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He got close enough to the net and whacked it in. The buzzer sounded. The goalie shook his head and wailed something behind his mask no one in the stands could actually make out…though it was easy to assume it was wrapped around frustration. But as a whole, the team wasn’t put out and the fans erupted in laughter and cheers. It was just too damn adorable.
And Scout… Well. Ciara’s heart fluttered and her pulse raced.
Never before had she given any sort of thought to what it might be like for Scout to have kids—Mini-Me’s who looked like him and loved the smell of the ice, the roar of the crowd and the glory of victory the way he did.
Mini-Me’s he could teach to respect the game and their teammates, and be the best that they could be. Even if they turned out to be girls.
“Oh, God!” The words flew from her parted lips. She gasped. Clamped a hand over her gaping mouth. Her eyes were wide and her heart thundered even more.
“Are you all right, dear?” Catherine asked in an alarmed tone.
Ciara tore her hand away and jumped to her feet. “I forgot to thaw the cannoli for tonight’s dinner!” she impulsively lied.
“Ciara, Henry’s people are bringing over everything fresh from Venti’s. You will not be serving frozen anything, let alone cannoli. Talk about sacrilege!”
“Right, right. You’re right.” Anxiety seized her. Why??! “I just realized we don’t have enough ice for the cocktails. Definitely not enough ice. And I need to aerate the red wines. Why haven’t I decanted them already?”
“Ciara—”
“I have to go. I mean, I seriously, seriously have to go!” She moved into the aisle and rushed up the steps to the main level, crossed to a set of double doors and threw them open. Only when she was outside could she actually pull in a slice of air. A sharp, frigid one, but hell… At least she could breathe.
She glanced over her shoulder as the intricately carved wooden doors eased closed. Scout would know she had plenty of details to see to for tonight’s dinner, if he somehow saw her bolt. He’d totally understand her leaving early.
Catherine would, too, being her own hostess with the mostess.
Hopefully, no one would put two and two together. And figure out that what Ciara had just witnessed in that arena with Scout and the pee-wees—his absolutely loveable way with them—and her sudden, where the hell did that come from? epiphany of how fantastic he’d be with kids of his own was what really and truly freaked the shit out of her.
In a really and truly good way…
“You have Tilda’s golden touch and attention to d
etail,” Marilyn Albright said.
Ciara glanced up from one of the round tables that sat six, which she was currently dressing—stylizing, she called it—and let out a long sigh of relief. “I’ve been plotting these dinner arrangements over and over in my head since spring. Grandma never did anything the same way twice when it came to the donor events. The food always had to be different, the decorations all had to be unique, the entire look and feel of the place had to be like an entirely new experience. Mostly because it’s the same people who sponsor the society year after year. She didn’t want them to get bored.”
“And they never have. This, however, tips the scales of perfection,” Marilyn assured her as she gestured around the enormous room that would not only comfortably seat thirty for dinner, offer plenty of space for all the double-sided buffet stations, accommodate the high school jazz ensemble and ensure there were absolutely no obstructions in front of the two large wood-burning fireplaces and the tall French patio doors that led to the snow-covered courtyard, but would also leave plenty of openness for people to mix and mingle at will.
The tables were covered with satin sienna-colored floor-length cloths and topped with short, sheer amber overlays with handkerchief hems. The centerpieces were tall, slender, V-shaped vases that exploded with fall blooms and dripped gilded pearl and sparkly rhinestone strands that caught the light. Shimmering gold votives were in amber glass holders and scattered over the guest tables and the tiered and satin-draped buffet stations. Pillar candles were lit on the fireplace mantles, lined with fluffy gold ribbon and glittery tulle. The chandeliers overhead—throughout the entire house—were set on low.
All in all, it was a warm, festive, autumn ambience that made Ciara remember precisely why she’d always loved Tilda’s house, Plymouth Rock and Thanksgiving.
No, she’d never had a family unit. No need to break out the good china and silverware to celebrate, really. Yet Tilda always had. Even when it was just the two of them. Thanksgiving was always done up right—the entire damn week, actually. Every year, whether Delaney was with them or not. Whether Ciara honestly had anything to be thankful for or not.
Though…Tilda had been extremely good at helping her to find silver linings. She missed her grandmother fiercely.
Emotion clawed at Ciara, but she fought it back. This wasn’t about her tonight. It was about the Pilgrim Society—the group Tilda had formed and had loved. Had devoted so much time and effort to. There was no chance in hell Ciara would ever let her grandmother down. Especially during this coveted holiday.
She said to Marilyn, “I’ve sprinkled real leaves up the walkway to the porch. The orange twinkle lights are all wrapped around the tree trunks. The lighted autumn garland is draped over the double front doorway and twined around the black wrought-iron railings. Even coiled up the banisters inside the house. Tons and tons of crimson and gold to accent everything. Along with blood-orange lilies. Oh, my god. They are so beautiful.”
And the welcoming cocktail reception was currently setup in another salon, toward the front of the house. Catherine was finishing last-minute preparations there and would serve as hostess as the guests entered. There were two fully stocked and manned bars. Plus a server from Venti’s would pass around glasses of champagne. The hors d’oeuvres were beautifully laid out in the most advantageous locations so that they were easy to get to and a line wouldn’t interrupt the flow of traffic or conversations. Not that Ciara anticipated actual lines, given the numerous displays and strategic placements of them.
“I can’t wait to see it all.” Marilyn clasped her hands together in apparent excitement. She’d been out back all this time, with the other society members. Debating the eternal question that plagued this small, elite group of historians. All centered on whether or not there actually had been a rock at the Mayflower landing in Plymouth, Massachusetts.
Prompting Ciara to ask, “Have you gals made a decision about Thursday’s reenactment? I mean… Tick-tick, you know? It’s Sunday night already.”
Marilyn waved a French-manicured hand in the air. Like Catherine Winchester, she was a slim woman with white hair. Fifteen years older than Catherine, but they each wore their age well. Were both incredibly elegant. As were all the society members. Very well-to-do “ladies who lunched.” Some came from family money. Some had married—and subsequently divorced—well. Some had made their own fortunes.
All of whom had embraced America’s history, even though they had minor disagreements over some of the factoids.
