Read Online A Catered Thanksgiving by Isis Crawford - Free Book Online Page A

d’oeuvres they’d brought from the shop; and getting the dining room table set up, which took some doing because they couldn’t find a tablecloth that fit.
    â€œThat’s why I hate these kind of events,” Bernie grumbled as she gave up looking through the linens and decided to overlap two smaller white Irish linen tablecloths instead. “From now on in, we’re just dropping the food off and leaving.”
    â€œWorks for me,” Libby said as she located a silver platter for the turkey and a silver dish for the corn-bread stuffing. “We lose money every time we do this,” she noted, holding the serving pieces up. “Bernie, what do you think?”
    â€œI think the sizes are right, but they need to be polished,” Bernie replied.
    Libby plunked the serving pieces on the sideboard and opened up the top of the silver chest she’d found in the top drawer. She sighed in dismay as she studied the contents. “As does the silverware.”
    Bernie let out an indignant snort. She hated polishing silver. Always had, always would. “That is not in our job description,” she groused.
    â€œToo true,” Libby agreed. “But Mom would be happy.”
    For some reason their mother had always loved polishing silver. It had relaxed her, as had ironing. At least that was what she’d always told Libby and Bernie. This, however, was a concept that neither one of Rose’s daughters understood. Not even vaguely.
    â€œWe could always use plastic stuff,” Bernie suggested. “I think I saw some in the kitchen.”
    â€œWe may have to if we can’t find the polish,” Libby retorted as she gathered the silver up and walked back into the kitchen. “Obviously, Alma was slacking off.”
    Bernie cleared a place on the closest countertop for Libby to put down the silver. “Maybe that’s why Monty fired her.”
    Libby stifled a yawn as she looked out the window. It was still snowing. If anything, it had gotten worse. “Ralph told me it was because she stole money. Not that it really matters, because we still have to get this stuff cleaned up.”
    Bernie shook her head and pinned a loose strand of hair back up. “Just another thing to do.”
    Libby and Bernie were searching for the silver polish in the kitchen utility closet when Monty Field came traipsing in.
    â€œLadies, how’s the turkey doing?” he asked.
    â€œCooking along,” Bernie said.
    Monty Field rubbed one of his hands along the side of his beaklike nose before bringing it back down to his side. “I thought I’d check on the bird.”
    Libby nodded toward the oven. “Be our guest.”
    â€œThis is my favorite part of the holiday,” he confided as he walked toward the oven. “Alma always told me that the turkey would roast without my help,” he said with a smile. “But I don’t believe it. Actually, I don’t think she liked me in her kitchen. Not one single bit. I know her son certainly didn’t. He’d glare at me every time I came in.” And he gave a self-deprecating laugh.
    â€œI can’t imagine why,” Libby said as she and Bernie laughed with Monty to be polite. “After all, if you’re not entitled to be here, who is?”
    â€œThat’s what I told him,” Monty replied. “He was better behaved after that.” Monty bent over and opened the oven door. “But she did make a good turkey,” he continued. “I’ll give her that.”
    â€œHopefully, ours will be, too,” said Libby.
    â€œBetter than your mother’s chicken, at any rate.”
    â€œExcuse me?” Libby said, thinking she hadn’t heard Monty Field correctly.
    â€œYou were not my first choice,” he informed them. “However, since I’m not paying, I acceded. Perhaps you will prove me wrong, although in my experience the apple never falls far from the