Diva Runs Out Of Thyme

“I brought muffins for brunch. Cranberry nutmeg, walnut mincemeat, and pumpkin spice.” She plunked the Sunday edition of the local paper on the kitchen table and removed her jacket. “Are you the only ones up?” She moseyed toward the coffee and poured herself a cup. Looking out the window over the sink, she said, “Sure is dead out there this morning.”

Brunch? I didn’t remember planning a brunch. The mere mention of it reminded me that I had ignored my company. Normally, I’d have planned all the meals in advance and even prepared a few dishes that I could pop in the oven so I wouldn’t have to abandon my guests to prepare them.

We could pull together eggs and bacon and whip up apple-cinnamon French toast. Thank heaven the freezer and pantry were well stocked. Could Mom have mentioned brunch to Francie?

Wearing sweats, Dad ambled in and stopped short. “Didn’t realize that we’re having company. Pardon me while I change.”

Mom and June followed suit, but Francie didn’t mind. She tossed kindling in the fire, lit it, and made herself at home in a fireside chair, her nose buried in the paper. At least I didn’t have to worry about entertaining her.

I found a basket big enough for the muffins, lined it with a white lace-edged napkin, and placed the muffins inside. While Francie read, I peeled and sliced firm Granny Smith apples and melted butter in a large pan. The apples plopped into the melting butter with a sizzle. I added a liberal dose of brown sugar, sprinkled cinnamon over the top, and gave the entire mixture a few good turns to blend it all. With the burner on low, I put the lid on and left the apples to simmer while I set the dining-room table.

Mochie zoomed past me into the living room. Daisy followed cautiously, as if she expected Mochie to change direction any second. Instead he jumped onto the sofa, gazed around, and then flew back toward Daisy and me in the dining room. I spread my arms and blocked the table, hoping to discourage Mochie from leaping on top of it. But at the last moment he veered to the right and halted abruptly in front of the buffet.

His bottom raised, Mochie flattened his chest to the floor and struggled to reach something under the buffet. I decided a mouse would run from him so I let him entertain himself by trying to bat out what was probably a major dust bunny while I set square white plates on an apricot tablecloth.

Natasha’s pumpkin wreath had started to cave in on itself. I carried it into the kitchen and tossed it in the trash. I retrieved a large rustic basket made of twigs, filled it with hard ruby pomegranates and rosy pears, and carried it, along with a bag of assorted nuts in the shells, to the dining table. I placed the basket in the center, ripped the bag open, and scattered nuts around the basket, throwing a generous handful on top of the fruit.

Something rattled as it spun across the floor. Daisy pranced after it. Mochie squeezed out from under the buffet, his belly flat, his whiskers white with dust-bunny fuzz. He ran to his new toy, which Daisy sniffed cautiously. Mochie batted it across the room, where it spun before rolling to the outer wall, raising the excitement level of his game. I spoiled his fun by retrieving it for a closer look.

Made of some sort of brassy metal, the cylindrical object measured about two and a half inches long and less than an inch in diameter. Both ends were rounded. Whatever it was, it had not been made to stand on end. Highly polished stones decorated it in between swirls of tiny golden beads.

I detected a thin line near one end and gave it a twist. It opened easily to reveal a hollow compartment. A creepy feeling came over me. My dread grew when I realized that Mochie was staring at something behind me. I whipped around in time to see Craig watching me again. I closed my hand over the object so he wouldn’t see it and suppressed my initial instinct to ask him, not very nicely, why he liked to spy on me.

Choking back my annoyance, I asked, “Hungry?”

“Sure smells good. Can I help you with anything?”

I would have sworn his eyes focused on my clenched hand when he asked. Mostly I wanted to get rid of him so I could close the little vial and cram it in my pocket away from His Nosiness.

“Would you bring the basket of muffins from the kitchen?”

He didn’t comply immediately. I suspected he knew I’d found something and that I was hiding it. My blood pressure rose in the few seconds that passed with us in a standoff. I had the upper hand, though. No matter what he’d seen, he couldn’t exactly tackle me and wrestle it from my hand with everyone else in the house.

As I stared him down, it occurred to me that he rarely showed emotion. He acted sweet and endearing around Hannah, but he must be a great poker player because he never displayed anger or frustration or any negative feelings. No matter how much he wanted to fit in and be accepted by our family, it didn’t account for his amazing self-control. I didn’t trust him and I didn’t like him.