“Nick, are these wonton wrappers?” asks Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid, holding one up.
Emma’s father does all the cooking in her family. He nods. “Yup, with brie inside, and just a smidge of cranberry chutney. What do you think?”
“Fabulous!” Cassidy’s mother tells him. “You deep-fried them, right?”
He nods again. “I thought maybe the green onion ‘ribbon’ was a bit much, but that’s what the recipe called for, and I thought, oh, what the heck. Might as well go whole hog. It’s New Year’s Eve, after all.”
“They’re perfect! I’m stealing the idea from you for one of my shows.”
“Help yourself.”
We do, and the pile on the platter rapidly disappears.
“So how does this thing work tonight?” asks Darcy. “When we’re finished eating here, we head off to the next stop?”
My mother reaches into her purse and pulls out a sheaf of handouts. “I’ve got it all planned out,” she replies. “I made maps for everyone.”
Of course she did. My mother is nuts about maps.
“Half of you left your cars at Clementine’s, right?”
Heads bob up and down around the room.
“Good. We’ll walk up to the Chadwicks’ next for soup, then to Clementine’s for salad. From there we’ll caravan to the Delaneys’ for the main course, and back to the tea shop for dessert. After that, you’ll simply walk back to wherever your cars are parked and drive home.” She looks around the room, obviously pleased with herself. “I thought it might be nice to celebrate the holiday by reducing our carbon footprint.”
Only my mother could make a New Year’s Eve party sound like a chemistry test.
“Thank you, Lily, for your earnest and thoughtful planning,” says Mrs. Hawthorne, who is good at being diplomatic. “You are a true citizen of the world. Now before we move on to the Chadwicks’, I’d like to propose a toast.”
We all reach for our punch cups.
“To all our dear friends who are gathered under our roof tonight—may the new year bring you peace and prosperity!”
“Hear, hear!” echoes Mr. Hawthorne, clinking his punch cup against Gigi’s.
Across the room, I see Mr. and Mrs. Chadwick’s eyes meet at the mention of the word “prosperity.” They still don’t know that we know about him losing his job. Becca or no Becca, the surprise we have in store for them is going to be the best part about tonight.
I clink my punch cup against Emma’s and Stewart’s as Mrs. Hawthorne continues.
“When we were planning this party,” she says, “the other mothers and I thought it might be fun to mix a little book club business in with the merriment.”
Emma stiffens at the words “the other mothers.” She’s convinced this always means trouble. Maybe it does, because Dylan and Ryan both groan.
“Hush, boys,” says Mrs. Delaney. “Just think—if it weren’t for our book club, we probably wouldn’t be here right now, eating this yummy food. In fact, we might not even all be friends.”
The room falls silent as we consider this prospect. It’s true, I guess, but it’s hard to imagine. We’ve been together for nearly five years. Well, most of us. I flick a quick glance at Becca, who’s carefully studying the mushroom on her plate.
“Another toast!” says Mr. Delaney, and we raise our punch cups again. “To the Mother-Daughter Book Club, the tie that binds us all together.”
We drink to that, too.
“It’s just a tiny bit of book club business I was referring to, boys,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “We thought it would be fun to answer one book club question at each of our stops tonight, and then do the Big Reveal for the person whose house we’re at, so they can find out the identity of their Secret Santa. That way, their new ornament can go right onto the tree.”
“Are we supposed to answer the questions too?” asks Darcy.
His mother looks at him over her glasses. “If you’re qualified to do so.” Reaching into the pocket of her sweater, she pulls out a slip of paper. “With no further ado, then, here’s the first one: Which Betsy-Tacy character are you most like, and why?”
“I’m out,” says Darcy cheerfully. “Not qualified.”
“That’s easy,” says Emma. “Betsy Ray, because she wants to be a writer.”
Her mother nods. “Same for me, but because of her love of books.”
“Aren’t you Miss Sparrow?” asks Mrs. Chadwick, frowning.
“Too obvious,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “I love Miss Sparrow, but just because she’s the town librarian doesn’t mean she’s the character I most identify with.”
“But the question wasn’t which character you most identify with, it’s which one you’re most like,” Mrs. Chadwick replies, clearly not willing to let it go.
“Fine,” says Mrs. Hawthorne with a sigh. “I’ll be Miss Sparrow. Who are you, Calliope?”
“Mrs. Poppy,” Emma whispers to me, and I nearly choke on my stuffed mushroom.
“Isn’t it obvious?” says Mrs. Chadwick, looking around the room. She seems a little puzzled by our grins. “I’m Mrs. Ray.”
“I would have pegged you for Mrs. Muller,” says Mrs. Delaney mildly.
Mrs. Chadwick shakes her head. “Not me at all,” she says. “She’s so strict.”
Emma and I grin at each other.
“I think you’re Mrs. Kelly,” Cassidy’s mother says to Mrs. Delaney.
“Except I don’t have ten children.”
“No, but you have twins, and that counts as double at least, I’d say.” Everybody laughs.
“In that case,” says Jess’s mother, “I feel free to nominate you to be the glamorous Aunt Dolly.”
Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid inclines her head. “How very generous of you, Shannon. I graciously accept.”
“And I see Lily as Miss Clarke,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “Remember? The Deep Valley High teacher who assigns the essay on ‘Conservation of our Natural Resources.’”
“Touché,” says Mrs. Wong. “I accept.”
“What, no Marmee moment this time around?” says Emma’s father.
The first year of our book club, our mothers almost got into an argument about which of them was most like Marmee in Little Women.
“Nope,” says Mrs. Hawthorne cheerfully. “No Marmee moment. How about you girls, though? Who do you think you’re most like, Jess?”
“Julia, because she loves music.”
Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid nods thoughtfully. “I see a lot of Julia Ray in Courtney, too. Julia’s such a good big sister to Betsy, the same way Courtney’s a good big sister to Cassidy. Right, Cass?”
“Yeah,” says Cassidy. “Most of the time. Except when she goes off and gets—”
Her mother gives her a warning look.
“Who do you see yourself as, Cassidy?” asks Mrs. Hawthorne.
“She’s Winona,” says Emma. “Or maybe Tacy, because she’s not interested in boys.”
Becca snorts at this pronouncement, and Cassidy gives her the stink-eye.
“I didn’t ask you, daughter mine,” Mrs. Hawthorne tells Emma. She looks expectantly at Cassidy.
“I guess maybe Tacy, because she has red hair,” Cassidy replies. “Or Tib, because she skates and plays basketball.”
“I think you’re more of a Bonnie Andrews,” says Becca.
“That’s an interesting choice,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “What made you think of her for Cassidy?”
Becca shrugs and looks down at her plate, but she can’t keep the smirk off her face.
Emma leans over to me. “Bonnie stole Tony from Betsy in Heaven to Betsy, remember?”
Uh-oh, I think, hoping Cassidy doesn’t pick up on this. There could be trouble otherwise.
Sensing an undercurrent, Mrs. Hawthorne wisely moves on. “How about you, Megan?” she asks, turning to me.
“Miss Mix,” says Emma, and her mother sighs. Emma gives me a guilty look. “Sorry.”
“I know she’s Deep Valley’s dressmaker and everything, but I
think I’m more like Tib,” I tell her. “Remember how she made all her own clothes? She was always sewing something.”
“And Midge Gerlach, the real Tib, became a dress designer in Chicago when she grew up,” says Mrs. Chadwick triumphantly. “There’s a fun fact for you.”
“Fascinating,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “Okay, Megan, then you’re Tib for sure.”
“And my daughter is Carney,” says Mrs. Chadwick. “She’s so fun-loving and popular.”
Now it’s Cassidy’s turn to snort.
“Hey,” says Jess. “We forgot Gigi.”
Everyone looks over at my grandmother.
“Mrs. Poppy,” she replies. “I’m definitely Mrs. Poppy.” We all burst out laughing. My tiny little grandmother is about as far as you can get from enormous Mrs. Poppy. She looks at us, wide-eyed. “I’m serious! I may not look like her, but Mrs. Poppy loves to throw parties and have fun.”
“True,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “Well done. Okay, it’s time for the first Big Reveal. Would Emma’s Secret Santa please stand up?”
Emma looks expectantly at Becca. This strikes me as a little odd, but even odder is her reaction when I set down my plate and cup and rise to my feet.
“You were my Secret Santa?” she exclaims, clearly shocked.
I shrug. “Yeah. Didn’t you guess?”
She gives me a funny look. “Nope. Never in a million years.”
I fish in my purse for the small package I tucked inside. It wasn’t hard to find the perfect ornament for Emma.
She takes it from me kind of hesitantly.
“Well,” prods her mother. “Aren’t you going to unwrap it?”
Emma looks reluctant as she unties the ribbon. “Oh,” she says when she sees what’s inside, sounding surprised again. “It’s—it’s wonderful. Thanks, Megan.”
“You’re welcome.”
“What is it?” asks Stewart.
Emma dangles it in front of him. “A miniature book of poetry,” she says. “Shakespeare’s Sonnets. And there’s a note inside from Miss Sparrow.” She reads it aloud: ‘To Betsy: You’re at the age when poetry sinks in.’ That’s what Miss Sparrow tells her in Betsy in Spite of Herself.”
“Cool,” says Stewart.
“A gift from Deep Valley’s librarian to a librarian’s daughter,” says Mrs. Chadwick, nodding approvingly. “Well done, Megan.”
Emma crosses the room and hangs it on the tree, then turns and smiles at me. She still looks a little puzzled, though. “Thanks again, Megs—I love it.”
“What about Phoebe’s present?” says Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid. “Or did someone forget?”
Mrs. Delaney raises her hand. “Guilty as charged. Sorry, Phoebe, you’ll just have to wait until we get to our house.”
“No problem,” says Mrs. Hawthorne.
“All right, everyone—time to move this party along!” says Mr. Hawthorne, clapping his hands. “If you wouldn’t mind clearing your dishes and taking them to the kitchen before you grab your coats, the management would be most appreciative.”
I file out of the living room and down the hall behind Emma and Jess. They’re whispering about something; I can’t quite tell what. I do manage to catch Becca’s name, though, and mine. Jess pauses by the kitchen doorway, leaning on her crutches, while Emma crosses the room to the sink, carrying their cups and plates. I scoot up behind her and give her a nudge.
“What’s going on?”
She swivels around. “Uh, nothing,” she replies. She flicks a glance at Jess though, so I can tell this isn’t true.
“Yes there is.”
“It’s no big deal,” says Emma. “Really.”
“You’re acting weird. Didn’t you like my Secret Santa presents?”
“Yeah. Sure. They were great.” But her voice is flat and expressionless.
Hurt, I open my mouth to say something else, then close it again. Brushing past Jess, I go back down the hall for my coat, and a minute later I’m out on the sidewalk, my breath making frosty puffs of white in the cold air.
Gigi tucks her arm through mine. “Isn’t this fun?” she asks, giving me a squeeze. “I can’t wait until the grand finale, can you?”
“Uh-huh,” I tell her. But I’m not really looking forward to the rest of the evening. Between what’s going on with Becca and me, and whatever it is that’s bugging Emma, something’s brewing. This New Year’s Eve party has the potential to be a disaster.
Emma
“The rambling white house at the end of Hill Street was full of greens and Christmas cheer. The Crowd played games, and the refreshments—as always at the Kelly house—were superabundant.”
—Heaven to Betsy
I puzzle over the Secret Santa surprise all the way to the Chadwicks’.
“I just don’t get it,” I tell Jess, who’s gamely pegging her way down the sidewalk beside me. Because of Jess’s crutches, we’re taking up the rear of the procession, right behind Stewart and Darcy, who are energetically dissecting the Boston Bruins’ latest game. “I was so sure it was Becca! And now—well, now I don’t know what to think.”
“Yeah, I know,” she replies. “It doesn’t make sense that Megan would give you all those snarky gifts and then pull a switcheroo with that fabulous ornament.”
“Exactly!”
We mull it over some more, but aren’t any wiser by the time we reach the Chadwicks’ house.
“Hey, you guys,” says Cassidy, galloping over to us as we step inside. She’s giving Chloe a piggyback ride, and she lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Is it just me, or have you noticed that Megan and Becca are acting a little weird tonight?”
Jess and I crane our necks in tandem, trying to see over the knot of parents clogging the front hall.
“Way to attract attention, dudes,” says Cassidy in disgust. Chloe’s teeny voice pipes up, “DOODS! DOODS!” She’s echoing everything Cassidy says these days, which is adorable. I feel a pang when I think of her moving away to California too. I’d miss Chloe almost as much as Cassidy if they end up leaving Concord.
“Just keep an eye peeled, and see if you think I’m crazy,” Cassidy continues. “It’s like they’re going out of their way not to talk to each other or even look at each other.”
Jess and I exchange a glance. Been there, done that, glad it’s over.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” Cassidy continues. “See what you think.”
We nod as Mrs. Chadwick comes over and closes the door behind us. “Now that everyone is here,” she says in a loud voice, “I’d like to welcome you to the second stop on our Betsy-Tacy New Year’s Eve progressive dinner!”
“We really should make it an annual tradition,” says Gigi, her dark eyes sparkling. “This is fun.”
“The only problem with that,” says my mother, “is that it would mean permanently giving up my celebration with Mr. Darcy, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”
My father slips his arm around her waist. “Am I not a worthy substitute?” He pulls her under the mistletoe hanging from the hall chandelier and gives her a resounding kiss.
“KISS!” shrieks Chloe, pointing at them. “KISS, KISS, KISS!”
“Nicholas! You’re scaring the children!” scolds my mother, pretending to be angry with him.
My father waggles his eyebrows and grins. “Nonsense. I’m just getting into the spirit of things. Mistletoe abounds in Deep Valley, and I seem to recall Maud Hart Lovelace penned several holiday snogging scenes in her immortal tomes.”
My mouth drops open. “Did you read the Betsy-Tacy books, Dad?”
He shrugs. “You and your mother gushed over them so much, I had to see what all the fuss was about. A little girly for my taste, but overall, quite delightful.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call them ‘snogging scenes,’ dear,” my mother says primly. “The word ‘spooning’ would be more appropriate in this case.”
“Were kisses involved?” my father demands, waggling his eyebrows again.
“KISS,
KISS, KISS!” cries Chloe again, twirling around the hallway.
“Well, yes,” my mother concedes.
“I rest my case.” He lunges for her again. She squeals and dodges him, pretending to hide behind Mr. Wong.
“My turn,” says Jess’s father, pulling Mrs. Delaney under the mistletoe. Things get a little crazy after that, with Mr. Wong kissing Mrs. Wong, Stanley Kinkaid kissing Cassidy’s mother, and Cassidy and Gigi both kissing Chloe, who’s still shrieking, “KISS, KISS, KISS!”
Mrs. Chadwick makes a big show of crossing her arms and tapping her foot. “If you are all quite finished, the soup is getting cold,” she says sternly.
“Calliope?” says Mr. Chadwick.
“Yes, Henry?”
“I believe the soup could use one more thing.”
Mrs. Chadwick frowns. “And what would that be?”
“A SPOON!” He swoops in for a kiss, much to the delight of the rest of us. We whistle and clap and cheer him on. All except Becca, that is, who looks totally disgusted. Not that I don’t sympathize. Parental spooning is downright embarrassing.
“Really, Henry,” says Mrs. Chadwick reproachfully, when she finally manages to disentangle herself. Her cheeks are pink and she looks pleased, though. “As I was saying, help yourselves to soup, and then bring it into the living room. We have a little surprise for you.”
“Another one?” jokes my father.
Mrs. Chadwick gives him a look.
As everybody heads down the hall toward the dining room, a pair of arms slip around me from behind. It’s Stewart.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he says softly, pulling me back toward the chandelier.
I don’t usually like PDA—I’m private about all that stuff. But for one thing nobody’s looking, and for another, well, it’s New Year’s Eve. Plus, kissing Stewart is the perfect antidote to last year’s disastrous under-the-mistletoe kiss from Rupert Loomis, the one I was tricked into by Annabelle “Just Call Me Stinkerbelle” Fairfax. Which reminds me—
“Stewart!” I gasp, breaking away.
“What?”
“I totally forgot to tell you—I got a letter from Rupert’s aunt today.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You did? What did she—hey, wait a minute, how come kissing me reminded you of Rupert?”