it’s not like New York. If they say six o’clock, it’s because they expect people at six o’clock.”
A couple of miles out of town they came upon a house with half a dozen cars parked out on the road. The car ahead of them pulled in and parked.
“Satisfied?” Sherry asked her aunt crisply.
“As long as we’re not the first. If we’re the first, it gets around, people talk, invitations start to fall off.”
The Grant house had a single candle in each window.
“Fashionable,” Cora commented.
“Don’t be snide.”
“What’s snide about that?”
“Sorry, I’m just touchy.”
“Hadn’t noticed.”
Aaron’s parents met them at the front door. Mrs. Grant wore a black velvet dress and a string of pearls. Mr. Grant sported slacks and a blue blazer, a slightly more casual look than the suit and tie he customarily wore as the head of his insurance company. He seemed nice, though Sherry had never had a chance to really talk to him.
“Sherry, Cora,” Mrs. Grant said, extending her hands. “Glad you could come. Here, let me take your coats. Aaron, come and take their coats.”
Aaron Grant had been standing near the punch bowl, talking to one of the guests. Aaron was wearing a turtleneck and tweed jacket, and struck Sherry as a mature, handsome young man. Then his mother called him, and suddenly he was a little boy again, helping Mommy with the guests’ coats. Sherry fought back the image, smiled at Aaron before he scampered up the stairs to toss their coats on the bed.
The onslaught of more guests kept the Grants busy being hosts, and Cora and Sherry found themselves ushered into the party. A Christmas tree dominated one end of the living room. It had colored lights and balls and tinsel, a star on top, and presents underneath.
The living room and dining room were separated by huge double doors. The dining room table had been pushed up against the wall to hold the buffet. A table on the opposite wall served as a bar. A third table held the punch bowls. There were two of them, tidily labeled ALCOHOLIC and NONALCOHOLIC.
Despite Cora’s fears, more than a dozen guests were already there. Standing by the punch bowl was a beefy man with a jowled face, bald head, and enormous muttonchop sideburns. They were long, thick, and bushy, as might have befitted a Dickens scholar, a Dickens character, or even Dickens himself. He clutched a martini glass in a meaty hand that would have looked more fitting with a tankard of ale. He gestured with it as he talked, as if driving points home with vermouth and gin. The man had Chief Harper buttonholed, and it did not look as if there was any immediate chance of escape.
Sherry glanced around to find her aunt had rapidly bypassed the punch bowls in favor of the bar, and was already pouring some amber liquid or other over a glass of cracked ice. Sherry started across the room to add her customary word of caution, but Cora swept on to look out the patio’s glass double door. As she did, Harvey Beerbaum came up behind her, spun her around, and kissed her.
Cora came up for air, blinking and sputtering in shock and surprise. “Harvey Beerbaum! Are you drunk? What in the world’s got into you?”
Harvey grinned and pointed over her head. “Mistletoe. Can’t buck tradition, now, can we?” He chuckled. “You’d better move away, unless you want the men forming a line.”
“Well, you old rascal,” Cora said. “Is this a habit with you, or am I your first victim?”
“Oh, what a nasty word.” Harvey’s piggy eyes twinkled. “I admit I laid in wait for you. To catch you in something for once.”
Cora’s heart skipped, as it always did when Harvey alluded to their respective skills. The prospect of Harvey catching her in something was a very genuine possibility. However, Harvey seemed in an exuberant mood. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he declared. “I’ve got someone who wants to meet you.”
“Oh?” Cora said without enthusiasm. Harvey’s contacts in
A couple of miles out of town they came upon a house with half a dozen cars parked out on the road. The car ahead of them pulled in and parked.
“Satisfied?” Sherry asked her aunt crisply.
“As long as we’re not the first. If we’re the first, it gets around, people talk, invitations start to fall off.”
The Grant house had a single candle in each window.
“Fashionable,” Cora commented.
“Don’t be snide.”
“What’s snide about that?”
“Sorry, I’m just touchy.”
“Hadn’t noticed.”
Aaron’s parents met them at the front door. Mrs. Grant wore a black velvet dress and a string of pearls. Mr. Grant sported slacks and a blue blazer, a slightly more casual look than the suit and tie he customarily wore as the head of his insurance company. He seemed nice, though Sherry had never had a chance to really talk to him.
“Sherry, Cora,” Mrs. Grant said, extending her hands. “Glad you could come. Here, let me take your coats. Aaron, come and take their coats.”
Aaron Grant had been standing near the punch bowl, talking to one of the guests. Aaron was wearing a turtleneck and tweed jacket, and struck Sherry as a mature, handsome young man. Then his mother called him, and suddenly he was a little boy again, helping Mommy with the guests’ coats. Sherry fought back the image, smiled at Aaron before he scampered up the stairs to toss their coats on the bed.
The onslaught of more guests kept the Grants busy being hosts, and Cora and Sherry found themselves ushered into the party. A Christmas tree dominated one end of the living room. It had colored lights and balls and tinsel, a star on top, and presents underneath.
The living room and dining room were separated by huge double doors. The dining room table had been pushed up against the wall to hold the buffet. A table on the opposite wall served as a bar. A third table held the punch bowls. There were two of them, tidily labeled ALCOHOLIC and NONALCOHOLIC.
Despite Cora’s fears, more than a dozen guests were already there. Standing by the punch bowl was a beefy man with a jowled face, bald head, and enormous muttonchop sideburns. They were long, thick, and bushy, as might have befitted a Dickens scholar, a Dickens character, or even Dickens himself. He clutched a martini glass in a meaty hand that would have looked more fitting with a tankard of ale. He gestured with it as he talked, as if driving points home with vermouth and gin. The man had Chief Harper buttonholed, and it did not look as if there was any immediate chance of escape.
Sherry glanced around to find her aunt had rapidly bypassed the punch bowls in favor of the bar, and was already pouring some amber liquid or other over a glass of cracked ice. Sherry started across the room to add her customary word of caution, but Cora swept on to look out the patio’s glass double door. As she did, Harvey Beerbaum came up behind her, spun her around, and kissed her.
Cora came up for air, blinking and sputtering in shock and surprise. “Harvey Beerbaum! Are you drunk? What in the world’s got into you?”
Harvey grinned and pointed over her head. “Mistletoe. Can’t buck tradition, now, can we?” He chuckled. “You’d better move away, unless you want the men forming a line.”
“Well, you old rascal,” Cora said. “Is this a habit with you, or am I your first victim?”
“Oh, what a nasty word.” Harvey’s piggy eyes twinkled. “I admit I laid in wait for you. To catch you in something for once.”
Cora’s heart skipped, as it always did when Harvey alluded to their respective skills. The prospect of Harvey catching her in something was a very genuine possibility. However, Harvey seemed in an exuberant mood. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he declared. “I’ve got someone who wants to meet you.”
“Oh?” Cora said without enthusiasm. Harvey’s contacts in
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