Free Boo Who by Rene Gutteridge Page B

her lip. She couldn’t remember ever eating turkey without giblet gravy.
    “Maybe just a little bit,” she said.
    “What?” Oliver asked.
    “Nothing. Um, sorry. I’ll just be getting some gravy.” One ladle full. One. That’s all. She dipped the ladle into the gravy, spread the sauce over as much as one ladlefull would cover, and moved on to the drinks.
    In the living room, she sat down on the couch and put her plate on the coffee table. In the corner, she caught Thief lying on a blanket, watching her without interest. The last time she’d sat here, she thought that cat was dead and she was sniffing its fur. Bad memories. She decided to move over to the other couch by the fire. As she sat down, she remembered this was where she blew out the seams in an extra small T-shirt when she sneezed over the mayor’s cologne. More bad memories.
    Across the rug, there was a nice wingback chair. She moved over there and decided the haunting might cease because she’d never sat in this chair before. She stared at the plate in her hands, but all she could hear in her head was
four dress sizes
echoing over and over again.
    She could do this. She was Melb Cornforth, for crying out loud. A strong woman, and soon to be married to Oliver S. What more motivation did she need? She glanced up, watching Oliver lick mashed potatoes off his wrist before spotting her across the living room and giving her a big grin. She smiled back, but her stomach grumbled its protest that she had forgone the mashed potatoes. Small portions. Chew food until it’s liquid. Don’t eat more than the size of your fist. Drink eight glasses of water. She smiled. This was doable.

    Wolfe had never played host in his life, but he thought he was getting the hang of it. He’d offered people drinks, brought others napkins, made sure everyone had a place to sit. He’d even refilled the gravy bowl after Melb Cornforth practically poured the whole thing on her plate after her third pass through the line. He didn’t blame her. Ainsley made the best giblet gravy he’d ever tasted.
    He scanned the crowd. Everyone looked happy, and it sort of reminded him of Thanksgiving, minus the sinister plots and not-so-dead cat. Not to mention his near-death experience. Even Alfred looked to be enjoying himself, and he was glad his old friend didn’t have to spend the holidays alone. The mayor looked somewhat perplexed as to why he was eating turkey and stuffing in July, but he was eating nevertheless.
    What bothered Wolfe, though, was knowing Ainsley was not having a good time. Though she was able to pull herself together enough to offer that winsome smile everyone came to expect, her eyes reflected disappointment. He knew he had to cheer her up.
    His first plan was to remind her of her excellence as a hostess, not to mention her knack for decorating. In fact, he realized, he hadn’t had a chance to admire the special manger she’d set up. After a quick glance around to make sure there were no dire needs, he decided he’d go look at the manger, then find Ainsley and tell her how wonderful it looked.
    Over the fireplace, she’d fashioned an amazing setup. A large wooden manger, complete with details like hay and sackcloth, was the backdrop to the story the figurines told … the story of the day the earth’s soul found its worth. Somehow she had used tiny Christmas lights to give the illusion of a majestic glow. In the middle of the manger, a small, bundled baby Jesus lay quietly asleep. Kneeling over him was a serene-looking Mary and a proud-looking Joseph. Between these two, a mighty and beautiful angel hovered, arms swept up in worship, wings spread. To their left, humble and lowly shepherds stood with their staffs in their hands, their animals in tow. Two were kneeling. One stood with his hand over his heart.
    And to their right … to their right … nothing. Where were the Wise Men? Wolfe stood baffled. The space was completely empty, as if something had formerly been