State Secrets. Linda Lael Miller
you sure you don’t want me to work Friday?”
“Positive.”
Elaine looked worried now, her wide green eyes watchful. “You and Toby have somewhere to go for Thanksgiving, don’t you? I mean, you’re not going to sit here and brood or anything, are you?”
Holly felt a tender sort of exasperation. “We’re spending the day with Skyler’s parents, worrywart. Hie thyself home, before that husband of yours tries to stuff the gobbler on his own. Remember last year? He cut himself on the giblets.”
Elaine laughed. “Roy means well,” she said, taking her coat from the antique wall rack beside the back door. Shrugging into it, she tossed her glossy brown hair back over her shoulders. “How was he to know that a partially frozen turkey neck can be lethal?”
“How indeed?” Holly chuckled, wondering why she felt so sad. Skyler’s parents were nice people; she and Toby would both have a good time at their house.
“Happy, happy,” Elaine sang, opening the door to leave and letting in a rush of frigid November air. “See you Monday.”
“Monday,” Holly confirmed, smiling hard. But when her friend was gone, she sat down on the long bench beside the trestle table and sighed.
Just then Toby scrambled in from the other direction, still wearing his jacket, earmuffs and mittens. His “Moon Boots” made puddles on the redbrick floor, and he was waving a multi-colored construction-paper turkey in one hand. “Look what we made, Mom! Look what we made!”
From somewhere in the depths of her, Holly summoned up another smile. “Wow!” she crowed. She didn’t bother to correct the little boy, to remind him that she was his aunt and not his mother. She never did that anymore.
The seven-year-old was trying to peel off his winter garb without crumpling his purple, green, pink and black turkey. The cold glowed in his plump cheeks and his china-blue eyes sparkled.
After ruffling his irresistible corn-silk hair with one hand, Holly aided him by taking the bedraggled, paste-crusted turkey while he wrestled out of his jacket.
“I’ve never seen a turkey quite like this,” she remarked.
Toby laughed and Holly felt a pang at the sound; he was so like her brother, Craig. Poor, hunted Craig. “I wanted him to be different, Mom!” For a moment, the child looked sheepish. “Besides, all the brown and gold and orange paper was gone.”
Holly walked to the huge side-by-side refrigerator and attached the turkey to its surface with magnets. To make room, she had to take down the previous month’s construction-paper pumpkin. “No matter,” she said. “I like this bird. He has character. Are you hungry?”
“Starved,” the little boy exclaimed, and there was a scuffling sound as he made a place for himself at the paper-and-book-littered table.
Holly plundered the refrigerator for lunch meat, sliced cheese, lettuce and mustard. She thought ruefully that another trip to the supermarket was in order.
Carrying the armload of sandwich supplies over to the counter, Holly set everything down to open the old-fashioned wooden bread box.
“We’re still going to Skyler’s place tomorrow, right?” Toby asked without looking at her.
Holly was closing the bread sack, tucking it back into its nook. She sighed. “Not exactly. We’re going to his parents’ house, remember? They live in the country.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t like Skyler very much, do you, Toby?” she ventured, buttering a slice of bread, adding cheese and lunch meat and a lettuce leaf.
“Are you going to marry him?” the child countered, watching Holly with pensive eyes.
It was a fair question, but since Holly didn’t know the answer herself, she could hardly offer one to Toby. “I don’t know. I like Skyler.”
“A lot?”
Holly thought. “Yeah. I like him a lot.”
“Do you love him?”
Holly’s knife clattered in the mustard jar. “Well—”
“You’re supposed to love somebody if you’re going to marry them. The way Elaine loves Roy. She’s always kissing him and when he says something, she looks at him like every word is real important.”
Holly paused, feeling oddly shaken, and gave her nephew a lopsided grin. “You’ve been watching Dr. Phil again,” she teased.
Toby looked puzzled. “Huh?”
“Never mind. How was school today?”
The little boy sighed. “I didn’t get any orange paper.”
“I remember,” Holly replied, putting the finished sandwich on a plate and carrying it to the table. “How come that happened, anyway? Were you late for art class or something?”
Toby was gathering up the sandwich in eager hands. “I had to talk to the principal.”
“Toby Llewellyn! Did you get into trouble?”
“No,” Toby said through a mouthful. “He wanted me to talk about the new president next week at assembly.”
A jolt of mingled alarm and fury raced through Holly; she had to take a deep breath before she could speak calmly. “What? How did he know—”
Toby shrugged. “Maybe there was something in the paper. Mr. Richardson was pretty disappointed when I told him I didn’t know the president.”
Holly was pacing the floor, her hands tucked into the hip pockets of her jeans. The celebrity of being a cookbook author was one thing—only a select group of people cared one way or the other, of course—but this shirttail relationship to the future president could get to be a real problem. Suppose reporters started taking an interest? Suppose what Craig had done got talked about? Toby could be hurt or even put in real danger!
“Did you see any newspaper people, Toby? Did anybody ask you questions?”
Toby shook his head. “Can I watch TV?”
Holly nodded somewhat impatiently. “You’ll tell me if anyone you don’t know tries to talk to you, won’t you, Toby?”
“Sure. Is there any lemonade?”
Agitated, Holly forced herself to stop pacing. There was no reason to panic, no reason. After all, she and Craig were only distantly related to the new president.
“Mom?”
“Cocoa. I’ll make you a cup of cocoa. It’s too cold for lemonade.”
“Okay,” Toby agreed amiably, on his way out of the kitchen. A moment later, as she searched the cupboard for a saucepan in which to prepare the cocoa, Holly heard the television set in the next room blaring. Her hands trembled as she collected the milk, salt, sugar and chocolate.
Oh, my God, she thought. Craig, what have you done to us? What have you done to all of us?
She reflected on her brother’s problems as she made the cocoa and carried it into the family room to Toby. The telephone shrilled and Holly jumped, startled out of her skin. She raced back into the kitchen and grabbed up the receiver. “H-hello?”
“Hello, kitten,” said the familiar masculine voice on the other end.
Holly sank into the chair at her small desk, her knees wobbly. Skyler. It was only Skyler. She was so glad that she didn’t even ask him not to call her by that silly, condescending nickname. “Hi,” she said.
Skyler cleared his throat. Skyler always cleared his throat when he was about to suggest something he expected Holly to oppose. “Listen, Holl, I was wondering—why don’t you and I and the kid just drive up to my folks’ place tonight, instead of waiting until tomorrow? I could close the shop