“There. She doesn’t need the pretense of working for me.”
Valerian swallowed the last bit of egg and ham and tapped the toast basket with his fork. “Clever. Very clever.”
“Jade?”
“No, Ondine. This is really good. I think she served something like this in the States.”
“Talk about calories. You’re eating like a horse already and the day has just started.”
“Pique.”
“Pique. Why?”
“The nursery, Stateside, sent a defective order. Completely ruined.”
“Shame.” Margaret reached toward a croissant, changed her mind and withdrew her hand.
“Have it,” said her husband. “It wasn’t four twenty-five, that mango. Not even a hundred.”
“You liar. I should have known. I was going to ask Jade about that.”
“She wants to open up a little shop of some sort,” he said.
“You’re mumbling.”
“Shop. She wants to be a model a little longer, then open up a shop.”
“Wonderful. She has a head. You’ll help her, won’t you? Won’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Well, why the long face?”
“I was thinking of Sydney and Ondine.”
“As usual. What about them?”
“They like her here.”
“We all do.”
“She’s their family. All they have of a family left.”
“And you. You’re as much family to them as she is. They’ve known you longer than they have her.”
“It’s not the same.”
“What is it? What are you thinking?”
“Nothing.”
“Something.”
“Sydney’s very excited about that shop idea,” Valerian said. “Ondine too.”
“Oh?”
“Nothing definite. At the dreaming stage still.”
“Now who’s worked up?”
“It’s a possibility, that’s all. An attractive one for them, I suppose.”
“That’s selfish, Valerian.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t think so. I don’t think so.”
“You’re worrying about nothing. They won’t leave you and the situation they have here to go into the retail business. At this time of life, never.”
“Yes?”
“Of course yes. Look at you.” She laughed. “You’re scared. Scared Kingfish and Beulah won’t take care of you.”
“I have always taken care of them.”
“And they will do the same for you. God knows they will. You couldn’t pry them out of here. With or without Jade. They are yours for life.”
“Don’t snarl. Your frownie is coming loose.”
“I’m not snarling. They’re loyal people and they should be.”
“I’ve never understood your jealousy.”
“That’s just like you to call it jealousy.”
“When we were first married I used to have to pull you away from Ondine. Guests in the house and you’d prefer gossiping in the kitchen with her.”
“Well, you sure put a stop to that, didn’t you?”
“I put a stop to a hostess neglecting guests. I didn’t put a stop to—”
“I was shy.”
“But I didn’t want you to turn around and be outright hateful to her. She would have quit even then if I hadn’t—”
“I know. I know, and then Sydney the Precious would have left too. Don’t dwell on it. They’re here and they always will be. I can guarantee it.”
“But you won’t be.”
“I said for a while.”
“If Michael comes.”
“He will.”
“We’ll see.”
“Then it’s all set? I can go?”
“Don’t push me into my last and final hour, Margaret. Let me saunter toward it.”
“You are sweet.”
“Not sweet, helpless.”
“You? Valerian Street, the Candy King? You’ve never been stronger, or more beautiful.”
“Stop. You got your way.”
“You are beautiful. Slim. Trim. Distingue.”
“Forgive her, Larousse.”
“Distingue?”
“Distingué.”
“Joueaux Noël.”
“Dear God.”
“Joyoux Noël, Sydney.”
“Ma’am?”
“Did you tell the boy about the trunk?”
“He hasn’t come yet, ma’am. As soon as he does…”
“And turkey. Ondine will do a turkey. Sydney?”
“Ah, yes, ma’am, if you like.”
“I like. I really like.”
“I’ve ordered geese, Margaret.”
“Geese?” She stared at Valerian for suddenly she could not imagine it. Like a blank frame in a roll of film, she lost the picture that should have accompanied the word. Turkey she saw, but geese…“We have to have turkey for Christmas. This is a family Christmas, an old-fashioned family Christmas, and Michael has to have turkey.”
“If Tiny Tim could eat goose, Margaret, Michael can eat goose.”
“Turkey!” she said. “Roast turkey with the legs sticking up and a shiny brown top.” She was moving her hands to show them how it looked. “Little white socks on the feet.”
“I’ll mention it to Ondine, ma’am.”
“You will not mention it! You will tell her!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And apple pies.”
“Apple, ma’am?”
“Apple. And pumpkin.”
“We are in the Caribbean, Margaret.”
“No! I said no! If we can’t have turkey and apple pie for Christmas then maybe we shouldn’t be here at all!”
“Hand me some of my medicine, Sydney.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sydney?”
“Ma’am?”
“Will we have turkey and apple pies for Christmas dinner?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll see to it.”
“Thank you. Is Jade down yet?”
“Not yet, ma’am.”
“When she is, tell her I’ll be ready at ten.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Margaret Lenore stood up so suddenly her chair careened for a brief moment before righting itself. Quickly she was gone.
“Everything all right, Mr. Street?”
“I am going to kill you, Sydney.”
“Yes, sir.”
BEYOND the doors through which Sydney had been gliding all morning was the first kitchen. A large sunny room with two refrigerators, two steel sinks, one stove, rows of open cabinets and a solid oak table that seated six. Sydney sat down and immediately the place he took at the perfectly round table was its head. He looked out the windows and then at his wife’s arm. The flesh trembled as she wire-whisked a bowl of eggs.
“Mango all right?” she asked without turning her head.
“She ate a mouthful,” said Sydney.
“Contrary,” murmured his wife. She poured the eggs into a shallow buttered pan, and stirred them slowly with a wooden spoon.
“It’s all right, Ondine. Lucky you had one.”
“I’ll say. Even the colored people down here don’t eat mangoes.”
“Sure they do.” Sydney slipped a napkin from its ring. The pale blue linen complemented his mahogany hands.
“Yardmen,” said Ondine. “And beggars.” She poured the eggs into a frying pan of chicken livers. She was seventeen years her husband’s junior, but her hair, braided across the crown of her head, was completely white. Sydney’s hair was not as black as it appeared, but certainly not snow white like Ondine’s. She bent to check on the biscuits in the oven.
“What’s the Principal Beauty hollering about?”
“Turkey.”
Ondine looked at her husband over her shoulder. “Don’t fool with me this morning.”
“And apple pie.”
“You better get me a plane ticket out of here.” She straightened.
“Calm down, girl.”
“She want it, she can come in here and cook it. After she swim on back up to New York and get the ingredients. Where she think she is?”
“It’s for the boy.”
“God help us.”
“She wants an old-fashioned Christmas.”
“Then she can bring her old-fashioned butt in here and cook it up.”
“Pumpkin pie, too.”
“Is any of this serious?”
“I told you. The boy is coming.”
“He’s always coming. Ain’t got here yet.”