The Mother-Daughter Book Club

  “You and your brother can take turns on the way home,” Mr. Delaney promises. He waits until we’re all seated, then flaps the reins. Led and Zep heave their way forward through the snow.

  Slowly we pick up speed, and as the horses break into a slow trot and we begin to glide I suddenly feel giddy. I must be smiling because my mother is smiling back at me, and so are Dad and Jess. In fact, we’re all smiling. Riding in a sleigh is magical. There’s just the wind and the snow and the steady muffled clop of the horses’ hooves and the hiss of the sleigh’s runners and the rhythmic jangling of bells. It’s like flying, only better.

  “Now, this is the way to travel,” says my mother dreamily, snuggling close to my dad. “I feel like a character out of one of Jane Austen’s books.”

  My dad puts his arm around her. “Or Little Women,” he adds, winking at me and Jess.

  As we whiz along Lowell Road toward Strawberry Hill, I wonder if this is what the olden days felt like. If so, the olden days were a lot more fun than I imagined.

  We reach the Wongs’ driveway and there’s Mr. Wong, sitting a top a small red snowplow. He waves happily at us and toots the horn.

  “See?” my father whispers to my mother. “I told you so.”

  My mother giggles, which is not a sound she usually makes. She sounds—well, like a girl. My dad is right. Snowstorms do bring out the kid in everyone.

  “Perfect timing!” shouts Mr. Wong. “I just finished clearing a path—I’ll go and get Lily and Megan!”

  A couple of minutes later the Wongs appear and we all shove over to make room for them.

  “Hey, Megs,” says my brother, who is one of the few people who can call Megan by her kindergarten nickname and get away with it.

  “Hey,” she replies, giving him a quick smile. For a brief second I see a flash of the old Megan, the pre-Fab Four Megan. The Megan I still miss and wish I had back for a friend. Just as quickly, though, the smile disappears, leaving in its place the Megan who isn’t interested in being my friend. The Megan who let Becca Chadwick read my journal out loud.

  As the sleigh pulls forward again, Megan avoids looking at me and Jess and fiddles with her cell phone instead. I figure she’s probably text messaging the Fab Four, telling them what a stupid idea this is, but for once I don’t let it bother me. I pull the blankets up under my chin and watch the snow drift down over the fields and trees and stone walls that give way to houses as we draw closer to town.

  “A real blast from the past you have here, Michael!” Mr. Wong calls to Mr. Delaney, who turns around in the driver’s seat and smiles at us.

  “I thought you’d like it,” he replies. “Historically accurate, too. For the party, I mean. This sleigh’s over a hundred years old.” He waggles his eyebrows at his boys. “Almost as old as I am.”

  The twins snicker.

  As we approach town, people spot us and actually come out of their houses to wave and cheer us on. I guess it’s not every day you see a sleigh driving through the streets of Concord, Massachusetts.

  “Look, dear, there’s Calliope Chadwick,” says my father, pointing to the doorway of a huge white colonial-style house.

  My mother grits her teeth in a smile. “Merry Christmas!” she calls.

  Mrs. Chadwick starts to wave, then sees that it’s us. She scowls and goes back inside, slamming the door.

  “Ah, the Christmas spirit,” says my father. “Such a beautiful thing.”

  The grown-ups all laugh.

  “I’ll bet this is just what everything looked like when the Alcotts lived here,” Jess whispers.

  I nod. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

  Mr. Delaney starts to hum “Jingle Bells,” and my mom quickly picks up the tune. Soon, we’re all singing—all except for Megan, who’s still busy with her cell phone.

  Snow sifts down, but more slowly now. The blizzard is finally dying out. We sing all the way down Monument Street, past houses lit by candlelight and past the Colonial Inn and past the festive storefronts of Main Street. We’re still singing as we pull up in front of the Sloanes’ house. Their front door flies open and Cassidy comes shooting out like a cannonball. Her mother and sister are right behind her.

  “No fair!” Cassidy shouts. “I want a ride!”

  “Hop in,” Mr. Delaney tells her as the rest of us all climb out. “I’ll take you for a spin around the block.”

  “Go ahead inside and get warm,” says Mrs. Sloane as she steps into the sleigh. “Well, sort of warm. The electricity’s still out, but I managed to get a fire going in the living room.”

  Mr. Delaney passes a bulging backpack down to Darcy. “I brought our old camp stove,” he tells Cassidy’s mother. “Figured we could make cocoa this way. And there’s fresh goat’s milk in case you’re out of the regular stuff.”

  “Goat Girl,” Megan whispers to Jess, low enough so that the grown-ups can’t hear.

  “Shut up, Megan,” I whisper back. I take Jess’s mittened hand and squeeze it.

  “Oh, and there are hot dogs and buns, and marshmallows, too,” Mr. Delaney adds. “And the apples that Lily wanted.”

  “Perfect! Thank you, Michael,” Mrs. Sloane says, and there’s a chorus of “thank you’s” from the rest of the grown-ups. Mr. Delaney flaps the reins. The sleigh glides away.

  Inside, the living room has been transformed.

  “Wow!” says Jess, looking around in wonder. “It looks just like the movie. Little Women, I mean.”

  “No kidding,” I reply. Everything looks old-fashioned and perfect. The mantel is fringed with boughs of evergreen, and so is the top of the piano and all the end tables. Mrs. Sloane has woven clusters of red holly berries and lengths of plaid ribbon through them, and everywhere I look, there are candles. The room is practically glowing.

  “Clementine sure has a knack for decorating,” says my mother.

  My dad and Darcy get right to work on beefing up the fire, and Mr. Wong heads for the back porch with the camp stove. Meanwhile, Jess and I help Mrs. Wong and my mother set out the food. Ryan and Dylan raid the gingerbread cookies the minute our backs are turned, then scamper off with their booty to explore the house. We can hear their footsteps running up and down the stairs, and their shouts of glee when they discover the turret.

  By the time Mr. Delaney gets back with the Sloanes, the cocoa is ready.

  “Everything looks gorgeous, Clementine,” says my mother, handing her a mug of the steaming, fragrant drink. “Especially your tree. Are the ornaments antique?”

  “They are,” Mrs. Sloane replies. “I’ve collected them for years. David”—she hesitates slightly, then continues—“my husband used to give me one every year. His job took him all over the world, and he was always finding beautiful things.”

  “He sounds like a wonderful man,” says my mother quietly, patting her shoulder.

  Mrs. Wong appears carrying a platter of hot dog buns. “Thank goodness they’re whole wheat,” she says, eyeing them askance. “You don’t by any chance have tofu dogs, do you?”

  Mrs. Sloane and my mother exchange a glance. “Sorry, we’re fresh out,” says Mrs. Sloane.

  “What do you say we all get into our costumes?” my mother suggests, distracting Mrs. Wong from the menu’s failings.

  Jess and Megan and I follow Cassidy upstairs with our things. I look around her room curiously. Her bookcases are stuffed not with books but with sports trophies, and the walls are covered with posters of hockey and baseball players.

  “This one’s signed,” she says proudly, pointing to a picture of someone named Wayne Gretzky. “My dad gave it to me for my birthday two years ago.”

  “Big deal,” says Megan. “Who cares about a stupid hockey player.”

  “Wayne Gretzky isn’t a stupid hockey player!” Cassidy cries hotly. “He’s called The Great One, and he’s the most famous player in the history of the sport!”

  Megan shrugs, unimpressed.

  We change out of our warm things and pull our dresses on. Jess and Cassi
dy and I help each other with our zippers. Megan manages on her own. Cassidy leaves her sweatpants and sneakers on underneath her long dress, but the rest of us put on tights and fancier shoes.

  “May I have your attention, please!” Mrs. Sloane says dramatically as we troop back down to the living room. She looks gorgeous, of course, in a floor-length red-and-green-plaid taffeta dress that makes her look like a life-sized Christmas ornament. My parents and Megan’s parents and Mr. Delaney and Darcy and Courtney and the twins all turn around to see what’s going on. “I’d like to present our own little women!”

  Our families break into applause as the four of us straggle rather anticlimactically into the living room. Ryan and Dylan run around the room in excitement, hitting each other with sofa pillows.

  “Boys!” scolds Mr. Delaney. “Knock it off!”

  “Line up in front of the fireplace,” Mrs. Sloane tells us, and we slouch together into a stiff group. Her camera flashes and everyone applauds again.

  “Now,” says my mother, whose long, faded thrift store calico looks like a relic from Little House on the Prairie, “why don’t you tell us who you are?”

  We look at each other, embarrassed, then stare at our feet.

  “Come on,” prods Mrs. Wong. “Megan, you go first.”

  Megan shoots her mother a resentful glance. “I’m Amy,” she mumbles.

  “Ah, the artist,” says my mother, nodding sagely. “Of course. Excellent choice. How about you, Jess?”

  Jess’s voice is so low we can hardly hear her. “I’m Beth,” she replies softly.

  “The animal lover!” says Mrs. Sloane.

  “Goat Girl,” whispers Megan.

  “And the musician, too,” adds my mother. “Very appropriate.”

  “How about you, Emma?” asks Mrs. Wong. “Who are you?”

  “Jo,” I tell her. “Because I want to be a writer.”

  My father beams at me. “Like father, like daughter,” he says proudly.

  Mrs. Sloane, who is standing next to him, frowns. “I thought you’d choose Meg,” she says.

  I shake my head. “Nope,” I tell her. “I’m Jo.”

  “But Cassidy is Jo,” she protests. “We need a Meg!”

  Everyone looks over at Cassidy, who folds her arms defiantly across her chest. “Mom wouldn’t let me be Laurie,” she says.

  “Who’s Laurie?” asks my brother. “I thought there were only four sisters.”

  “Laurie is a boy,” my mother replies.

  “A boy named Laurie?” my brother sounds incredulous. “How lame is that?”

  “Actually, he’s Theodore Laurence,” says my mother. “The March girls call him Laurie for short.”

  “Except girls back then wouldn’t wear this,” says Megan, her hand darting out. She hoists up the hem of Cassidy’s dress, revealing the sweatpants and sneakers underneath. Everybody laughs. Cassidy twitches her dress away angrily.

  “Actually,” says my mother, “that’s exactly what Jo would do. She was a tomboy, remember? Just like Louisa.”

  “So we don’t have a Meg?” asks Mrs. Sloane, still looking dismayed.

  “It’s okay if we have two Jo’s, Clementine,” says my mother soothingly. “Really, it’s okay.”

  “How about if I’m half Jo, half Meg?” I volunteer. It is Christmas, after all..

  Mrs. Sloane brightens. “Oh, good!” she says, relieved. “Now we can take the other picture.”

  She arranges us in a pose that looks just like the Jessie Wilcox Smith illustration on the cover of our journals. Jess sits on a chair, and I stand behind her between Megan and Cassidy. “Perfect!” says Mrs. Sloane, and her camera flashes again.

  “How about you three visions of loveliness?” asks my father. “Who are you supposed to be?”

  My mother and Mrs. Wong and Mrs. Sloane all look at each other.

  “I, uh—”

  “Are you—”

  “Well, I—”

  They all speak at once, then stop, flustered. My mother turns to my father. “I think we all came dressed as Marmee,” she tells him, laughing.

  He laughs too. “Naturally! The perfect mother. Which you all are, of course.”

  I look them over. Maybe my dad is right, maybe there’s a little bit of Marmee in all of them. But I can’t helping thinking that my own mother is the most Marmee-like. Beside me, Jess shifts uncomfortably. Mr. Delaney pokes busily at the fire. I wonder if they’re thinking about Mrs. Delaney. Would she have come dressed as Marmee too?

  “Now, boys,” says Mrs. Sloane to my brother and the Delaney twins, “how about you start roasting hot dogs for us?”

  While they’re busy doing that, we spread an old quilt out in front of the fireplace and get to work making the apple slump. In a flash Mrs. Sloane has us peeling apples, chopping nuts, and mixing ingredients. Courtney brings an old-fashioned kettle from the kitchen, which my dad carefully hangs from an iron hinge on the fireplace. He swings it into position over the fire. Megan and Cassidy add in water, sugar, and cinnamon.

  “Pop the apples in when they’re ready,” Mrs. Sloane instructs the grown-ups. She turns to Jess and me. “How are you coming along with the dough?”

  “Almost done,” I tell her, as Jess and I sift together the rest of the dry ingredients. “You can add the milk, Jess.”

  She carefully pours it in, and I stir everything together. “Ready!”

  The apple slices are boiling now in the sugar water, and Mrs. Sloane drops spoonfuls of dough on top of them. She puts a cover on the kettle and swings it back over the fire. “Should be ready in half an hour,” she tells us.

  “Everybody ready for hot dogs?” asks Darcy, placing a heaping platter of them in the middle of the quilt.

  “What a feast!” says Mr. Wong, digging in.

  “Even if it’s not historically accurate,” jokes my father.

  “Or organic,” adds Mrs. Wong regretfully “Well, except for the apple slump.”

  Mr. Delaney wipes his hands on his jeans. He clears his throat. “Um, Shannon wanted me to tell you that she wishes she could be here today. Since she wasn’t able to, she sent along some presents for everyone.”

  “That’s so sweet of her” says my mother. She puts her arm around Jess and gives her a squeeze. “You have such a wonderful mother.”

  Jess’s eyes fill with tears. Poor thing. Her mother is staying in New York for the holidays. She sent train tickets for Jess and her brothers, and they’ll spend Christmas at Half Moon Farm and then travel down to New York for New Year’s. It’s not the same, though. Jess was really hoping that her mother would have come home by now.

  Mr. Delaney reaches into his backpack and distributes some packages. There are books about historical Concord for all the fathers, and bags of penny candy for the older kids and for the twins. “And these are for the members of the Mother-Daughter Book Club,” he says, handing us each a flat book with a bookmark stuck inside.

  “Little Women paper dolls?” cries Cassidy in disgust. “What am I supposed to do with these?”

  “Cassidy!” says her mother sharply. “Manners, please.”

  Cassidy heaves a dramatic sigh. She turns to Mr. Delaney. “Please tell Mrs. Delaney that the paper dolls are great!” she chirps. “Just what I wanted!”

  Mrs. Sloane shakes her head. “Hopeless,” she says wearily. “Just hopeless.”

  I pull out my bookmark. On it is a quote from Louisa May Alcott: “I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship.” Somehow I don’t think she’s talking about sailing. She’s talking about life. I read the quote again. I like it.

  Across the quilt from me, Megan is inspecting the paper dolls. “They didn’t get these dresses right,” she says.

  “How do you know that?” her mother asks.

  “Oh, some book about fashion history I found at the library. That Mrs. Hawthorne helped me find, I mean.”

  Mrs. Wong frowns, and my mother looks sheepish.

  Megan turns her attenti
on back to the paper dolls. I watch her for a minute, then suddenly I get a flash of inspiration.

  “Mrs. Sloane, do you have any colored pencils and paper we could use?” I ask.

  “Sure, honey,” she replies, pointing to a desk across the room. “Third drawer down.”

  I retrieve them and put them in front of Megan, who is still scrutinizing the book. “If the dresses in there are wrong,” I say hesitantly, “why don’t you draw some that are right?”

  Megan glances up at me through a wing of dark hair that’s partially obscuring her face. I can’t read her expression. She looks down again. Her fingers wander over to the pencils almost automatically. Without a word she picks one up, and in a flash her hand is moving swiftly over the paper and she’s completely absorbed, just the way she used to be when she was designing clothes for our Barbies.

  Hope flutters inside me as I watch her draw. It’s the old Megan, the pre-Fab Four Megan. I haven’t seen her like this since the last time we played at her old condo. Back in fourth grade, before that awful summer when she decided Becca and Ashley and Jen were cooler than me and we stopped being friends.

  Megan finishes and hands me a piece of paper. I look down at the dress that she’s sketched.

  “Wow,” I tell her. “This is amazing.”

  Megan smiles. A real Megan smile, not a fake wannabe one. I smile back.

  “It’s okay if you like that sort of thing,” adds Cassidy, craning over my shoulder to see. Her mother gives her a sharp look and mouths a word. “Contact,” maybe, or “contract”? Cassidy sighs. “I mean, yeah, cool. Good job, Megan.”

  “I love it!” I tell Megan, and I mean it. I grab the scissors and cut it out. The pink gown that she’s drawn fits my paper doll perfectly. Over on the sofa, Mrs. Wong watches us, a thoughtful look on her face.

  Courtney comes over to take a peek. She whistles. “Mom, you’ve got to see this!” she says, whisking the paper doll away from me and passing it to her mother.

  Mrs. Sloane’s eyes widen as she examines the pink dress. “Megan, they’re right—this dress is gorgeous,” she says. “You have real talent. When you get older, if you’re still interested, there are fashion designers I’d love to introduce you to.”