Articoli correlati a A Catered Christmas
Six days before Christmas, poet, grad student, and gourmet catering chef Neil Marshall is in the midst of a slump when his grandfather, an unlikely murder suspect, appears on his doorstep. Original.
Le informazioni nella sezione "Riassunto" possono far riferimento a edizioni diverse di questo titolo.
L'autore:
For twelve years, Tim Hemlin was a chef for a gourmet catering company in Houston, Texas. He now lives near Houston with his wife and children and teaches English in a secondary school. He is the author of If Wishes Were Horses . . . , A Whisper of Rage, and People in Glass Houses.
Estratto. © Riproduzione autorizzata. Diritti riservati.:
Perry Stevens Catering had worn me out this holiday season. Body, mind, and soul, I was plumb tuckered. Nonetheless, while Mattie Johnson's six-year-old son, J.J., was around I slapped on my game face and fed his Christmas enthusiasm. Or tried to draw from it.
For J.J., this time of year was more than the roasting of countless Christmas ducks, marinated in a rum-orange sauce and stuffed with a wild rice and pecan dressing. It was more than staying up until two o'clock in the morning to finish just one more gingerbread house. It was more than the thousands of dollars we invoiced over a few short weeks.
But I didn't feel J.J.'s Christmas spirit. Not even when he suddenly and passionately interrupted my description of one blizzard-ridden winter I'd spent in the Rockies.
"Santa!" he exclaimed, pointing out the front window with one hand, slamming the other against the stainless-steel worktable between us.
Automatically I turned to look out the window and saw an old familiar image lumbering up the driveway. I did a double take then glanced at Mattie, who'd come up behind J.J. "Oh my God," I said as much to myself as I did to Mattie. A heavy rapping hit the door. "You're not going to believe this," I added, and the door opened.
"Santa?" J.J. whispered.
"Grandpa?" I said.
I had inherited my height from my grandfather, but I was always amazed at his size, especially when I hadn't seen him in a while. At six-foot-seven, he ducked as he stepped over the threshold, leery of banging his head on the frame. With a figure so bulky it blocked the mellow December light, Grandpa was an impressive man. J.J.'s mouth was as wide open as mine.
"Hello, kid," he bellowed, and quickly closed the door. A cold spell had hit the city, and it was all of thirty-something outside, but my grandfather was sweating as if he'd just jogged a marathon. He pulled a red-and-silver San Francisco 49ers cap off his head, allowing his long gray hair to flow freely. His bushy silver beard was wilder than I'd remembered. He was wearing blue jeans, a red flannel shirt, and a red down vest that no doubt served him well at his Colorado home, but in Houston it would be as useless as a one-horse open sleigh.
"Mom didn't tell me you were coming down," I managed to say.
"Your ma and I don't speak much since your dad passed," he replied, catching his breath.
Or while he was living, I thought.
J.J. hopped down from the stool he was sitting on. "Are you the real Santa Claus?" he asked, wide-eyed.
Grandpa looked kindly at the boy, and for a split second I was jarred back to a Christmas over twenty years ago. I'd almost forgotten about the year my parents and I flew to Colorado. The excitement, the anticipation, the holiday joy all finally busted loose when our rental car coasted to a stop in his driveway, and I jumped out hollering, "Grandpa, Grandpa, Grandpa ..." He stepped onto the deck, large as the Rockies himself, and stared down at me, a huge smile on his face.
A smile not so different from the one he now flashed J.J. "Been accused of being old Saint Nick, but my name's Stephen Marshall," he responded heartily, and offered his hand. "I'm Neil's granddaddy. Who are you?"
"I'm J.J. I'm six and a half." He gave Grandpa's hand a gentle shake. "You sure look like Santa."
"Thank you." Grandpa unbuttoned his vest and laid it on the stainless-steel table. His wide girth became even more apparent; he was built like an old weight lifter, solid and robust, but fighting time's effect. He turned his smile on Mattie and asked, "And who is this beautiful young woman?"
"My mama," J.J. piped up.
"Mattie Johnson, meet my grandfather," I said.
"Lovely." He approached her and kissed her hand.
"Be careful, Mattie," I warned. "My dear grandpa's been married five times." My father was a product of wife number one, and as the first grandchild, I'd always received particular attention from Grandpa.
Mattie blushed. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Marshall. I can see where Neil gets his charm."
Grandpa smiled warmly, then he righted himself and ran a hand across the sweat on his forehead. "Don't suppose you have any Scotch in this place?" he asked, his expression paling. "I had a hell of a trip down."
Just then Perry Stevens, owner of the catering company bearing his name, strolled out of his office. He adjusted his reindeer-speckled bow tie. "I see we have a guest."
Next to my grandfather, my boss looked like a dapper elf. I introduced them.
"A pleasure," Perry said, stroking his red beard and craning his neck to meet Grandpa in the eye.
"Nice little restaurant you have here," Grandpa observed, "but where do the customers sit?"
"We're caterers," Perry corrected politely.
"I see." Grandpa's eyebrows furrowed as he contemplated the wire racks of canned goods, the large reach-in refrigerators, the mixers, the hanging utensils, the deep sinks, the worktables, and the knife racks. "You mean you don't even have a bar?"
"We are not a neighborhood dive."
"Shame," the old man said, and waved a thick finger toward the front window. "I got a good look at your neighborhood. A man could make a fortune with a dive."
"Please, sir--" Perry protested.
"Grandpa," I interrupted, "Perry's going to take you seriously."
The old man eyed me soberly. "Maybe I am. One thing I could always do well was make money. Buttloads of money. 'Course I blew the dough as fast as it came in. Now, what about that Scotch? Or do I have to go to that Mexican cantina down the road?"
"Well ..." Perry started to say.
I sighed and glanced at my boss. As we were winding down this Sunday before Christmas, having just dispatched Robbie Persons and his crew to tonight's function, I didn't think it would kill Perry to serve my grandfather a warm-me-up before we left. He picked up on my vibes, albeit reluctantly, and gave in to my grandfather's request.
"By all means," Perry said slowly.
Grandpa's countenance brightened. "On the rocks with a splash of water."
Mattie jumped up. "I'll get it," she said. "Anyone else?"
Perry and I declined. I pulled a wooden stool up to the table. "Have a seat, Grandpa."
He complied. "Thank you, son. You know, this place is a bitch to find. Even with directions from that nutty landlord of yours. I think he just wanted to get me off his back porch and away from his slobbering Doberman. Nice dog, but a sorry-assed guard."
I grinned slyly. "Looks can be deceiving." I recalled how the dog had mauled a gunman who had taken a shot at me. "After all," I continued, "you have that Father Christmas appearance, but--"
"I have a generous heart, Neil," he said, cutting me off.
Perry cleared his throat. A subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth told me he was trying to make sense of what was going on and not be too quick to pass judgment. The latter was very difficult for Perry.
"Neil didn't mention his granddaddy was coming for the holidays," Perry said.
"He didn't know." The old man laughed sonorously.
Mattie set a crystal rocks glass filled with Scotch and ice in front of Grandpa.
"Thank you, my dear," he said, raising the glass. "'Tis the season." And he drank, though he didn't appear very jolly. Of course, Grandpa's visit notwithstanding, little appeared very jolly to me at the moment, so his attitude could simply have been a reflection of my current view of the world.
J.J., still in awe, crawled into my grandfather's lap.
"You're sweaty," the little boy said.
"You get down, J.J.," Mattie said, her slender hands on her hips. "And you apologize to Mr. Marshall."
"Oh, he doesn't mean no harm," Grandpa insisted. "Besides, I'm used to the little critters crawling on me. Happens almost everywhere I go." His face beamed again with cheer, but I was beginning to notice a pattern. He was either beaming or somber, nothing in between--and he seemed mostly somber. It was a sorrow I'd never seen in him before, and the feeling was flowing from him, not me.
I shook off the rising melancholia and glanced at J.J. "That's true. Ever since I can remember, he favored Saint Nick. Perhaps your hair wasn't quite as gray, Grandpa, or beard quite as bushy, but it's been an image you've always cultivated."
"Interesting," Perry murmured.
"You don't know the half of it," I replied.
Mattie glanced at her wristwatch, then, knowingly, at Perry. "Well, we need to get going."
"Yes," he said, suddenly remembering what he'd been doing before my grandfather's arrival, and darted back to his office.
"You know what I want for Christmas?" J.J. whispered.
"J.J.!" Mattie reprimanded.
"But what if he is Santa, and I don't tell him what I want. Then I've really messed up."
Grandpa laughed. "What do you want?" he asked.
"A puppy," he whispered.
"J.J.!"
"Seems we'll have to work on your mother," Grandpa said in mock confidence, then patted the child's back. J.J. hopped down.
Mattie flashed him a thanks a lot, that's the last thing I need look.
Perry returned, waving Mattie's check. She accepted it, said her goodbyes, and tugged her wide-eyed son out the door.
I pulled off my apron and tossed the stained white fabric on the table. Grandpa took another gulp of Sc...
For J.J., this time of year was more than the roasting of countless Christmas ducks, marinated in a rum-orange sauce and stuffed with a wild rice and pecan dressing. It was more than staying up until two o'clock in the morning to finish just one more gingerbread house. It was more than the thousands of dollars we invoiced over a few short weeks.
But I didn't feel J.J.'s Christmas spirit. Not even when he suddenly and passionately interrupted my description of one blizzard-ridden winter I'd spent in the Rockies.
"Santa!" he exclaimed, pointing out the front window with one hand, slamming the other against the stainless-steel worktable between us.
Automatically I turned to look out the window and saw an old familiar image lumbering up the driveway. I did a double take then glanced at Mattie, who'd come up behind J.J. "Oh my God," I said as much to myself as I did to Mattie. A heavy rapping hit the door. "You're not going to believe this," I added, and the door opened.
"Santa?" J.J. whispered.
"Grandpa?" I said.
I had inherited my height from my grandfather, but I was always amazed at his size, especially when I hadn't seen him in a while. At six-foot-seven, he ducked as he stepped over the threshold, leery of banging his head on the frame. With a figure so bulky it blocked the mellow December light, Grandpa was an impressive man. J.J.'s mouth was as wide open as mine.
"Hello, kid," he bellowed, and quickly closed the door. A cold spell had hit the city, and it was all of thirty-something outside, but my grandfather was sweating as if he'd just jogged a marathon. He pulled a red-and-silver San Francisco 49ers cap off his head, allowing his long gray hair to flow freely. His bushy silver beard was wilder than I'd remembered. He was wearing blue jeans, a red flannel shirt, and a red down vest that no doubt served him well at his Colorado home, but in Houston it would be as useless as a one-horse open sleigh.
"Mom didn't tell me you were coming down," I managed to say.
"Your ma and I don't speak much since your dad passed," he replied, catching his breath.
Or while he was living, I thought.
J.J. hopped down from the stool he was sitting on. "Are you the real Santa Claus?" he asked, wide-eyed.
Grandpa looked kindly at the boy, and for a split second I was jarred back to a Christmas over twenty years ago. I'd almost forgotten about the year my parents and I flew to Colorado. The excitement, the anticipation, the holiday joy all finally busted loose when our rental car coasted to a stop in his driveway, and I jumped out hollering, "Grandpa, Grandpa, Grandpa ..." He stepped onto the deck, large as the Rockies himself, and stared down at me, a huge smile on his face.
A smile not so different from the one he now flashed J.J. "Been accused of being old Saint Nick, but my name's Stephen Marshall," he responded heartily, and offered his hand. "I'm Neil's granddaddy. Who are you?"
"I'm J.J. I'm six and a half." He gave Grandpa's hand a gentle shake. "You sure look like Santa."
"Thank you." Grandpa unbuttoned his vest and laid it on the stainless-steel table. His wide girth became even more apparent; he was built like an old weight lifter, solid and robust, but fighting time's effect. He turned his smile on Mattie and asked, "And who is this beautiful young woman?"
"My mama," J.J. piped up.
"Mattie Johnson, meet my grandfather," I said.
"Lovely." He approached her and kissed her hand.
"Be careful, Mattie," I warned. "My dear grandpa's been married five times." My father was a product of wife number one, and as the first grandchild, I'd always received particular attention from Grandpa.
Mattie blushed. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Marshall. I can see where Neil gets his charm."
Grandpa smiled warmly, then he righted himself and ran a hand across the sweat on his forehead. "Don't suppose you have any Scotch in this place?" he asked, his expression paling. "I had a hell of a trip down."
Just then Perry Stevens, owner of the catering company bearing his name, strolled out of his office. He adjusted his reindeer-speckled bow tie. "I see we have a guest."
Next to my grandfather, my boss looked like a dapper elf. I introduced them.
"A pleasure," Perry said, stroking his red beard and craning his neck to meet Grandpa in the eye.
"Nice little restaurant you have here," Grandpa observed, "but where do the customers sit?"
"We're caterers," Perry corrected politely.
"I see." Grandpa's eyebrows furrowed as he contemplated the wire racks of canned goods, the large reach-in refrigerators, the mixers, the hanging utensils, the deep sinks, the worktables, and the knife racks. "You mean you don't even have a bar?"
"We are not a neighborhood dive."
"Shame," the old man said, and waved a thick finger toward the front window. "I got a good look at your neighborhood. A man could make a fortune with a dive."
"Please, sir--" Perry protested.
"Grandpa," I interrupted, "Perry's going to take you seriously."
The old man eyed me soberly. "Maybe I am. One thing I could always do well was make money. Buttloads of money. 'Course I blew the dough as fast as it came in. Now, what about that Scotch? Or do I have to go to that Mexican cantina down the road?"
"Well ..." Perry started to say.
I sighed and glanced at my boss. As we were winding down this Sunday before Christmas, having just dispatched Robbie Persons and his crew to tonight's function, I didn't think it would kill Perry to serve my grandfather a warm-me-up before we left. He picked up on my vibes, albeit reluctantly, and gave in to my grandfather's request.
"By all means," Perry said slowly.
Grandpa's countenance brightened. "On the rocks with a splash of water."
Mattie jumped up. "I'll get it," she said. "Anyone else?"
Perry and I declined. I pulled a wooden stool up to the table. "Have a seat, Grandpa."
He complied. "Thank you, son. You know, this place is a bitch to find. Even with directions from that nutty landlord of yours. I think he just wanted to get me off his back porch and away from his slobbering Doberman. Nice dog, but a sorry-assed guard."
I grinned slyly. "Looks can be deceiving." I recalled how the dog had mauled a gunman who had taken a shot at me. "After all," I continued, "you have that Father Christmas appearance, but--"
"I have a generous heart, Neil," he said, cutting me off.
Perry cleared his throat. A subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth told me he was trying to make sense of what was going on and not be too quick to pass judgment. The latter was very difficult for Perry.
"Neil didn't mention his granddaddy was coming for the holidays," Perry said.
"He didn't know." The old man laughed sonorously.
Mattie set a crystal rocks glass filled with Scotch and ice in front of Grandpa.
"Thank you, my dear," he said, raising the glass. "'Tis the season." And he drank, though he didn't appear very jolly. Of course, Grandpa's visit notwithstanding, little appeared very jolly to me at the moment, so his attitude could simply have been a reflection of my current view of the world.
J.J., still in awe, crawled into my grandfather's lap.
"You're sweaty," the little boy said.
"You get down, J.J.," Mattie said, her slender hands on her hips. "And you apologize to Mr. Marshall."
"Oh, he doesn't mean no harm," Grandpa insisted. "Besides, I'm used to the little critters crawling on me. Happens almost everywhere I go." His face beamed again with cheer, but I was beginning to notice a pattern. He was either beaming or somber, nothing in between--and he seemed mostly somber. It was a sorrow I'd never seen in him before, and the feeling was flowing from him, not me.
I shook off the rising melancholia and glanced at J.J. "That's true. Ever since I can remember, he favored Saint Nick. Perhaps your hair wasn't quite as gray, Grandpa, or beard quite as bushy, but it's been an image you've always cultivated."
"Interesting," Perry murmured.
"You don't know the half of it," I replied.
Mattie glanced at her wristwatch, then, knowingly, at Perry. "Well, we need to get going."
"Yes," he said, suddenly remembering what he'd been doing before my grandfather's arrival, and darted back to his office.
"You know what I want for Christmas?" J.J. whispered.
"J.J.!" Mattie reprimanded.
"But what if he is Santa, and I don't tell him what I want. Then I've really messed up."
Grandpa laughed. "What do you want?" he asked.
"A puppy," he whispered.
"J.J.!"
"Seems we'll have to work on your mother," Grandpa said in mock confidence, then patted the child's back. J.J. hopped down.
Mattie flashed him a thanks a lot, that's the last thing I need look.
Perry returned, waving Mattie's check. She accepted it, said her goodbyes, and tugged her wide-eyed son out the door.
I pulled off my apron and tossed the stained white fabric on the table. Grandpa took another gulp of Sc...
Le informazioni nella sezione "Su questo libro" possono far riferimento a edizioni diverse di questo titolo.
- EditoreBallantine Books
- Data di pubblicazione1998
- ISBN 10 0345420012
- ISBN 13 9780345420015
- RilegaturaCopertina flessibile
- Numero di pagine253
- Valutazione libreria
Compra nuovo
Scopri di più su questo articolo
EUR 7,02
Spese di spedizione:
EUR 3,72
In U.S.A.
I migliori risultati di ricerca su AbeBooks
Foto dell'editore
A Catered Christmas
Da:
Valutazione libreria
Descrizione libro mass_market. Condizione: New. Codice articolo MV-AD-1028b-39334
Compra nuovo
EUR 7,02
Convertire valuta