Much as I enjoyed the lively crowds we normally had this time of year, I could also appreciate tonight’s smaller gathering. When we finished eating, we packed up all the planned-over food and put it in the refrigerator, the freezer, or the pantry. We could easily nuke a plate for any late arrivals, but in the meantime we settled in on the deep, comfortable sofas in the living room, got a fire going, adjusted the volume on the little speakers that were pumping out carols, and enjoyed the evening.
Michael and the boys got out Settlers of Catan, one of their favorite board games, and were soon absorbed in their competition. Rose Noire began brushing the various dogs, who all seemed to have gone for a romp in the woods and come home with hundreds of sticky seeds tangled in their fur. I focused on trading neighborhood news with Iris.
“It’s nice that you’ll have Merrilee with you for the holidays,” I said at one point.
“It is.” Iris sipped her second martini. “She’s a little bossy, but she means well. Seems to think I’m a helpless old lady and can’t do anything for myself. Whole family seems to think I need more help than I really do.”
“Better to have more help than you need than less,” I said.
“Maybe,” she said. “But I expect they’ll be after me again to go into the nursing home. And you know how I feel about that. I’ve always said that the only way they’re going to get me out of that house is feet first.”
I nodded, but I didn’t say anything. Caerphilly Assisted Living had an excellent reputation—and a very well-run independent living wing. But I understood how she felt, and no way I was going to get in the middle of that kind of family discussion.
“That’s why Joe and I added that mother-in-law suite onto the ground floor,” she said. “It was a good idea—I’d have had to move before now if I didn’t have it. But we always thought we’d move into it together when one of the kids took over running the farm. Only none of them ever wanted to, and I don’t think any of the grandkids are going to be interested, either.”
I nodded. Iris had raised a lawyer, a CPA, and a nun with a doctorate in nursing, and was very proud of their accomplishments. But none of them had wanted to assume the management of the family farm when they were younger. And I didn’t think any of them were likely to take it on as a second career after they retired.
“And I worry about what happens to the land when I go,” she said.
“Can’t your kids keep doing what you’re doing now?” I asked. “You’re renting out the land, aren’t you?”
“To that young Shiffley boy,” Iris said.
I smothered a laugh. Ben Shiffley was well into his thirties. He might even have hit the big four-O.
“And that’s a fine arrangement for now,” she said. “But I’m not sure my kids would want to keep it up after I go. The farm’s pretty much their whole inheritance, you know—what if they don’t want their money tied up in land they’re not living on? What if they decided to sell the land, and it fell into the hands of a developer? Someone who would bulldoze everything and put up a whole mess of ticky-tacky houses? Would you want something like that next door?”
I shook my head. I wasn’t sure anyone would want to put up a subdivision this far out of town. But the town and the county had already fought off developers who’d wanted to convert farmland into golf courses or executive retreat centers. And I didn’t want those next door, either.
“Or what if they sell it to one of those big agricultural corporations that pays more attention to profit than caring for the land and raising good, healthy food.” Iris scowled at the thought. “That would be just as bad. Joe and I worked hard to get the land certified organic, and I took on Ben because he wanted to keep that up. But what happens when I’m gone?”
“Talk to my cousin Festus,” I said. “I think he knows something about conservation easements.”
Iris tilted her head, rather like a bird, and I deduced she was about to ask what the dickens I was talking about.
“It’s a way of permanently protecting the land from development,” I said.
“Even if it’s sold to someone who wants to develop it?”
“Even then,” I said. “Lets the owner farm or harvest timber, but no subdivisions and no Big Agriculture.”
“I’d be interested in hearing about that,” she said. “You tell Festus to come and see me when he’s finished with this big conference your grandmother’s running.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Aren’t you going to write it down in that notebook of yours?” she asked with a puckish smile.
“I’ll do better than that,” I said, as I pulled out my phone. “Efficiency rule I picked up somewhere. If doing something would take less than five minutes, don’t write it down. Just do it. Saves time in the long run.”
So I fired off a quick text to Festus, asking if he could plan to talk to Iris about conservation easements as soon as possible after the conference.
I hadn’t even put my phone back in my pocket when he fired back a reply: “How’s Monday, ten a.m.?”
“Perfect,” Iris said.
Rose Noire seemed to have finished brushing Tinkerbell, Rob and Delaney’s Irish wolfhound. As she started on Watson, Horace’s visiting Pomeranian, Tink strolled over and put her enormous head in Iris’s lap.
“Just push her away if you don’t want to be doggified,” I said.
“We’re fine, Tink and I,” she said. “I might get another pup myself. What do you take me for—a dog hater like that creep the boys were telling me about? You think Chief Burke’s going to do anything about him?”
“Probably,” I said. “You know how the chief feels about animals.”
“Hmph.” She didn’t sound encouraged. Of course, her relationship with the chief and his officers was a little fraught these days. He and his deputies had been incredibly patient with her increasingly frequent strange calls to 911. They’d gotten used to her insisting that they arrest the aliens disguised as deer that were eating all the blossoms in her garden, or trying to file a missing persons report on Joe, the husband she’d buried several years ago. But then last summer she’d called Father Donnelly, the rector of St. Byblig’s, and asked him to come out to her farm to perform an exorcism on someone who had been possessed by a demon. Father Donnelly had arrived to find Danny Shiffley, our local FedEx driver, sitting in one of Iris’s kitchen chairs—bound, gagged, and more than a little damp, since Iris had been spritzing him repeatedly with a plant mister containing her homemade holy water. Danny thought the whole thing was a hoot, and had played along, not only letting Iris tie him up but writhing in mock agony every time she squirted him, but her family had been mortified. It was after that incident that her three children and Merrilee, her only adult grandchild, had taken turns staying with her—and trying, without success, to convince her to move into Caerphilly Assisted Living.
It was hard to accept that the Iris of the 911 calls was the same calm and articulate woman sitting beside me on the sofa, gently stroking Tink’s head. And thinking clearly and logically about the land she loved so deeply.
It occurred to me to wonder whether Iris really believed in aliens and demonic possession or if this was some peculiar way of entertaining herself. And getting a little human attention to while away what had become an overly solitary life.
We should be inviting Iris over more, I decided. How much of her mental confusion came from isolation? Since the death of her husband and her own decision to give up her driver’s license before the county took it away, she was probably a lot more isolated than she ever had been. If we made a point of inviting her over for dinner, once or twice a week … Well, it wouldn’t be a magic cure. But maybe it would help her. And take away a little of the burden her children and granddaughter were carrying. And would she enjoy going with Mother to the Garden Club meetings? Or sharing her knowledge of local plants and traditional remedies at Rose Noire’s monthly gathering with her fellow herbalists?
I’d sic Mother and Rose Noire on the case the next time I got the chance.
“I like your mother’s decorating style,” Iris said. “Merrilee thinks we should just stick a wreath on the front door and call it quits. I call that lazy.”
“Maybe she’s a big fan of minimalism,” I suggested.
“I’m not,” Iris grumbled. “Especially not at Christmas. Christmas decorations shouldn’t be minimalist. They should look as if joy threw up all over your house.”
I burst out laughing at that.
“Just don’t tell Mother that’s what her decorating style looks like,” I said. “But I like your description.”
“Not mine,” she said. “Stole it from a meme on Facebook. Tell me something—how come your gran decided to have her conference so close to Christmas?”
“Well, if you want the boring, pragmatic answer, that was when she could get the hotel conference space,” I said. “But even if that weren’t the case, she thinks it’s a good fit with the season.”
“Talking about murder and mayhem?”
“Talking about justice and doing unto others,” I said. “And I think Dickens would agree. Remember what he had the two portly gentlemen say to Scrooge: ‘At this festive season of the year, it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the Poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time.’ Because the people who get unjustly convicted do tend to be poor people rather than rich ones.”
“No argument with that,” she said. “I just thought she might get a better turnout if she held it some other time of year.”
“It sold out at this time of year,” I said. “Heaven knows how many people we’d have to turn away if we had it at a more convenient time.”
Delaney had begun yawning shortly after we finished dinner and went to bed early. As did Rob, when he arrived home after taking Mother shopping. He seemed to be sharing most of her late-pregnancy symptoms.
“Boy, am I tired of having to sleep so much,” he remarked.
Michael waited until Rob was out of the room to comment.
“Famous last words,” he said.
“Yeah,” Iris said, with a chuckle. “That’ll change when the kid arrives. And the kid lucked out in the parent department, if you ask me. It should get good looks, no matter what side of the family it takes after, and they’re neither of them stupid.”
“Let’s just hope common sense is a dominant gene,” I said, which made her guffaw.
And she was right about the looks. Growing up, I’d been envious that Rob had inherited Mother’s slender, elegant, blond appearance. In fact, I’d stayed envious, up until my uncanny resemblance to Cordelia had helped reunite Dad with the mother who had had to give him up at his birth. By the time Jamie and Josh had come along, I was content with the fact that they looked more like Cordelia and Dad than Mother—and more like Michael than either.
About the time the game of Settlers was over, I caught Iris yawning, so I recruited Michael and the boys to take her home.
I put on my most festive red flannel reindeer pajamas, turned on the electric mattress warmer Michael had given us last Christmas, and drifted off to sleep, after muttering, to anyone who might be poking their head in to see if I was still awake, “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”