The Nightingale Before Christmas(35)

“And goose is traditional,” she said.

I decided not to say “So’s turkey.”

“But many people find goose a little too greasy.”

“That’s true,” I said. “A lot of people have trouble digesting it.”

“But turkey’s so bland.”

I wanted to say “that’s why we put gravy on it,” but I held my tongue.

“Maybe I should have both.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” I said. “That should keep both parties happy.”

“Not the vegetarians,” she said. “But I’ll worry about them later. Oh, by the way—do you really want an Xbox for Christmas?”

“No,” I said. “I can’t say that I do, and Michael and I agreed that we don’t want the boys exposed to video games this young.”

“I thought as much,” she said. “So I told Jamie that I couldn’t help him buy you one for Christmas.”

With that she hung up.

Should I warn Michael that Jamie was trying to do an end run around him on the present-buying front?

No time. Mother and Eustace were waiting to ask me something. And one of Randall Shiffley’s cousins was standing behind them. And Vermillion was peeking through the railings from the upstairs landing as if waiting for a time to get my attention.

I took care of Randall’s cousin first, because he appeared to be in the middle of doing actual physical labor. Not that I didn’t think what the designers did was work, but as a blacksmith I suppose I was ever-so-slightly more sympathetic to work that produced sweat. Then I had to listen to Mother and Eustace explain something that they felt was essential to do to smooth the flow between their two areas. After twenty minutes I finally interrupted them.

“Let’s cut to the chase—does this involve knocking down any load-bearing walls or otherwise threatening the structural integrity of the house.”

“Of course not, dear.”

“Will what you’re doing intrude on or inconvenience any of the other decorators?”

“Of course not, dear. You see, all we really want to do is put a little bit of crown molding right here—”

“Do you need any supplies or workman other than what Randall has already provided?”

“No, dear.” Mother was starting to look a little provoked.

“Then make it so,” I said. “I approve with all my heart.”

As I strode back toward the hall, I heard Mother murmur softly to Eustace. “Clearly not quite herself again.”

I climbed upstairs—noting, to my satisfaction, that the chief had finished with Sarah and was interviewing Ivy. Her tiny, brown-clad body looked oddly out of place against the rich red velvet of Sarah’s armchair.

Upstairs, I found Vermillion wanted me to solve a dispute over what color to paint the door between her room and Martha’s bathroom. Vermillion had painted her side glossy black, to match everything else in her room. But when the door opened, it looked like a blob of ink against the white tile, white walls, white shower curtain, and white towels of Martha’s spa décor. Martha, of course, wanted to paint it white.

“The door will be open most of the time, which means it will be in my room,” Martha said, tapping her paintbrush against the lid of the can of Benjamin Moore “White Dove” that she was holding.

“But when it’s closed, it will look as if a polar bear has landed in my room,” Vermillion wailed.

We went back and forth about that for half an hour or so. Neither of them would budge an inch.

Suddenly inspiration came.

I pulled out my phone.

“Randall,” I said. “Can you come up to the back bathroom?”

“On my way.”

When Randall arrived, I let him watch Martha and Vermillion going at it for a couple of minutes, just so he could see what we were dealing with. He glanced at me uneasily. Settling catfights between the designers was supposed to be my job.

“Ladies!” I shouted.

They both subsided reluctantly and glowered at me.

“Randall, you see the problem.”

He nodded, and looked a little wild-eyed, as if trying to beg me to leave him out of it.

“Can you build us a door that will solve this problem?”

“A door that looks white when it’s in one room and black in the other?”

“One of those doors that disappears into the wall when it’s open instead of swinging one way or the other.”

“A pocket door.” Randall and Martha said it in unison.

“Yes,” Vermillion said. “That would work.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Randall said. “You ladies hold on to your paint cans for a little while. Help is on the way.”