to inflict them on you and Michael while they’re doing it.”
“Good question.” I glanced over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t going to be overheard when I answered it. “Apparently AcerGen’s president has promised his board of directors that they’d have the new, improved website operational by New Year’s Day. And he doesn’t seem to understand the concept of working remotely. So a few days ago he dragged all his key managers and programmers down here. Without even trying to make reservations for them to stay anywhere—never mind the fact that this time of year you can’t even get on the waiting list at the Caerphilly Inn or any of the bed-and-breakfast places. They all showed up with their suitcases and briefcases and no place to stay, so we took them in.”
“Rather an imposition on you.” Cordelia looked disapproving.
“Well, we’re billing AcerGen for their room and board,” I said. “And with them here, we can at least try to keep their morale up. Which is—”
I heard footsteps behind me and turned to see a tall and slightly pudgy figure slouching into the room.
“Speak of the devil,” I muttered. And then I went on, more loudly. “Morning, Ian. This is Ian Meredith, the president of AcerGen. Ian, this is my grandmother, Cordelia Lee Mason.”
“How do you do?” Cordelia made a motion as if to extend her hand, then checked it. Probably wise. Ian looked snappy when he put on a suit to give his investors a show, but the morning Ian, unshaven and unshowered, didn’t exactly look like someone you wanted to be in the same room with, much less touch.
“Uh … hey.” Ian looked startled and sounded surly. He frowned and looked around. “No one’s cooking.”
“It’s ten thirty,” I said. “Rose Noire stops cooking breakfast at nine. There are still a few packed lunches in the fridge. Have one of those.”
He sighed heavily. He glanced at Cordelia, as if wondering whether she could be induced to fill in for my cousin as cook. Her cool, assessing gaze seemed to discourage him. And he already knew better than to ask me. He dropped something onto the kitchen table—another of what I thought of as his fidget toys. In this case a pair of V-shaped gadgets that you squeezed to strengthen your grip. I’d never actually seen Ian completely empty-handed. Then he shambled across the kitchen, flung open the refrigerator door, and stood staring inside. Eventually he located the packed lunches and began peering into the bags and poking their contents.
“Getting back to the juncos—they’re ground feeders,” Cordelia said. “You might have more luck attracting them if you spread some seed in your backyard.”
“Rose Noire does, every morning, when she feeds the chickens,” I said. “But I’m sure all the girls would love it if you spread some more. Just don’t expect them to leave it for the juncos.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“And anyway, are we really trying to attract juncos? Or are we hoping for snow, so we can all have a white Christmas? It’s not as if the juncos magically produce snow—they just signal that it’s coming. Maybe we should get Rose Noire to lead us in a snow dance.”
“True.” She lifted her binoculars back to her eyes again. “Count me in for the snow dance.”
Just then a loud scraping noise made both of us wince. I turned to see that Ian had carelessly shoved a kitchen chair out of his way, managing to leave a long, unsightly scratch on the kitchen floor in the process, and was shuffling down the hall with his exercise toys hanging out of his back pocket and his hands full of food. Food he’d scavenged from four—no, make that five—packed lunches. The scorned remnants were scattered across the kitchen table.
“Jerk,” I muttered. I tossed the two sandwiches Ian had pried open and handled—did he not notice the labels that spelled out the contents of each bag? I managed to assemble two unspoiled lunch kits using ingredients he’d rejected, tossed a few apples and bags of salad back into the fridge, and marked down what he’d made off with in the ledger I’d use when I billed AcerGen for this week’s meals. I looked up to see Cordelia frowning at the door through which Ian had disappeared.
“Are they all that rude?” she asked.
“No, the rest of them are just as nice as you’d expect. Polite, considerate—not as cheerful as I’d like, but then you have to make allowances for the fact that they’re all homesick, overworked, and mortally embarrassed at everything Ian does.”
“How long have they been here?”
“Five days,” I said. “Seems like longer.”
“I can imagine.” She turned back to scanning the backyard with her binoculars. I pulled out my notebook-that-tells-me-when-to-breathe, which serves as my calendar, planner, and to-do list, and began planning my day. I often zone out while communing with my notebook, so I didn’t even notice when someone else entered the room.
“Meg, dear.” I turned to find my mother frowning at me.
“Sorry.” Sometimes a preemptive apology wards off a lot of trouble. A preemptive apology and a distraction. “I didn’t mean to scare off the bird that might have been a junco.”
“Oh!” Her face lit up and she turned to my grandmother. “Have we spotted juncos?”
“Not definitively,” Cordelia said. “Possibly a few early outliers, but they’re easily spooked. And it’s not as if I can ask everyone to stay out of the backyard all day so we can see if the juncos have arrived.”
I could tell from Mother’s expression that she considered this a perfectly reasonable request, and for that matter she’d be making it an order, not a request.
“It won’t really be significant until we see them in flocks,” Cordelia went on.
“And all the construction noise doesn’t help, does it?” Mother sighed in a manner intended to suggest that her last nerve was rapidly fraying.
“Construction noise?” Cordelia looked puzzled.
“Back there.” Mother waved toward the kitchen window. “That’s why I came in here. Meg, dear, do you know what in the world your father is doing in your backyard?”
“Technically not in our backyard,” I said. “In the back pasture.”
I glanced out the nearest window. At the far end of our yard a barbed-wire fence separated it from one of the fields that belonged to Mother and Dad’s farm. Some years ago Dad fenced off the half acre that adjoined our property so Rose Noire could plant her herbs there. Beyond that was the back pasture, a sort of grassy cul-de-sac between the herb fields and the surrounding woods, out of sight from the main pasture but fully connected to it. Thanks to all the towering oaks nearby it was shadier than the main pasture, so Dad’s cows and sheep often took refuge there on hot summer days. In the winter, though, they tended to stay in the sunnier areas closer to the barn, so according to Dad they wouldn’t mind that most of their summer hangout was currently surrounded by the eight-foot privacy fence the Shiffley Construction Company had erected to help keep Dad’s project secret. The fence wasn’t exactly an eyesore.
“But highly visible from the back of your house,” Mother said, as if reading my thoughts. “And what if whatever he’s having built spoils your view?”
“According to Dad, it’s only temporary, and will barely be visible from the backyard, and if Michael and I hate it he’ll take it away,” I said. “And no, he hasn’t told me what it is. He hasn’t told anyone.”
With luck she wouldn’t notice that I hadn’t answered her question. No, Dad hadn’t told me what he was up to. But yes, I knew. I’d sneaked back there to spy on his project. But I wasn’t sharing that with anyone but Michael. I tried not even to think about it around Mother. Not that I still believed her to be a mind reader, but old habits die hard.
“And they were a little noisy the first two days,” I went on. “But they’ve been very quiet today.”
“Too quiet,” Mother muttered. “If you find out what he’s up to—”
“The minute he tells me, I’ll call you.” I held up my cell phone as if making a pledge. “And I assume you’ll do the same.”
“Of course, dear.” Mother took a step and looked up in annoyance as a low-hanging garland caught in her hair. I’d been meaning to mention that, too. The unwritten rules also called for nothing that would whack Michael in the head—and at six foot four, he was a good six inches taller than Mother. I suspected that this annoyance would also turn out to be the fault of a well-meaning volunteer. Mother took out a pocket memorandum book, penciled a neat note in it, and tucked it away again. Soon a cousin or two would turn up with a stepladder, and the wayward garland would find itself much closer to the ceiling.
Mother took a moment to survey the rest of the decorations. She’d done the kitchen less elaborately than the rest of the downstairs, since it was, of course, a workspace—more so than usual at the moment, with so many visitors to feed. Evergreen garlands festooned with red bows looped around the walls near the ceiling, with a few outlying strands crisscrossing overhead, and some of the red bows boasted little sprigs of herbs spray-painted gold—rosemary, bay leaves, and tiny little allium flowers. A soft instrumental version of “What Child Is This?” drifted down from the tiny speakers hidden in the garlands. Mother sighed softly, and I knew she was still regretting that I’d vetoed the tiny wreaths she’d wanted to hang on every cabinet door.
She turned back to Cordelia. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’m running out of ideas for entertaining those poor mistreated Canadians. I thought tonight we’d serve them a nice cassoulet with a green salad—I’ve found some lovely arugula. And thank goodness Cousin Nora has arrived, so she can make baguettes—I think a real, authentic-style baguette will go a long way toward making them feel more at home. Let’s go sit by the fire and talk menus.”
The two of them headed for the living room, talking airily of coq au vin and croissants. I sighed and closed my eyes for a few seconds. Perhaps Cordelia could help me convince Mother that she was focusing too much on food and not enough on the Canadians’ other wants and needs. And for that matter, focusing too much on the three Québécois employees and ignoring the needs of the rest. Surely at least a few of the remaining nine had grown up eating food more influenced by traditional English fare than Parisian haute cuisine. For that matter, I suspected a few of the young programmers would be just as happy with pizza and hamburgers.
Then again, maybe Mother was focusing on food because so far it was the only way she’d been able to think of to show the Canadians our hospitality. With the exception of Ian, who seemed to find our dining room much more convenient than the guest office Mutant Wizards had given him, the Canadians got up early, worked long hours in town, and came home with little energy for anything other than dinner and an early bedtime.
“Of course, they’re much too polite to complain,” Mother had said, after yet another attempt to entertain a brace of tired-looking young programmers. “But they’re not happy. You can see it on their faces. We need to find ways to boost their morale.”
And then she’d spotted Claudine, AcerGen’s Québécois project manager, wincing slightly as she contemplated the breakfast buffet—and in particular the plate of store-bought croissants that clearly didn’t measure up to her standards. Well, they didn’t measure up to mine, either, but I’d thanked the cousin who brought them anyway—thanked him, and hinted that while of course Mother loved all croissants, she was particularly fond of those baked by the Caerphilly Bakery.
Mother’s reaction to Claudine’s disappointment was to escalate our culinary efforts to full-bore French haute cuisine. Luckily she’d managed to entice Cousin Nora, whose cooking skills were legendary, to come and take charge of our kitchen for the duration of the Canadian infestation. Once Nora arrived sometime later this morning, I could stop worrying about my cousin Rose Noire. She normally did most of the cooking for our household—but our household didn’t normally include an extra dozen people.
Copyright © 2022 by Donna Andrews
