Chapter 14
For all the disapproval heaped upon her by her family, Della had a delightful time chatting with her Grandmother's open house guests, none of whom appeared outwardly shocked or offended by her appearance. As a matter of fact, the only disapproving glances she detected were directed at Michael as he tagged after her, familiarly placing his hands on her waist, on her hip, on her back, and having them slapped away. He finally took the hint, and with a quick kiss to her cheek and a promise to call, he left.
After the front door closed behind the last lingering guest, Della, her father, grandmother, and half-brother gathered all the dirty dishes and glasses from around the house and spent two hours putting away leftover food and washing and drying dishes. Della tried her best to hold conversations, to tell them about her exciting job and some of the more interesting things that had happened to her in the past three years, about Perry (she was very careful to refer to him as 'Mr. Mason'), about her apartment, and about her new friends, but the reaction from her family was either horrified silence or ambivalent silence, so she gave up.
She was transferring slices of ham from several enormous platters to smaller plates that would fit in the refrigerator when her father cleared his throat.
"Della Katherine," he began, and cleared his throat again, "we have not yet decided upon a gift for you. Your decision to visit caught us off-guard and your Grandmother doesn't think it would be proper to give you money as we have the past three years. Is there anything you would like?"
Actually, money would have been most welcome, since this trip had taken all but two hundred dollars from her savings account. Perry paid her considerably more than he should, but she chose to live alone without a roommate and rent took a huge slice of her salary. This unexpected concern about her gift overshadowed the condition of her finances. "I – I don't know, Father," she stammered. "Let me think about it and I'll let you know."
"Well don't think about it too long, missy," her grandmother cautioned sharply, "or we won't have anything at all for you."
The next morning Della was 'up with the cows' as her grandmother was wont to say, still surrounded by the little bubble of happiness the short conversation about her Christmas gift had given her. And she had thought about it at length, lying awake in her old bed until nearly two a.m., which was only eleven o'clock California time. At eleven o'clock she and Perry would still be dancing most nights, sharing warmed cognac and smoking cigarettes (primarily Perry), unwilling to end their day together and go home to their separate apartments. Someday they would figure out how to work together and be together, and they wouldn't have to go to bed alone. That thought had kept her up an additional hour.
The house was quiet and dark when she shuffled into the kitchen in her fuzzy slippers to put a pot of coffee on to brew, the short days of December delaying the sun's ascent and greying it out once it did rise. She didn't miss the bitingly cold temperatures, and she most definitely did not miss the snow. She was a total California girl after three years, her blood a bit thinner, her tolerance of the cold lowered by the temperate climate she now inhabited.
Her grandmother, father and Carter were creatures of extreme habit, and she knew her grandmother would be up any minute to fix breakfast, and that her father and Carter would enter the kitchen at precisely seven forty-five. She opened the refrigerator door and stood contemplating the contents before deciding that she could make omelets out of the leftover ham and cheese from the party with fresh eggs, and adding mushrooms and spinach. Her grandmother's collection of homegrown spices yielded a jar of dried dill weed, which she crumbled and sprinkled liberally into the eggs as she whisked them vigorously to the point of frothiness. Working with two butter greased skillets, she poured the egg mixture into each, letting it set slightly before adding diced ham, sliced mushrooms, and baby spinach leaves. Just prior to when the omelets should be folded and turned, she added thin slices of Swiss cheese.
She was intently watching the omelets cook when her grandmother entered the kitchen.
"What on earth are you doing, child?"
Della started and nearly destroyed the omelet she was about to turn. "I'm making breakfast."
"What on earth is it?"
"Omelets. I used leftover ham and cheese, and some of the fresh mushrooms and spinach. Normally I would add onion, but I know you and father don't like onions."
Her grandmother leaned heavily on her cane and limped over to peer past Della's shoulder at the omelets bubbling in the pans. Her nose wrinkled in horror. "I can't possibly eat that."
"For Heaven's sake, why not? You like everything I put in them."
"But they're all mixed together."
"Surely you've had an omelet before, Grandmother."
"I assure you I have not. It looks unappetizing. I'll just have scrambled eggs and a slice of ham. And cheese. Cheddar."
Della sighed and cracked two eggs into the bowl in which she'd whisked eggs for the omelets. She transferred one omelet to the other pan, opened the oven, and placed the pan inside to stay warm. In the now empty pan she slapped down a slice of ham and let it cook for two minutes before pouring the new egg mixture into the pan and busied herself stirring them into a scramble. When the eggs were firm but fluffy, she scraped them onto a plate and let the slice of ham slide out of the pan and flop next to the eggs. She placed the plate in front of her grandmother, who eyed the food suspiciously, as her granddaughter crossed to the refrigerator and pulled out a plate of sliced cheese.
"What's in the eggs?"
"Nothing. It's just eggs."
"There is something green in the eggs."
"Oh, that must be a bit of dill I used for the omelets. It's good, try it."
Her grandmother pushed the plate away from her. "I will not. I want plain eggs. I guess I'll just have to make breakfast myself." She grabbed her cane and lifted herself stiffly to her feet with a groan.
Della yanked the plate off the table. "I'll eat them, Grandmother. Sit down and I'll make another plate for you." She moved to the sink and rinsed out the glass bowl used for whisking the eggs, and dried it. Even a bit of water would ruin eggs. Then she thoroughly scraped out egg remnants from the frying pan, cracked two more eggs, and beat them half to death with a fork, frustration with her grandmother mounting by the moment. She poured the decimated eggs into the freshly buttered frying pan and scrambled them to perfection. Any short order cook would have been proud of her efforts. She then transferred the previously cooked slice of ham to a clean plate, scraped the eggs from the frying pan, added two slices of sharp cheddar cheese, and set the plate in front of her grandmother.
"The ham is cold. And you cooked it with the dill eggs," her grandmother complained.
Della stared at her grandmother in disbelief. "You're kidding."
"Della Katherine, I do not 'kid'. This ham is cold and covered with dill. I want a new slice. And new eggs. These eggs will be cold before you get the fresh slice of ham heated."
Della was just serving up two newly scrambled eggs, a fresh slice of ham, and three slices of cheddar cheese because everyone knew two would most certainly not be enough, when her father and Carter joined them in the kitchen. Both were dressed in similar medium grey flannel suits, white shirts, and dark grey ties. They looked prosperous but dull, staid and boring. Perry wore dark suits and striped shirts with colorful ties, spiffy tie bars and jeweled cuff links. He always looked authoritative yet approachable, his success evident but understated. And he smelled divine. Carter smelled like talc. Her father smelled like...was that pine tar? She knew immediately her father and brother weren't going to eat the omelets, but she pulled the pan from the oven and plated them anyway.
Carter spoke first, after he had picked the omelet apart with his fork. "What on earth is it?"
Her little bubble of happiness burst with an explosive pop.
Della grabbed a quick lunch with Miranda and Patsy after surprising them at the department store where they both worked, did a little shopping to help with their holiday commissions, and then stopped at several different stores to pick up a list of items her grandmother had written out very specifically for dinner preparations. After the fiasco that had been breakfast – she had tossed the omelets into the garbage after both her father and Carter refused to eat them and made them plain scrambled eggs, ham slices and three pieces of cheddar cheese, thank you very much – her grandmother had not only written explicit instructions, she had grilled her relentlessly on exactly what she would buy and where she would buy it. Perry could learn quite a bit from her grandmother's technique. She was sure one more minute of questioning and she would have run screaming from the house. Once she had passed the shopping list test, her grandmother lectured her on the evils of wasting food, and that she must always check with them first before preparing a meal. At least she didn't slap her again.
Katherine Street was indulging in an afternoon nap when Della returned from her errands, and the house was eerily silent. She put perishable items in the refrigerator, but left other items on the counter for her grandmother to deal with. She was through being lectured today. She boiled water and made herself a cup of tea, choosing to curl up in one of the 'reading' chairs on the landing to relax because it was the warmest spot in the house. She eyed the telephone on the table longingly but couldn't bring herself to dial the office. Perry had made it an entire weekend once without calling. She could hold out at least three days.
Or maybe not.
She had known she would miss him, but she hadn't expected the ache and the emptiness in her heart and mind. She wanted to talk to him, to tell him how her rigid, cold family made her feel unworthy of what little affection they possessed, how they disapproved of everything she was. Because the one thing she was certain of in this world was that Perry truly liked her. He respected her, and wanted good things for her. And he worried about her - she smiled as she glanced at her coat, which she had carefully draped over the other 'reading' chair on the landing. She refused to hang the coat in the hall closet and kept it close to her at all times. Last night she had slept with it at the foot of her bed, fanned out around her great-grandmother Della's dowry chest. She felt safe and cared for when she looked at the coat. She reached out, ran her fingers through the soft fur and sighed.
"Vanity is the quicksand of reason*, Della Katherine," her grandmother admonished.
Della looked up in surprise, not having heard her grandmother advancing down the hallway. Usually the squishy squeak of her sensible rubber-soled leather shoes gave her away. Della leapt to her feet and hurried up the short flight of stairs. "Grandmother, why don't you change rooms with father? It can't be good for your hip to climb stairs. Let me help you."
Katherine Street jerked her arm from her granddaughter's helpful grasp. "If I wanted your help, I would ask. Shoo, get away from me. You'll make me fall."
Della backed down the stairs as her grandmother descended the stairs, by placing first one foot on a step, then the other, pausing, and repeating, all the while clinging to the railing for dear life. Della noticed that her cane never went up the stairs with her, and now she understood why. "Really, Grandmother, take my arm –"
"I said shoo! I've been doing this without your help for a long time. I don't need you getting in my way."
Della backed the rest of the way to the landing, and scrunched herself into the recently abandoned chair, watching her grandmother's painfully slow descent, knowing that when she was her grandmother's age, she would probably want to do things herself as well, but that she would be much more agreeable about her insistence on it.
Her grandmother paused on the landing, her pale, bony hands shaking from the effort of gripping the railing, and took a few deep breaths.
"You're going to need another nap once you make it all the way to the main floor," Della observed dryly.
"And you are going to get another slap if you don't mind your mouth."
"Good grief, I'm only trying to help you, Grandmother."
"You can help me best by staying out of my way."
"Whatever you say, Grandmother."
Katherine Street nodded toward the coat so artfully arranged on the chair next to Della. "Are you going to tell me how you came to have such an expensive coat?"
Della pursed her lips in thought, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "No, I don't think I will." Her grandmother's hand twitched, but she was much too far away and much too unsteady without her cane to close the gap between them and slap her.
"Pretty is as pretty does," Katherine inexplicably reminded her.
"I think I look absolutely gorgeous in the coat, so I agree with that."
"You have no shame over that coat?"
Della's eyes hardened. "Not one bit."
"Then you should be able to tell me how you got it."
"It's none of your business how I got the coat. I'm done talking about it." She stood and gathered the coat to her, skirted her grandmother to remain outside her wingspan, and planted one foot on the bottom step. "I put the groceries on the counter. I'm assuming you don't want my help to prepare anything."
"You'd most likely put garlic in the ambrosia, so no, I don't think I'll need your help."
"Everyone knows you put rosemary in ambrosia, not garlic," Della said saucily, and ran up the stairs.
* George Sand