“What a nuisance.” I waited until the door was shut behind Dr. Czerny. “Although I suppose we should cut him some slack. Maybe Dr. Frogmore’s had problems before with places that aren’t as meticulous about food allergies as the Inn is. And Czerny’s nothing if not protective of his mentor.” I almost said “lord and master.”
“He should know by now that we are not the least bit careless about food allergies.”
Yes, I knew that. Ekaterina had contacted every single conference attendee to ask about any food allergies or restrictions and we’d designed all of the conference meals accordingly. We’d had about the usual trouble getting Grandfather to understand that quite a few attendees would have religious, ethical, or health objections to consuming bacon-wrapped filet mignon. And thank goodness none of the attendees seemed to be keeping kosher, since the hotel’s usual solution was to have meals brought in from Caerphilly’s well-regarded kosher restaurant and deli, which would have been difficult on Friday and impossible today.
Ekaterina was already typing on her phone. “I will issue instructions that no mushrooms should be served to Dr. Frogmore or anyone at his table, even if they demand them. In fact, we will take mushrooms completely off the hotel menu until he leaves. We can say that due to the inclement weather our mushroom supplier was unable to deliver.”
“You’re thinking maybe if he’s feeling suicidal he might just call room service and request an omelette aux champignons?” I turned to see how the waiters were doing.
“More likely he would order it, take one bite, claim it made him deathly ill, and sue the hotel,” she said. “I’ve seen it happen before. By the way, while we’re talking about food, there is a situation that must be dealt with.”
“What’s that?” I braced myself, and hoped this would turn out to be a situation that I could deal with after lunch. I needed a break.
“Sami has been monitoring the forecast on my weather radio,” she said. “The storm may be slowing down.”
“Oh, great.”
“Not great at all—if it slows down—”
“It will have time to dump even more snow on us. Definitely not great—I was being sarcastic.” And should have known it would be lost on Ekaterina in full-blown crisis mode.
“Ah. Yes, more snow, and they continue to forecast temperatures in the twenties for at least the next week. It begins to look very possible that we could still be snowbound on Christmas Eve. Even Christmas Day.”
Had she only just noticed this possibility?
“Very possible,” I said aloud.
“We must make plans to feed them.” Her tone was solemn, yet fierce.
“Feed them? I thought you said the Inn had plenty of supplies if we were snowbound for weeks, even months. If there’s—”
“Of course we do,” she said. “That is not the issue. We must figure out what to feed them for Christmas. What they will be homesick for if they cannot go home. If they were all Russians, I would know what to do. For Christmas Eve we would have kutya, borscht, zakuskie, pirozhki, beans for prosperity, maybe pagach if that is their tradition, and vzvar with pryaniki and kolyadki.” Her face took on a blissful expression.
“I have no idea what any of that means,” I said. “Except for the beans and the borscht. But I gather it must be delicious.”
“Well, not all that delicious,” she said. “It’s a meatless meal, of course, since it’s the last day of Advent. Which means, in a strict Russian Orthodox household, no fish, vegetable oil, or alcohol allowed, either. I can think of more delicious meals. But it’s tradition! It brings back the memories. Eating it would not entirely make up for not being able to go home, but it would help. Possibly a good deal. So we must figure out what these poor scientists will be missing if they do not go home to their homes for Christmas.”
“Some of them will be missing Hanukkah instead of Christmas, and that starts tomorrow night,” I said. “We should work on that, too.”
“Precisely,” she said. “So what should we be serving them? Start with Christmas—what is the standard American Christmas dinner?”
“I think starting with Hanukkah would be easier,” I said. “I’m not sure there is any standard American Christmas dinner. Everyone I know does it differently. It depends on where people live, and where their ancestors came from, and just what they like to eat. There isn’t even a rule on whether you have it Christmas Eve or Christmas Day or both.”
“Then you will have to find out what each of them is accustomed to eating for their various holidays,” she said. “And then I can determine what to serve to bring happiness to as many of them as possible.”
Was she serious? She wanted me to ask every single one of the two hundred scientists what they wanted for Christmas and/or Hanukkah dinner?
Then again, perhaps I could recruit Mother. And Rose Noire. They might even enjoy it.
“Let me see what I can do.” I hoped that didn’t sound like a promise.
“Good. I think we can open the doors now.”
“I’ll go share the glad tidings with the ravening hordes.”
I didn’t need to go far. Evidently the panels had ended while we’d been dealing with Dr. Czerny. Nearly everyone attending the conference was milling around in the hallway outside. Though they were all in a remarkably cheerful mood—clearly scheduling the owl pellet panel just before lunch had been a stroke of genius on Grandfather’s part. We opened the doors and stepped aside to let them in.
“I can supervise the buffet if you would rather eat with your family,” Ekaterina said. “I sent plenty of food to the cottage. And you could check on your cousin.”
“I’ll take you up on that,” I said. “Thanks.”
“And let me know what he has to say about conditions outside.”
“Will do.”
“What are those things they’re putting on the tables?” Ekaterina pointed to the nearest table, which was littered with small dark objects, most either round or Vienna sausage-shaped.
“Ah,” I said. “Evidently the owl pellet panel gave out samples.”
“Owl pellets?” She looked puzzled. “Owls eat those? I thought they caught mice.”
“No, owl pellets are what they do with the bones, fur, teeth, feathers, and other indigestible parts of their prey.”
“You mean it’s owl poop? They are putting owl poop on my tables?”
“No, no,” I said. “It’s not poop. Owls regurgitate the pellets.”
“That is only a small improvement,” she said. “What are we supposed to do with them if they leave them behind?”
“They won’t,” I said. “Or if anyone does, someone else is sure to snatch them up. They’re highly prized.”
“À chacun son goût,” she murmured. “Go see your family. I will keep an eye on these barbarians.”
I was tempted. But I also didn’t want to leave Grandfather in the lurch. If he needed help fending off Frogmore, or Czerny, or any of the other annoying attendees …
But then I saw him going through the buffet line, accompanied by Dr. Craine. Rose Noire, her plate piled high with vegetables, was waving at them to join her at a nearby table. Dr. Green was already sitting beside her, and it dawned on me that this wasn’t the first time I’d seen them eating together during the conference. In fact, I was pretty sure he’d been glued to her side at every meal.
I made a mental note to ask Grandfather what he knew about this Dr. Green. What if his absent-minded professorial manner was camouflage for his real character as a conference Lothario? Of course, all Grandfather would care about was Dr. Green’s scientific abilities. Maybe I should ask Dr. Craine. Or, better still, sic Mother on the question.
Meanwhile, Grandfather would be fine. And Owl Fest would survive if I spent the lunch hour with Michael and the boys.
I left the conference area, slipped back into the lobby again, and breathed a sigh of contentment. I felt as if I’d crossed from the contentious world of Owl Fest back into the warm, welcoming world of Christmas Land. The large-screen TV over the mantel in the lobby, usually tuned to CNN, was now showing How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Of course, the real reason for this was that the hotel’s cable was out, but at least they were prepared with a DVD player and some seasonally appropriate fare. I made a mental note to ask Ekaterina if I could borrow it to watch with the boys.
Christmas Land was intensified in the cottage, and I could have sworn that some of the decorations were ones that I’d have expected to see back at home. One evergreen garland looked pretty much like another, although these did have the oversized red velvet bows Mother was so fond of using, and Mother had been advising Ekaterina on the hotel’s decor. But the gold tinsel mobiles representing the twelve days of Christmas, now fluttering overhead in the breeze that had followed me into the cottage—those were pretty distinctive. I’d last seen them in the front hall of our house. And the tree that had suddenly appeared beside the fireplace, completely blocking the soaring multi-paned window—I could spot one-of-a-kind ornaments that I remembered hanging on our tree at home just a few days ago.
“I had some of our old, familiar decorations brought over before the snow started,” Mother said when she noticed me staring at the tree. “As bad as this storm is, we might not be able to leave for a few more days, so I thought we should make ourselves as much at home as possible.”
“And what if the snow cleanup goes faster than expected and Ekaterina kicks us out tomorrow or Monday?”
“Then I’ll have it all moved back,” she said. “Don’t worry—I know you’ll be exhausted from the conference. You won’t have to lift a finger.”
“In that case, let’s enjoy the tree,” I said.
Ekaterina hadn’t been kidding about sending more than enough food. The Madison Cottage’s dining table was covered with plates and bowls. Caesar salad and pasta salad. Several pizzas. A platter of ham, turkey, roast beef, and assorted cheeses. Fresh baked bread. French fries and onion rings. Stir-fried vegetables. Fresh-cut fruit salad. And half a dozen desserts—Christmas cookies, brownies with red and green candies on top, three kinds of pie, and some little cups of crème brûlée that were calling my name. Michael, Dad, and the boys were already digging in. I began filling a plate, and secured two of the crèmes brûlées before they could disappear.
Horace was sitting on one of the sofas with warm wet washcloths draped over his hands and bare feet—no doubt part of Dad’s treatment for frostbite. Mother was feeding him tidbits.
His police radio was sitting on the end table, plugged into the wall to charge. He came to attention whenever it made any noise, but all I’d heard so far were occasional bursts of static.
“Pretty bad out there?” I asked as I took a seat on the other sofa.
“Power and telephone lines out everywhere,” Horace said. “And anyone who didn’t already get where they’re going by now is out of luck.”
“Randall Shiffley was convinced this was going to be an epic disaster,” Michael said. “He had his workmen set up generators at the town hall and at the various local churches, so they could be used for shelter. And made sure each of the churches had a satellite phone, so they could stay in communication.”
“Good for him!” Mother exclaimed.
“And having those helped us convince a lot of people to come into town,” Horace said. “It could take a while to dig out from this.”
Of course, not everyone could simply drop everything and take refuge in town. There were plenty of farmers who couldn’t abandon their livestock. Just for a moment, I felt a twinge of guilt, sitting here in a warm room, feasting on such a delicious spread with all my family around me.
“We’ll get through this,” Mother said. “All of us.” Was she reading my mind, or was it just that my dark thoughts were all too visible on my face? “I’m sure there will be much to do when the storm is over, but for now, let’s all be thankful that we’re all here safe and sound together.”
“Hear, hear!” Michael said, and we all clinked glasses as if it were a toast.
“And God bless us every one,” Josh and Jamie chorused. Even though Michael’s traditional one-man staged reading of A Christmas Carol had been postponed due to the snow, the boys had seen a rehearsal and were uttering Dickensian quotes at the slightest opportunity.
We went back to eating and talking. Every so often Horace’s radio would erupt with bits of news. Chief Burke, his wife Minerva, and the three orphaned grandsons they were raising had moved into the New Life Baptist Church for the duration. Adam, the youngest grandson, was one of the boys’ best friends, and while the chief wouldn’t let the three of them talk on the police radio, he gave us the number of the satellite phone he’d brought along to keep in contact with the outside world—at least that part of the outside world who were either also equipped with satellite phones or were located west of the Mississippi and thus out of the storm’s reach. Deprived for hours now of their ability to text each other at will, all three boys were delighted at the prospect of a lengthy conversation after lunch.
“And you can give me some hints about what you’re giving me for Christmas,” Adam said. “You’ll never guess what I’m giving you.”
I wondered if Chief Burke, in the background, was repressing the same conspiratorial smile I was trying to hide. Michael and I had conferred with Chief Burke and Minerva at great length about the boys’ presents to each other. Josh and Jamie were joining forces to give Adam the expensive new bat that Michael and the chief agreed would be perfect for the coming year’s baseball season, and Adam was giving Josh and Jamie tickets to a home game between his beloved Orioles and their arch-rival Yankees. Still to be determined was whether Michael and I would tag along to help out or whether the chief and Minerva would really try to cope all by themselves with our two on top of his own crew, which included not only Adam Jones Burke but also Frank Robinson Burke, Junior, and Calvin Ripken Burke. I’d blocked the relevant dates out on my calendar, just in case. Curious how comforting it was, in the middle of the snowstorm, to think that pitchers and catchers would report in a mere seven weeks.
All too soon it was time to head back to Owl Fest. I took one last look around the cottage, kissed Michael, reassured the boys that I would not insist on kissing them, and went back out into the storm.