Chapter 9
There was a knock on the back door and then it cracked open six inches, as Kitty, Laura and Steele turned to look from the kitchen table, where they were still chatting. Laura's mother's head appeared in the gap, seeming disconnected from an actual human body. "You hoo, it's only me," she said, as she pushed the door open further. "I'm not interrupting, am I?"
"Of course you're not, Abby. Come in," said Kitty.
"Mother, what are you doing here?" asked Laura.
"Oh, one of the girls gave me a lift here after we finished our bridge party. After all, since you've got my car, I suspected you would still be here – so I thought I would come and join the fun. You don't mind, do you, Laura?"
"No, no, of course not. But if you needed your car…"
"Oh no, not at all, dear. It's just that I did not feel like going home alone when I knew the three of you would be here."
Remington smiled warmly as Abigail sat down. She was wearing a mauve twin set, black skirt and black, mid-heeled courts. "Well, the more the merrier, eh?" he said. "Here, allow me to pour you a cup of coffee, Abigail."
"Oh, thank you, Remington."
"And how was your bridge game?" asked Kitty.
"Thank you mother, it was fine. The girls asked after you, of course; you have promised to attend more often – they do wish you would come."
"I'm getting too old for bridge, Abby; at my age, you start to forget the tricks," Kitty said with a hearty chuckle.
Abigail smiled, but looked as if she disapproved of her mother's pawky humor. "So, Remington, Laura, what have you been up to all afternoon? Conspiring with mother, no doubt?"
"No conspiring required, just catching up. I haven't seen grandmother in quite a while, you know."
"Well, I know dear. I am sure your grandmother was delighted to see you, just as I was. But really, Laura, if you came to visit us more than every six months, then you wouldn't feel the need to catch up, would you?"
Laura's face flushed, but before she could say anything Steele jumped in, prepared to head off any tension between mother and daughter. "You are right, of course, Abigail. Laura – and I – are busy in Los Angeles, it's true, but, er…there is no excuse ultimately for taking family for granted, is there? Laura's grandmother and I were just discussing the importance of family earlier this afternoon; so you are absolutely correct – Laura and I will be determined to come up to Chico more frequently in future!"
"Oh Remington, how wonderful – you are so understanding," replied a mollified Abigail.
"I agree with the sentiment," said Kitty. She took hold of Laura's hand across the table. "Laura, I so miss you – and Frances as well – so if you are able to come up to Chico more often, it would make this old lady very happy. And bring this handsome husband of yours with you," she said with a laugh, looking over at Remington.
"Grandmother, of course I miss you – and you, mother. It's only Los Angeles, a few hundred miles, in one way; but it seems so far in another. What I mean is: Remington and I will come up more often – that's a promise!"
"Hmm…Well, now that we are here," said Steele, "why don't you allow Laura and me to take you to dinner this evening? As a special thank you to you both for your hospitality. And of course, as a celebration as well – for Laura's and my marriage."
"Will there be time, my boy? When are you and Laura leaving? What are your plans?"
"Oh, I think much later tonight, Kitty; we are taking the train, actually."
"Yes, mother," jumped in Abigail. "It was my suggestion – I thought Remington and Laura might enjoy a more relaxing journey than flying, and Laura agreed with me. They are booked on the Coast Starlight tonight."
"Abby, that was an inspiration. I must say I approve. Remington, Laura – I'm sure you'll enjoy the train immensely – of course, the thing does leave Chico at an ungodly hour…"
"Well after midnight, I'm afraid," supplied Abigail.
"…But tomorrow, when it's winding its way down the west coast route – well, the scenery is just amazing. Abby and I took the train several years ago, but I have never forgotten it."
"It does sound wonderful, Kitty. I think it gets into LA early tomorrow evening – not too late. But now, ladies – I repeat my invitation – allow Laura and me to take you both to dinner."
"There must be a good restaurant in this town?" asked Laura.
"Well, it's not Los Angeles, darling," replied Abigail. "It is nearly the end of the school year, of course, which makes things a little easier – far less crowded, as most of the students have left. I suppose there is always La Hacienda?"
"What's La Hacienda?" asked Laura. "A Mexican place, I take it?"
"Yes," answered her mother. "I would suppose it is the best known restaurant in Chico – it's been going for decades. But really, it's – well, rather ordinary: tacos, chilli, enchiladas – that kind of thing. Not really somewhere to go for a celebration, as such."
"That's alright, Abigail – Laura and I are not fussy: no pretensions here!" said Steele.
"I don't think I could approve of Mexican food today – I'm not sure my digestive system could take it anymore," chuckled Kitty. She had been listening to the conversation, but now the matriarch gently but firmly took charge. "Remington: we are most grateful for your invitation. But, this is a special occasion – I think, in a way, it's more appropriate for the family to celebrate it at home, together. So, let's have an old fashioned, Sunday night dinner."
"Perhaps you're right, mother," said Abigail. "Well, shall we head over to my house, then, and I'll make dinner?"
Kitty shook her head. "No need for that Abby; we'll have dinner here."
"Can you cook grandmother? I mean – with your arthritis? Perhaps we should go to mother's house?"
"Nonsense, Laura. It's true I do not cook as often as I used to. Your mother is very kind to me – you know, she prepares several meals for me each weekend, packs them in containers and brings them over and puts them in the refrigerator, so all I have to do is heat them up. But I can still look after myself when I need to – I can certainly prepare dinner tonight. And Abby will help me – won't you?"
"Oh, certainly, of course, mother."
"Well, I shall help as well, then," added Steele.
"You can cook?" asked Kitty, with a smile of delight. "Good Lord, I don't think my husband managed to boil an egg in over thirty years of marriage."
"Oh, Remington, we couldn't possibly let you help," interjected Abigail. "I mean – you are a guest now. I don't think it's right for the man of the house to cook, anyway."
"Oh, good grief! How old fashioned…" said Laura vehemently.
"I am sorry if you don't agree, Laura, but that is my opinion. I am allowed to express my opinion, aren't I?"
"Mother, he helped you with breakfast this morning; you didn't seem to mind then."
"Now Laura, that's only breakfast. Anyway, I suppose being married to you, it is a good thing Remington is a good cook – at least one of you will be able to do it so you won't both starve."
"Wha…wha…" Laura spluttered.
"Abby, Laura – will you please both stop your catfight this minute!" said Kitty sternly. "Now Remington, I think it is very kind of you to offer, but tonight, you are our special guest – so you will not be cooking. We want to welcome you to the family. But, I think it would be nice if we ladies did something together, so Laura will help us as well – in fact, I think it would do Abby and Laura good to cooperate on something."
"Hmm…ah – yes, I am sure you're correct," Steele replied to the family matriarch, glancing nervously at Laura in case he said the wrong thing. Laura, though, looked suitably chastised by her grandmother's words – her flash of temper having past, her face appeared calm.
"I think…yes, let's have a traditional, family pot roast – with all the trimmings! What could be more appropriate? And corn bread! Abby – you and Laura will make the pot roast; I shall make the corn bread. And Remington – you will sit there and watch."
Kitty rose and, ushering Abigail and Laura with her, the kitchen became a bustle of activity: aprons were donned, hands washed, cupboards searched, chopping boards hunted out, cans opened, skillets set a frying…
Steele watched the frenetic activity thoughtfully. As the three generations of Wood-Holt women moved about the kitchen, passing and re-passing each other, the physical similarities between them were noticeable. All were about average height, with narrow faces, and slim. Kitty and Abigail – blond; Laura the most distinctive with her much darker hair. Steele supposed that her coloring must have come from her father.
Mrs Wood, Steele thought, seemed to have the most laid back temperament of the three and the sharpest sense of humor; Steele doubted Abigail had much of a sense of humor at all. Laura – his Laura – was undoubtedly the spikiest of the three generations; Steele was only too familiar with her temper when aroused. But he could see also the parallels between Laura and her mother, which perhaps Laura herself was unable to see. Abigail was a pleaser, who so obviously wore her concerns about other people – and what they thought – on her sleeve. Laura, he knew, was something of a worrier, but she internalized her concerns and fears.
It was strange for Steele, watching the scene, to think that he was a part of this family now. Since he was a little boy, he had never felt part of a family, and yet here were two people – Kitty and Abigail – who could not have been more welcoming to him. Even watching them preparing the evening meal together with Laura, Steele felt somewhat outside the scene before him – not a participant but a voyeur on someone else's life. That feeling had persisted throughout his life, and he knew – despite the kindness shown to him by Laura's mother and grandmother – that it would take a long time, if ever, before he truly believed he belonged. But for this evening, it was nice to try and pretend – to try and convince himself, at least – that he could belong.
His reveries were interrupted by Kitty, who asked him to go out to a local convenience store and bring back some wine. After borrowing the keys to Abigail's car from Laura, and getting directions to the best local option to buy a decent bottle, Steele headed out. Cruising around for a while, apart from the bars and restaurants, he noticed that Chico seemed relatively quiet on a Sunday evening, even in the downtown area. But Steele eventually found himself at a large supermarket that was open. Amongst the myriad inexpensive dinner and table wines for sale, he did find a gem of a wine, a 1978 Ridge Vineyards Monte Bello, and bought two bottles for fifty dollars.
When Steele returned to Mrs Wood's house, looking through the glass of the back door before entering, he saw Kitty and Abigail seated at the big pinewood table, while Laura pottered about at the sink, clearing up. He pushed inside.
"Hello, hello," he said cheerfully.
"Oh Remington, you're back. Did you have any success?" asked Abigail, in that breathless-sounding voice of hers.
"Uhm, yes…I found a rather good, rich California red, actually. Let me open it."
"Well done, young man. I don't drink very often these days, so I don't keep any wine at home. But today is a special occasion, isn't it? A real family celebration." said Kitty.
Steele opened the wine, then went over and put his arm around Laura's waist. "Forget the washing up, Laura – come over to the table."
"Okay." Laura joined them, as he poured a glass of wine for all four of them.
"Let me propose a toast," said Abigail. "To Laura and Remington: long life and happiness – together!"
"Hear, hear," echoed Kitty.
"Thank you, mother. And thank you, grandmother. We're both…very touched."
"Hmm…This is a rather lovely wine, my boy – well done. Now, what say we eat?"
Everyone agreed, and Steele again sat – the privileged guest or old-fashioned man of the house, he was not sure which – while Abigail and Laura fetched dishes and plates and platters to the table, and lots of passing of plates occurred as Abigail carved the pot roast, Laura dispensed vegetables and Kitty cut the corn bread into slices.
"I hope you like American food, Remington," said Kitty.
"Of course; isn't good home cooking appreciated anywhere?"
Laura chortled, "You might want to take that with a pinch of salt, grandmother. Remington is quite the gourmet."
"Ah, that's not strictly true, is it Laura? I like to eat well, but I'm quite catholic in my tastes. Really Kitty, don't listen to her – I believe she thinks I'm fussy. But this – it's wonderful; and what is important is the time and the place, isn't it? The company and the conviviality?"
"Oh, so well put, Remington," sighed Abigail.
"This reminds me of when I was a child; we used to have pot roast almost every Sunday night – it was a family tradition."
"You know, Laura – I do believe you're right! Was I really that predictable as a mother, darling? Perhaps I should have been more adventurous in the kitchen when Frances and you were growing up?"
"No, no, mother: it wasn't a criticism – it was a good thing. It brings back good memories of when we were young."
Abigail reached across and gripped Laura's hand for a second, "Thank you, darling. In fact, the pot roast recipe I used to make when you were growing up wasn't mine; it came from your grandmother!"
Kitty chuckled. "And I got it from my mother. You see? Family traditions – a recipe passed down through the generations. Family – and continuity – there is nothing else as important."
"Perhaps Laura – or Remington – will pass the recipe on to their daughter?" Abigail asked with a smile.
Steele looked at Laura for a second; her eyes had widened in consternation. He jumped into the conversation, asking Mrs Wood, "And is it what you would call a typically Californian recipe?"
"Pot roast?" she chuckled, "I wouldn't say it is Californian at all, really – I think it's traditional Eastern cuisine. My mother brought the recipe with her when she came out here, I suppose."
"To Los Angeles?"
"Oh yes…four generations in Los Angeles – it makes the Woods practically an old California family."
"It's funny, I have always thought of California – LA especially – as one of those places made up totally of immigrants. Rather anonymous. Everything is new again there."
"Everyone comes to LA from somewhere," commented Laura.
"We're from Connecticut originally. My parents came to California when I was young, before World War One. Los Angeles was a very different place then – very small – mostly orange groves and oil derricks," Kitty laughed heartily.
"Connecticut, really? Is that why Frances and her husband lived there for so long?" asked Steele.
"Oh no, Remington, that was just coincidence, I think," answered Abigail. "After Donald finished dental school, he happened to be offered a job there."
"And what about your, er…husband, Abigail? Laura's father? Was he a Los Angeles native as well?"
"He was born in New York; an immigrant to California. A little like you, I suppose, Remington."
As the dinner progressed, all tensions seemingly forgotten, and with Remington's rather good cabernet sauvignon warming everyone up, Abigail suddenly exclaimed, "Oh! What's the time? Mother, we mustn't forget our show!"
"Don't worry, Abby, we shan't miss it."
"What show?" asked Laura.
"Sunday night, dear – your mother and I have a strict routine – a date with Angela Lansbury at Cabot Cove," Kitty answered.
"Murder She Wrote. We are absolutely religious fans. Do you watch it?" asked Abigail.
"Not really, mother. I suppose, when you work as a detective, TV shows seem a little…unrealistic."
"You're right, dear. I don't suppose Jessica Fletcher's house is likely to ever get blown up."
"It is predictable, it's true," said Kitty. "But it's harmless entertainment for us old folks, ha ha! I always enjoy watching it to look at the extent of Angela Lansbury's facelift," she added mischievously.
"Have you seen it, Remington?" asked Abigail.
"Hmm? Er, no, I can't say I have, Abigail. I don't really watch television very much. Of course, I know Angela Lansbury – she was at her best in The Manchurian Candidate – with Frank Sinatra and Janet Leigh, MGM, 1962."
"Although Remington doesn't watch much television, he's a movie obsessive instead," chipped in Laura.
"Well, we have a lot of time yet," her grandmother interposed. "After dinner is over, we'll watch the show, if Laura and Remington don't mind. And we still have another bottle of this excellent red to finish."
After dinner, the dishwasher having been partly loaded and the kitchen cleared, everyone repaired to the family room, where Mrs Wood turned on the television. Steele had opened the second bottle of Monte Bello, and with glasses replenished, they all settled down to watch.
"Must you sit on the floor?" asked Abigail of Laura, who had settled into a catlike posture in front of her grandmother's armchair, with her arms and chin half resting on Kitty's lap.
"Oh, hush Abby. Laura used to sit this way when she was young."
"Yes, but she is not a child anymore, is she mother?"
"Let her be, Abby. Now quiet everyone – it's starting."
Steele watched the screen, as the titles to Murder She Wrote flashed up. As the music ended, and the show began, he let his mind drift a little. He was not a great watcher of television; it was the movies that had always sparked his imagination, and the only program he had ever watched with any real conviction had been The Honeymooners. But now, he found himself unaccountably drawn into the embrace of Laura's family and this typically American ritual – watching television together on a Sunday night.
As he observed them, despite the occasional friction between Laura and her mother, Steele could see that there was also an intimacy between them – between all three women – that came from a profound knowledge and familiarity with each other. It was something he found a little frightening – that being part of a family meant being so exposed and so known by those who loved you.
The room had been quiet for half an hour or more, as Steele had kept one half of his mind on the television and played with his wine with the other half of his mind – holding every mouthful on his tongue for a nearly a minute, and savoring the bouquet as it dissolved from fruitiness to the deeper flavors of oak and tannins.
"The baseball coach did it," Laura suddenly said out loud.
"Say that again, darling," answered Kitty.
"The baseball coach is the murderer."
"Oh Laura, how can you possibly know that?" asked Abigail, turning towards Laura and looking at her skeptically.
Laura mumbled, "Uhm, you know, mother...he said he had an alibi for the time of the murder but there was nothing written in his desk calendar."
"And that's your reason? But Laura, dear – we didn't see his desk calendar, so how can you possibly know that? I think Angela Lansbury is the only one who knows who did it."
"There was a quick shot of the desk and desk calendar, mother. They cut away, but if you were paying attention, it was visible."
Kitty chuckled. "Well done Laura. Remington, this girl is a natural sleuth, wouldn't you say so?"
"Oh, I couldn't agree more, Kitty, I really couldn't." He turned to Laura, "Did you really spot that clue so fleetingly on screen? I'm very impressed Laura, I must say."
Laura grinned up at Remington, flattered by his words and, surprising to herself, glad he was impressed.
"If she is correct! Anyway, shh everyone," said Abigail. "I think we should wait until the end of the show to see if Laura is as clever as she thinks she is."
Laura was, indeed, as clever as she had thought she was. The family was genuinely impressed when Laura's hunch over the murderer was proved correct at the end of the episode, in the great reveal when Jessica Fletcher fingered the culprit. Even Abigail looked at Laura with real admiration, and mother and daughter exchanged a look of affection.
