The kitchen and a vase for the flowers called. Mostly because I couldn’t face my daughter. What if I were wrong and this terrible pall had been created for nothing?
Worse—what if I were right?
And for this shadow to be cast so blatantly over a holiday meal—I was going to kill Jefferson. I had never known him to be so insensitive, so inappropriate. I shoved the drawer that had contained the florist scissors with too much force, and it closed with a sharp thud.
That man. Months we’d spent together. He knew how important my daughter was to me. He knew she and I hadn’t been close lately. I could throttle him.
I started to split the stems, but my hand was shaking, so I dropped the scissors.
And where was the handsome devil? He should be here apologizing, begging my forgiveness for his terrible lapse in judgment.
Rummaging through the shelves, I found the perfect vase, and then made myself spend the next several minutes tweaking the flowers until they were just so—plenty of time for him to come and check on me. Plenty of time for him to formulate a heartfelt apology.
But when I’d placed one particular white rose in its fourth and least attractive position, I realized the terrible man wasn’t going to apologize. And I was going to have to face my daughter at some point.
So I tidied up the mess, found the perfect place for that innocent white rose, and picked up the arrangement.
Time to face the music.
When I returned to the formal living room, I found the three of them gathered tightly together, looking for all the world as if they were plotting something nefarious.
A truly terrible thought occurred. It was drugs, and they were all in it together. Jefferson’s income was a mystery—a lady did not inquire when the information was not offered—and he was my daughter’s roommate. He claimed he enjoyed the company, but the house was really very small for someone with his income.
And this Alex Valois, he and Jefferson knew each other long before Mallory had come into the picture.
Mallory’s reluctance to discuss her new work, her roommate who could afford his own home but continued to share hers, a gentleman friend who also had mysterious employment…
That was it. Alex, Jefferson, and Mallory were manufacturing and selling drugs. And Mallory must have gotten hooked, hence all the weight loss.
My daughter and drugs. My eyes burned.
“Mom?” Mallory saw that I’d returned and left her little band of drug-manufacturing thugs. “Don’t get upset. It’s not at all what you’re thinking.”
I willed the tears away. This was Christmas. Christmas Eve dinner was not a place for tears and confrontations. For which Jefferson should be thankful. I targeted him with the look of impending doom.
“We’re not discussing this now. Right now, we’re having Christmas dinner.”
The table was set, the food already prepared except for a few final touches—if one could call it food. Maybe drug dealers and druggies had strange food cravings? Or bizarre dietary needs?
I decided to forgo the preprandial niceties. Aperitifs might be de rigueur, but that involved making small talk…with a bunch of drug dealers. Much better to have a table of food between me and them.
“Please, have a seat in the dining room. Mallory will show you the way. I’ll just be a moment in the kitchen.” I didn’t consider myself a particularly cowardly woman, but one was allowed a graceful retreat when entertaining possible criminals. Or so I assumed. I’d only ever hosted the one, and Alan Smith-Sanderson had been suspected of a white-collar crime—fraud, perhaps?—at the time. Not at all the same thing.
Once in the kitchen, I took a few deep breaths, patted my hair into place, and served up the soup course. The first soup course. Who ever heard of multiple courses of soup? It really wasn’t done. But a good hostess does not question the needs of her guests, she simply accommodates them.
Before loading them on the serving tray, I peeked in on the individual servings of vegan fondue that were baking in the oven, and turned the temperature down.
Vegan fondue—who would have thought? But Jefferson had given me the name of the cheese to use, a neighbor had provided the recipe, and the test batch had been surprisingly edible.
It was time to return to my guests and serve the soup. I was going to put a good face on this if it killed me. I stopped to catch my breath as panic hit. For all I knew, this could be the last Christmas I had with Mallory on the outside. My little girl could be incarcerated this time next year.
That thought could not enter my head or I’d ruin Christmas dinner by crying.
As I returned with the serving tray of soup, I heard Alex say, “You should tell her. You only have a certain amount of time left before—” He stopped abruptly when he saw me enter.
Alex immediately stood, took the tray from me, and placed it on the side table. What drug dealer was ever so polite? Though I didn’t have much of a pool for comparison. I gestured for him to have a seat and served the soup. And as I sat down, I said, “Apple and squash soup. I hope you enjoy it.”
There were murmurs of appreciation all around the table, which I accepted with a smile. But Alex’s comment wouldn’t fade away. It kept tapping away in my mind. Mallory only had so much time…limited time…weight loss…a special diet.
And then I realized, and the world fell out from under my feet. “Oh my God. It’s not drugs. You’re dying.”
I couldn’t breathe. I was fifty-nine and losing everything. My little girl was dying.