How to Host a Holiday (The Prequel to Ivy Stratton & the Time Machine) Read online

  How to Host a Holiday

  by

  Kathleen Kitson

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  Preview: How To Forget Your (Boy)friend

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2012 Kathleen Kitson

  Cover Design by Damonza

  First edition: November 2012

  All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to another person. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share with, or use the proper retail channels to lend a copy. To use material from this book, prior written permission must be obtained at [email protected].

  Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ONE

  “Hey, Doll, why are you in the kitchen so early? You’re missing the Parade!” Giuseppe calls to me from the family room.

  My husband’s voice is music to my ears as I stand in the kitchen, cooking a special Christmas breakfast for him. Even though this is supposedly the most important meal of the day, I’m not much of a breakfast person. But Giuseppe is.

  Whereas I’m fine with subsisting on freshly brewed tea in the mornings and waiting to eat my first meal around noon or even one o’clock, Giuseppe is one of those people who is hungry as soon as he wakes up, and his day is off kilter until his stomach is full.

  So, I got up early this morning, tiptoed into the kitchen, and put a frilly little apron over my candy cane patterned flannel PJ’s to make G (“G” has been Giuseppe’s nickname since the 9th grade) a breakfast he won’t forget. Bacon, eggs, grapefruit wedges, orange juice…and I’m finally putting that Belgian waffle maker we got as a wedding present to good use.

  From where I stand while stirring my homemade waffle batter, the view out of the bay window into our backyard is cozy. Colorful lights twinkle on the rails of our deck, and the grass and all of the fir trees are blanketed in a heavy layer of snow. Upon closer inspection, I realize that flurries are still falling, and it truly feels like I’m in a scene in a painting.

  In the background, the sound system speakers are blasting Dean Martin singing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” and I sigh contentedly. At the risk of sounding like a total Pollyanna, I feel truly grateful for everything and blessed.

  In the glow of this absolutely perfect moment, any past worries and troubles I’ve ever faced fade into oblivion. Who could truly ask for anything more?

  I’m sprinkling powdered sugar over a perfect waffle (and admiring the sparkle and shine of my Cartier engagement ring and wedding band) when Giuseppe comes walking into the kitchen, singing along with Dean.

  He winks at me as he sings, “Gosh, your lips are delicious…” in perfect tune, and I giggle when he pulls me into his arms.

  I feel the scruff of his morning beard against my cheek just as the smoke alarm goes off.

  We look around the kitchen to find out what set off the alarm, but see nothing. The stovetop is warm, but the bacon and eggs have been cooling for a few minutes, and the waffle iron isn’t smoking either.

  G stands on a chair and disables the smoke alarm…but it keeps beeping.

  Suddenly, despite my cozy pajamas, I feel very chilly. As in--my elbows, ears and toes are freezing. And…is that drool I feel sliding down my face?

  With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I put two and two together, and realize I’m dreaming.

  The smoke alarm is my alarm clock.

  And my elbows, ears, and toes are cold because I’ve probably kicked my covers off during the night.

  I regretfully say goodbye to my perfect fantasy of Christmas morning with G, open my eyes, and silence the alarm.

  The good news is, the Christmas tunes don’t fade away with the dream. Thanks to the playlist I’ve programmed to start ten minutes before my alarm every morning, I am waking up to the sounds of a rich, deep voice crooning about roasting chestnuts on an open fire.

  Ahhh…between the likes of Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole, and Michael Bublé, my apartment is always alive with the sounds of holiday music this time of year.

  The bad news is: Yes, I am drooling.

  I check my phone to verify the date. It’s 9 A.M. on December 24th.

  I venture a glance at my left hand--even though I already know the answer to this question.

  No ring.

  And no Giuseppe either.

  TWO

  Pushing disappointment aside, I lie in bed savoring the music for a few more moments, and as soon as I’m fully coherent, my mind shifts to the weather.

  I hop out of bed, run to the window, and breathe a sigh of relief that the skies are clear. As perfect as the snow felt in my dream, the last thing I want to do today is drive around and run a million errands in the middle of a snowstorm.

  In fact, despite my phone displaying a current local temperature of 36 degrees, and the fact that my neighbors up and down the block have taken advantage of the warmer weather to deck their halls (well, yards) to the fullest, it looks like anything but Christmas Eve.

  The St. Louis winter has been mild thus far, and the still-green grass and blue skies look more typical of an early Fall day. This continuation of a streak of unseasonably warm weather is fantastic news, since the local meteorologists have been predicting a white Christmas for the past 36 hours.

  Now, I have nothing against snow, and definitely nothing against a white Christmas…but, due to my busy work schedule, and all of the time I spend sitting around complaining to my best friend Stella about my lack of an exciting personal life, I have procrastinated getting my Christmas shopping done. This wouldn’t be such a bad thing, because I’m the queen of giving online gift certificates--but this year, I’ve volunteered to host Christmas dinner for Stella, my other best friend, Giuseppe, and my boss, Sy.

  But I don’t have a thing in the refrigerator--let alone a turkey and trimmings.

  Therefore, it’s time to go shopping.

  I’m brewing a hot cup of tea (and the kitchen in my real life apartment does not have a large bay window) when Stella calls.

  “Do I need to bring anything tomorrow?”

  “Nope. I’ve got this under control.”

  “Ivy. Have you even started cooking yet?”

  “No! That defeats the whole purpose. I want everything to be hot and fresh when we sit down to dinner.”

  “But it’s Christmas. You have to start cooking in advance unless you want to spend the whole day in the kitchen.”

  “Stella, trust me. I have it all planned out. When I get home from the grocery store, I’ll start a few things, like chopping veggies for the stuffing. And I’ll brine the turkey overnight—”

  “Wait. You haven’t gotten the groceries yet?”

  “No, I’m going to run out this morning.”

  “You’re in over your head. Do you want to call this off and we can all just go out to dinner tomorrow? I’m sure there will be some restaurants open.”

  “I can handle this. It’ll be the most perfect, cozy, gourmet dinner you’ve ever attended. And after dinner, I thought we could watch some movies. I have Meet Me in St. Louis,
and Christmas In Connecticut, and It’s a Wonderful Life. Or, we could play a board game…”

  I can sense Stella’s disapproval through her silence.

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I just-—remember that guy in my office, Grant? The one from Florida?”

  “Oh, yeah. The one you flirt with at the latte machine.”

  “Right.” Stella pauses and draws in a deep breath. “Well. He had plans to drive home overnight, but with the storm they’re predicting, he thinks he should stay put. So, I was wondering if I could invite him to your dinner?”

  “Sure.”

  “You sure? Because if not, it’s ok. I haven’t mentioned it to him yet.”

  “No, no, it’s fine. It’ll be fun. And he can meet Giuseppe.”

  “Is he still coming?”

  Stella’s question is slightly alarming. Because she’s bringing up one of G’s worst traits: General Flakiness.

  “He said he was the last time I talked to him.”

  “When was that?”

  “Last night.”

  “Oh. Ok.”

  “What? Do you think I should call him? Just to be sure?”

  “No. It’s just—I feel like you think you’re going to be able to create this perfect…moment where you and Giuseppe will lock gazes and ask each other why you ever broke up in the first place. And I’m just worried it’s just not going to turn out that way.”

  “Stella, I really appreciate your concern. But don’t worry about me. I’m just hosting a dinner party, not trying to get back together with an ex. Giuseppe and I have been doing fine as just friends for the last several years.”

  “But you do like him. At least sometimes—you’ve admitted it. And you’ve always said you would date him again if the moment was right. And you get super annoyed when he flakes on plans or starts dating a new girl.”

  “That’s true. All of it. But seriously, I just want to throw a dinner party. And I don’t have family in town, and Sy’s all alone, and G’s always up for a good meal, so I just wanted to throw something fun together.” Even as I’m trying to reassure Stella, I feel myself getting anxious wondering if G will even show up.

  “Ok, Ivy. But you know my thoughts on this. If you really want G to think about dating you again, you need to spend some time away from him. And I know everyone says the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but we both know Giuseppe’s not the type of man who’s going to have a relationship epiphany over organic turkey and cranberry relish.”

  I sigh loudly. “Ok, ok. Point taken, Stella.”

  “And now I’m done—I won’t bring it up again. So, I’ll be there after I leave my parents’ party. My mom serves dinner at 1 on the dot, so I should get to your house around 4 at the latest. Can’t say I’ll be hungry, but I’ll be there!”

  “Great. I’ll be ready to serve dinner around 5, so that’s perfect.”

  “And it’s no problem for Grant to come?”

  “Not at all! But, listen, I have to run. I really do have to shop.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to bring anything? My mom will have tons of leftovers.”

  “No! I do not need your mom’s leftovers. I’m perfectly capable of pulling this off.”

  “If you say so.”

  As soon as Stella and I hang up the phone, I resist the urge to text or call Giuseppe to confirm that he’s coming. Instead, I jump in the shower, pull my hair up into a ponytail, and 45 minutes later, I’m pulling into the parking lot of a nearby grocery store.

  Before I even set foot in the store, the parking lot is a foreboding prequel of what’s to come inside. It’s never a good sign when you have to circle the lot for 10 minutes before finding a space that’s a half a mile away from the door.

  After I get inside, I grab the second to last grocery cart and scroll through the notes on my phone to locate my shopping list. Despite the current empty state of my fridge, cooking is something I’m good at; it’s the act of shopping that I dislike.

  I’m waiting for someone to develop a shopping app that allows you to choose your groceries, pay online and have them delivered to your doorstep. When that happens, I’ll make gourmet meals every day.

  Until then, I’m reserving time consuming and labor intensive meals for fancy dates and special occasions--like this Christmas dinner.

  While I’m comparing brands of vanilla extract for the pecan pie, I feel my brain drifting off into forbidden territory--aka, dreamland. I’m not making this pie because I particularly like pecan pie. In fact, I dislike it. But I’m making it because I know that it’s G’s favorite dessert.

  As soon as she sees it, Stella will tilt her head and give me a disapproving stare.

  And she’s right. In the very back of my mind, I’m more than a little bit hopeful, that somehow…something about tomorrow’s dinner will make G want to give us another try.

  So, naturally, everything has to be perfect.

  THREE

  Six hours and four grocery stores later, I pull into the driveway of my apartment, annoyed at myself for picking recipes that contain ingredients I had to hunt down at multiple stores. Still, it’s only a quarter to five, and the night is young. I have six or seven solid hours of cooking ahead of me.

  The wind has picked up, and it feels a lot colder than the current temperature of 34 degrees. It looks like Winter has decided to settle in and put its feet up for a while.

  I sit in the car for a good 10 minutes, willing myself to get out and carry the groceries into the house. I live in a charming little duplex apartment in University City that was converted to a duplex about twenty years ago.

  I live in the upstairs unit, and a cute little family lives downstairs--for now. What sometimes gives me pause is that Mindy and I moved into these apartments at the same time--around 8 years ago when I started working for Sy.

  And whereas my life has stayed pretty much the same, hers has been a whirlwind of relationships and breakups. Shortly after we first moved in, she got engaged to her college sweetheart, then he got a job in New York and they broke up after an unsuccessful run at long distance dating. Next, she dated a dashing millionaire (who she just happened to meet at the local grocery store) and after nearly a year, they decided they would be better off as friends, so they broke up.

  To clear her head, she took a two week vacation to South America, and ended up joining a humanitarian organization. While I watered her plants and forwarded her mail, she spent six months in Argentina with this organization, where she dated and nearly married a dangerously good looking professional soccer player…but when she realized she was homesick for Missouri and he had no interest in leaving Argentina, she returned to St. Louis with a plan to refrain from dating for at least a year.

  Of course, the day after she made that plan, she promptly bumped into Cooper, an old friend from elementary school. He swept her off her feet, they got married four months later, and now, three years later, they are the proud parents of six month old twin boys.

  Even though we’re technically more neighbors than friends, Mindy and I have a pretty good acquaintance-ship going. We invite each other over for tea and breakfast, and we have a long standing habit of going on epic estate sale adventures together.

  Now, every time I see the little “For Rent” sign in our front yard, I feel a little pang of sadness that she, Cooper, and the little ones will be leaving soon. Whereas our rather spacious apartments are a great space for one and cozy for two, the jump from two to four has caused some space issues in their unit, and they now have their eye on a fixer upper in Webster Groves, about 20 minutes away.

  They will also be attending my Christmas dinner, and it will be a sort of goodbye party, since it appears that they will be moving some time in the next 60 days.

  I’m still sitting in the driveway, enjoying the blast of heat coming from the vents, and waiting for Ella Fitzgerald to finish the final notes of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” when Mindy knocks at my window
.

  I jump about a foot, having been fully engrossed in humming along to the music, and open my door. No time like the present to start carting multiple bags of groceries.

  “You ok?” she asks, bouncing from one foot to the other and rubbing her arms. She’s wearing a light sweatshirt, but even in my ruby red pea coat, I can tell the temperature has dropped considerably since my shopping excursion began earlier in the day.

  “Yeah, just getting my thoughts together before I go inside.”

  Mindy gives me a concerned look--a look that she has perfected since becoming a mom--and follows me to the back of the car, where I open up the trunk to get the groceries.

  Mindy gasps. “I thought you said this was a small party!”

  “It is. You guys, Stella, G, and Sy. Oh, and a guy Stella’s sort of dating at her job.”

  “Ivy, there is enough food for 25 people in this trunk. And haven’t you already been cooking this week?”

  I shake my head. “No, the bookstore has been crazy all week. I haven’t had a second to sit still and just breathe until today.”

  Mindy is incredulous as we carry the bags inside. She opens the door to her unit and yells to Cooper to stir the rice cereal, but not to feed the babies yet because it’s too hot, and she’ll be back downstairs in a minute. As we climb the flight of stairs to my apartment, she turns her attention back to me.

  “You do know it’s Christmas Eve, right?”

  “I know, I know. But it’s just now 5 o’clock. I almost have a full 24 hours before dinner is served.”

  We drop the bags on the kitchen counter and head back downstairs and out to the car for round two.

  Mindy helps me put all of the perishables away, then surveys my apartment. The front door opens into a big, airy living room/dining room combo, with big windows in each room, and warm, reddish hardwood floors that are well worn. The architecture is not contemporary, but I’ve added a modern touch with some sleek, oversized furniture.

  Beyond the entertaining area is a small hallway that leads to my kitchen and guest bathroom to the left, and my bedroom and bathroom on the right.