Diva Runs Out Of Thyme

She turned as though she was going to sit. Instead she craned her neck and walked around the table to the bench in the bay window. “I swear I just saw someone sneaking around the colonel’s house.”

TWO

From “Ask Natasha” :

Dear Natasha,

I have no idea how to decorate my home for Thanksgiving. Pumpkins and gourds seem tired. Any suggestions?

—Lost in Louisa

Dear Lost,

Create a nut garland to add that special touch.

Using an electric drill, make holes in assorted nuts. You may need a vise to hold the nuts. String them on rough twine to make your own harvest garland. Mix the nuts for a variety of textures and colors.

—Natasha

I joined Nina at the window. “I don’t see anything.”

“He disappeared behind the colonel’s house.” Nina downed the rest of her coffee. “I’m outta here. I’ve got enough problems of my own with my mother-in-law arriving tonight. My house will never be clean enough for that woman. I have to go by the shelter, too. We’re fostering a golden retriever until they can place it.”

“And you want to be sure that person you saw isn’t lurking behind your house now?”

She laughed. “You know me too well.”

I tamped down the fire while she let herself out. She might have tried to laugh it off, but I could tell she was worried about the man she’d seen.

That prompted me to have a look at my own backyard from the glass-enclosed sunroom on the back of the house. Sure enough, a few flowerpots lay on their sides as though they’d been knocked over. I consoled myself with the notion that the police knew about it and the guy probably wouldn’t return.

After a quick shower, I pulled on a long-sleeved amber sweater. Checking to see if my roots needed a blonde boost yet, I popped hot rollers in my hair. Jeans seemed like a good idea for my grocery run. Except I couldn’t find a pair of jeans that I could button at the waist. I hated to acknowledge that Mom was right, but I was developing curves where I shouldn’t have any. I caved to comfort and put on khaki trousers with elastic around the back.

The car Mars called Nike on Wheels was still packed with votive candleholders and tablecloths from a charity dinner the night before. I never knew what kind of cakes, plants, flower arrangements, and odd decorations I might have to cart around in a pinch, so I’d insisted on a hybrid SUV. Mars had hated it. At least the car was one thing we didn’t squabble over.

Too lazy to unload it, I shoved all the supplies together to make room for groceries.

The drive to my favorite natural food grocery store didn’t take long, but the parking lot was jammed and I had to park around the side of the store. When I stepped out, a short, stocky man approached with a banana box in his hands. I braced myself and prepared to say no to whatever he was selling.

“Could I interest you in a kitten, ma’am?”

I didn’t look. I didn’t dare see it. “No, thanks.”

“He’s awful cute. Purebred ocicat.”

“Aussie-what?” No. Say no, Sophie. Walk away now.

“Ocicat. My wife breeds ’em, and this little guy got stripes instead of spots so nobody wants to buy him.” He held up an adorable kitten with huge green eyes.

Say no, Sophie, I chanted to myself. Think of Daisy. She had a sweet disposition, but I had no idea how she’d react to a kitten. The wind kicked up again and assorted bits of paper trash swirled past. I smiled at the man, said, “Good luck,” and ran for the store entrance to extract myself while I could.

I grabbed a cart and headed straight for the turkeys. I selected a twenty-five-pounder, far larger than we needed, but I rationalized that everyone loves turkey sandwiches. Cranberries, organic gold Yukon potatoes, fresh green beans, almonds, butter, but no matter where I shopped in the store, I couldn’t get the bright eyes of the poor little kitten out of my mind. That man was willing to give it away to anyone. What would happen to it? I placed canned pumpkin in my cart for the soup my mother thought was so important and decided that if the man was still there when I left, I would take the kitten to Nina. At the very least, she’d make sure it got a decent home.

With that off my mind I was able to concentrate and checked my lists—one for the stuffing contest and the other for Thanksgiving dinner. I was picking out a chicken for stock when Tamera Turner, a local news anchor, cornered me.

“Sophie, they don’t have squab and they’re out of acorn squashes. Where are you going to get yours?”

A well-fed, bespectacled man leaned over the poultry selection as though he was trying to listen in. A fan of Tamera’s?