Read Online Body Language by Michael Craft - Free Book Online

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    But I decided that these thoughts were presumptuous. While I sensed that Doug Pierce could become a valued friend in my new hometown, Christmas dinner on the day we met might be pushing things. Better to let this evolve.
    Walking with me from the den and through the front hall, he stopped near the foot of the staircase that led up to the third-floor great room. In the turns of the stair stood the tall pine that Neil and Parker had decorated. Pierce gaped at it. “It’s perfect, Mark,” he decreed. “May it bring nothing but warmth and peace to your life in Dumont.”
    Sensitive comment, coming from a cop. I liked him.
    That afternoon, the pace of things grew hectic at the house on Prairie Street. My meeting with Pierce had convinced me that I could dismiss the venom of Miriam Westerman’s minions, and I was able to concentrate instead on preparing to celebrate Christmas with friends and family—family I’d not seen since I was a boy.
    Hazel took charge of the meal once the menu was agreed to. Earlier that week, Neil had suggested goose, hoping that our dinner would be strictly traditional. However, no one else shared his enthusiasm for the idea (Roxanne claimed she might gag—and did a credible job of miming it), so roast beef was discussed, which struck everyone as too pedestrian. In a spirit of compromise, then, we settled on turkey, in spite of the fact that we’d all had our fill of it at Thanksgiving.
    The heady aroma of roasting foul filled the house as Hazel basted away in the kitchen, having chopped and clattered since dawn. By noon, everyone else was up and dressed and ready to pitch in. Parker Trent played backup to Hazel in the kitchen. Neil and Roxanne set the table and arranged flowers. Carl Creighton and I replenished the fireplaces with logs and kindling, ready for the match. By one or so, everything was in order. The Quatrains were due at two. We planned to sit down at three.
    Shortly before the Quatrains arrived, I was tidying the grate in the dining room when Hazel came in from the kitchen to survey the table. She seemed satisfied, turned to leave, then turned back, bug-eyed. “Mr. Manning! ” she gasped, hand to chest. “Too many places have been set.”
    There were nine chairs. Counting on my fingers, I said, “There’s Neil and me, Roxanne and Carl, and Parker—five. Suzanne, Joey, and Thad Quatrain—that’s eight. And you, Hazel, make nine.”
    Her jaw sagged, as if I were out of my mind. “Mr. Manning! ” she gasped again. “I couldn’t possibly dine with the family.”
    I laughed. “Don’t be silly, Hazel. You’re more a part of this family than I am. We’d love to have you at the table with us.”
    She shook her head with quick, tiny wags. “I wouldn’t think of it,” she said flatly, removing a setting from the table. “I’ll eat in the kitchen. Of course.” And she trundled out of the room, dragging a chair to the wall as she left.
    A while later, I was fussing with something at the back of the house when the doorbell rang. I checked my watch. Two o’clock—the Quatrains had arrived. From somewhere down the hall, Neil called, “Shall I get that, Mark?”
    “Thanks,” I said, rushing toward the door, “but I’d better greet them myself.” After all, Suzanne and Joey Quatrain had grown up in this house, and it wouldn’t seem right for them to find a total stranger at the door. But then, they wouldn’t recognize me either—it had been thirty-three years.
    “My God, Mark, it’s really you!” said the woman at the door as I opened it. Rushing over the threshold, leaving two men behind, she hugged me tight, effusing, “I’d know you anywhere!”
    We both laughed. “Come on, Suzanne”—I gambled that it was she, but she didn’t look at all familiar—“don’t try to tell me that I haven’t changed. I was nine. ”
    She held me at arm’s length. “And I was fourteen. But you’ve become a renowned journalist, and I’ve seen your picture many