Viviana Valentine Goes Up the River by Emily J. Edwards

Author:Emily J. Edwards
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CROOKED LANE BOOKS

* * *

Hazel was in the empty dining room, staring at an array of forks the way I’ve seen Mrs. K stare at tea leaves. “Buster, Richard, and Stanley are in their labs,” she explained, picking up some cutlery and putting it back down. “And the proper menfolk are still out at the bridge.”

“Where does that put Mr. Allen?” I asked, coming into the room, and she gave me a friendly hug.

“Two guesses and the first one don’t count!” Hazel said. “I don’t think I could live with a lush, between you and me.”

“Me neither, though Tommy has been known to hit the bottle at the end of the day.”

“He is a dreamboat, your man,” Hazel said. “I bet he knows how to change a tire.”

“I don’t think he’s owned a car in his life,” I said, laughing, “but he probably could.” I’d had a flirtation over the summer with a beat cop who’d gone on to motor pool, and I hoped he was doing okay. From here on out, though, I’d stick with men who took the subway.

“What’s it like to know your future is secure?” Hazel fell into a chair, and our pretense of discussing menus was on ice.

“We’re far from secure, Hazel,” I said. “If Tommy’s business goes belly up, we won’t have a pot to piss in.”

“You have a two-carat Tiffany solitaire on your left hand, Viviana,” Hazel said. “That’s enough security for me. And most girls.”

The stone twinkled in the weak light of a winter day. “It sure is something, isn’t it?”

“Oh yes, young love,” came the voice of Mrs. Allen from the doorway. “Edward and I didn’t get married until we were older.”

“I had no idea,” I told her. “You two have the comfort with each other that looks like it took years.”

“Well, we always got on,” she said modestly. “But I would never have dreamed of being married before I was thirty.”

“Yes, well,” I said as Hazel flinched. “It is a very intimate decision for all of us. Despite what the movies say, I don’t know a single girl who’d marry a man without asking all sorts of questions first.”

“Speaking of questions,” Hazel interrupted, desperate to change the subject, “what sorts of things should we serve for Thanksgiving if the fates allow us to spend it here?”

We marched into Arnold’s spotless kitchen to tear apart the pantry.

“Viviana, what are your traditional dishes?” Hazel asked, pencil at the ready above a note card filched from Buster’s stationery in the library.

“Well, I rarely make it home for the holiday,” I said truthfully. “So Tommy comes over to my boarding house to have dinner with me, my landlady, her son, and whoever else is there. And my landlady is from Lviv, so our dishes can be a bit nontraditional, though she really does like doing the whole bird-and-stuffing routine.”

“Goodness, how colorful,” Hazel said, without cruelty.

“Well, we opt for the American tradition,” Mrs. Allen said haughtily. “Edward’s family goes back to Mayflower times.”

“How nice.” Hazel was pointed and almost dismissive.

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