LITMIR.BIZ

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think, before Greenpeace sends you off to tilt at windmills?”

      What’s the big furry-faced guy doing now? I ought to go first down the stairs. It’s a canine tradition, in case there are dangers down there.

      But I held Scruffy out of the way while Joe trotted past me with an armful of boards. I heard them hit the cellar floor with a thud. Then he was back upstairs, barely winded. “Got about five more trips,” he said cheerfully, stopping for a quick kiss from his admiring wife.

      “I’ll help you.” I had to let Scruffy go, which meant the dog danced around and in front of us with every trip from the overloaded rental car to the cellar.

      By the time we got through, my workroom was a sea of boards, tools, and lighting equipment. How in the world would I be able to fill my orders while all this home improvement was going on? Oh well, it could have been worse. He could have got an urge to remodel the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, I took out a slab of salmon from its bed of ice.

      Instantly, Scruffy was under my elbow, inhaling deeply. Hotdiggity-dog! Is that fish? I love fish. The fishier the better.

      “I know you do. I remember all those times you rolled in dead fish on the beach and I had to give you a vanilla bath. But don’t worry. You’ll get your share in your supper dish tonight. Now move out the way so that I can get what I need for the sauce.”

      Fish oil is good for my gleaming coat. We French briards don’t need baths. Baths are for retrievers, those saps. Hey, what’s with the green weed, Toots?

      “Fresh dill. Now, will you stop nagging?”

      “I haven’t said a word.” Joe, who was now washing up in the half-bath with the door open, felt the need to defend himself.

      “Not you. Scruffy.”

      “You really do talk to him, is that it?”

      “It’s hard to explain.”

      Hey, get used to it, bearded guy! What do you think I am, some kind of dumb animal? My senses are sharp and my paws are stealthy, so watch yourself, fella.

      It was just as well that Joe didn’t hear what I heard.

      Chapter Eight

      During the next few weeks, my third eye, the clairvoyant eye, remained stubbornly closed to whatever dangers were brewing. Perhaps the constant pounding in my cellar workroom kept me distracted. There was definitely no chance of slipping into an alpha brain-wave state while Joe was at work in the house. I did my best to visualize him finishing the project soon—particularly before he was called away. Meanwhile, I was forced to put together my herbal orders in the kitchen, an additional mess, just when I was trying to focus on Thanksgiving, only a week away.

      As I suspected, Adam hadn’t been thinking about driving up to Plymouth for the holiday but had been maneuvered neatly into it by Freddie. Becky seemed pleased to join us, too, as well as glad to throw cold water on Ron’s hopes that she’d spend the day enjoying the Lowells’ chilly hospitality and perfectly presented Norman Rockwell bird. “We’re in a bit of chaos here now,” I warned her, “but no doubt Joe will have everything shipshape by the time the turkey goes into the oven.”

      “With Grandma’s secret Nine-Herb Stuffing? Which you keep promising to write out for me.”

      “Of course, Grandma’s stuffing. I’m a firm believer in tradition.” I still relied on Grandma’s notebooks of handwritten recipes. Shipton women had always been famous for their herbal lore: not only for well-seasoned New England food but also for medicinal teas, herbal cosmetics, and useful potions of all kinds.

      “Oh sure, Mom…you’re the quintessential traditionalist.”

      “Actually, I am. Only my traditions go back a long, long way. Anyway, I’m looking forward to a lovely family party. Cathy won’t be coming east, but that was really too much to hope for. She and Irene are organizing a vegetarian feast for out-of-work theater friends.”

      “I bet that will be a rockin’ good time.” Becky’s tone betrayed a trace of envy for her sister’s lifestyle.

      “If you like tofu-turkey and chili. It’s a hand-to-mouth existence, Becky. Not for you or me, but the very insecurity seems to suit them. So far away from home, too—I’m just glad that Cathy has Irene to watch over her.”

      “Wouldn’t you rather she found a guy to look after her?”

      “I don’t even think I was surprised that she chose differently. Besides, I like Irene, and I think she’s good for Cathy. I’m just happy to see all you little birds fly off on your own chosen flight paths.”

      “So you can fly off on yours?”

      “You’re too canny, my dear.”

      “Maybe I’ve inherited some of your sixth sense.”

      I hoped not, but I didn’t say so. So many terrible things I’d seen—and seen twice. Once in my mind’s eye, and again when they happened. Remembering some of those occasions while Becky talked on about the merits of following hunches in her family law practice, I let myself gaze too long out my office window at the gold of the late-afternoon sunlight settling on the ocean. I felt myself slipping away. I saw a pair of hands wearing work gloves, carrying a canvas bag. Gardening boots, like Wellingtons. Bright green. The corner of a navy jacket. Now what was that? And where?

      “Mom? Are you there?”

      I gave myself a mental shake and zipped back to the present. “A sixth sense can be a mixed blessing, dear. Bad things happening to good people, you know.”

      Thanksgiving was a case in point. But for me personally, it was a truly blessed day that filled me with a rich sense of well-being. I’d put the work gloves and green Wellingtons right out of my mind in favor of concentrating on Grandma’s stuffing and my usual tussle with the pastry for pies. I have been known to hurl the whole mess against the wall, just to see if it would stick, but on this magic Thanksgiving, the pastry mixed up perfectly—neither too wet nor too dry. I baked a slew of pies: pumpkin-pecan, mince-pear, and two apples, one French with cream and one regular New England. All thoughts of the murderous herbalist were banished from my spicy, steamy kitchen.

      Joe and I had got it all together—not only together, but polished and shining. And, as always, it was glorious to have most of my family—with lively Freddie as a bonus—together around the table. Fiona was sharing the holiday with us, adding her own particular zaniness and wisdom, a nice foil for Freddie’s kinetic energy.

      From the moment Adam and Freddie stepped out of his Lexus, however, I’d had to submerge the nagging little notion that their friendship was becoming a lot less than casual, which, of course, had been Freddie’s intent ever since they’d first met here in my house. I remembered how Adam had come downstairs looking for a boot Scruffy had stolen. My tall, fair-haired son was wearing only a towel at the time, and Freddie had been turned to awestruck, worshipful stone, Pygmalion in reverse.

      Oh, let those little birds fly free! I reminded myself, trying not to visualize Freddie as a prospective daughter-in-law—Great Goddess! What a challenge that would be! I loved the girl dearly, but she was Volatile with a capital V. Still, she’d saved my life once—I owed her one, though not necessarily one of my children.

      From sheepskin jacket to Gucci loafers, Adam looked as if he’d just stepped out of Gentlemans Quarterly. Even the perfectly faded jeans had an Armani label. Freddie, on the other hand, sported her usual bohemian chic—micro skirt, clingy top, thigh-high boots, and a sporty ankle-length black leather coat. Her pale face emphasized heavy eye makeup, more skillfully applied than it once had been. Her hair was midnight black again, jelled into pixie peaks, and her earrings were plentiful, but never mind—at least she’d given up the nose ring. They were a wildly divergent couple, but maybe that was the attraction.

      Since the days she worked at Hamburger Heaven, Freddie had always been a favorite with Scruffy. It’s the girl. The girl is here! Let’s keep her

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