Better Than Kissing a Frog

First invite:

“Why don’t you come to dinner on Tuesday?” Kit asked. “I’m making my famous beef Wellington.”

“Famous?”

“Yes. I have a clever twist.”

“How so?”

“Do you want my recipe?”

“Good grief, no. And besides, isn’t Tuesday Valentine’s Day? Shouldn’t you and Larry be alone?”

“You would be the twist. You don’t have plans, do you?”

“Nothing special. Liam Neeson suggested we might do something, but I don’t—”

“Ah, Val, I don’t want you to be alone.”

“I just told you, Liam Neeson—”

“Then bring him along.”

“He’s Irish; he probably doesn’t like English cooking.”

“Like he should be so fussy.”

Second invite:

“So, whatcha doing on Tuesday, Pankowski? I’m in the mood for a humongous steak. Wanna join me?”

“Er, Tom, Tuesday is Valentine’s day.”

“Is it? So what? Any law says I can’t have dinner with my best salesman on Valentine’s Day?”

“First, I am your only salesman; second, I’m actually a woman; and third . . .” I couldn’t think of a third.

“I’m waiting. What’s third?”

“Pierce Brosnan suggested we might do something.”

“Okay. Forget it. I offered. Who’s this Pierce Bossman, anyway?”

“Geez. He’s a handsome actor who played James Bond, for heaven’s sake.”

“Oh, right. That makes sense.”

Third invite:

“Valerie, William Stuckey and I are wondering what you are doing on Tuesday. We were thinking of driving down to Chicago and taking you out to dinner. Somewhere romantic.”

“Aw, Mom, that’s so sweet. But . . .” What could I say? That if my mother was planning to drive, it would be Easter by the time she got here? Not to mention that spending V-day with my mother and her husband was about as romantic as spending the dreaded day down a coal mine. Literally, digging for coal. “I already have plans, and I’m so busy at work I can’t take time—”

“Okay. Then you have fun.”

That was it? No interrogation, no cross-examination, no insisting I send her a detailed schedule of my evening?

Fourth (and final) invite:

“Hey Val, one of my friends scored some tickets to see Pokey LaFarge Tuesday night. We got one extra. Wanna come with us? It’ll be fun.”

“Pokey who?” I turned in my chair to face Billie, the twentysomething kid I share my office space with.

“Pokey LaFarge.” She whipped out her phone and produced a picture of Pokey. “You know, a little jazzy, all-American. He’s sick.”

“Sick?”

“Okay, cool. You’d really like him. And before you say no, remember, it’s Valentine’s Day, and if you don’t have any plans—”

“George Clooney suggested we might do something.”

“He’s married, Val,” she said earnestly.  Like that would be a problem.

Valentine’s Day

On my way home from work, I stopped at the Gung Ho Chinese restaurant and picked up the Gung Ho special. Then, I enjoyed my dinner with a glass of pinot grigio and watched Love Actually for the millionth time. And as always, I got a lump in my throat over poor Emma Thompson dealing with her cheating spouse. My phone rang several times, but I let the calls go to voice mail. I’d deal with Liam, Pierce, and George tomorrow.

Best Valentine’s Day ever.

Here’s to 2017!

Kit: C’mon in, girlfriend. Happy New Year! Have a glass of champagne.

Val: Thank you. And the same to you. So what did Larry buy you for Christmas?

Kit: My darling husband gave me a Pasquini Espresso Machine.

Val: Wow, that certainly sounds like something you’d want.

Kit: Yeah, it was when I told him to buy it three weeks ago. But I already returned it and bought two pairs of Manolos instead. What about you?

Val: My mom renewed the subscription she gave me last year for Reader’s Digest—

Kit: Just in time. I’m sure they’ll tell you how to keep your New Year’s resolutions.

Val: As if. But I’m not finished; she also gave me a flashlight developed by NASA for the space station, which means I can apparently see the space station when I turn it on.

Kit: Should come in handy in Downers Grove. What about Tom?

Val: Tom?

Kit: Yes, Tom, your boss, remember him? Did he give you a gift?

Val: Yes. He was very generous.

Kit: Let me guess. Two lumps of coal, instead of the usual one.

Val: Actually, you are very close. He gave me a beautiful diamond cross on a silver chain.

Kit: So Billie chose it.

Val: Probably. But I love it.

Kit: Okay, so goodbye, 2016. Here’s to 2017.

Val: Yes. And our trip to England. I can’t wait. All the reservations are in place.

Kit: I better not be charged for excess luggage.

Val: I’m sure your steamer trunk will fit in the overhead.

Kit: And they better have good coffee over there. I’m not into tea, ya know.

Val: I’m sure you’ll find a decent cup of coffee. Maybe we should get your Pasquini thingy back.

Kit: No. I’ll wing it. You know I’m not picky.

Val: Riiight. So, here’s to 2017 and our trip. And I hope England is ready.

Read all about our girls’ trip to England in

No. 6 of The Val & Kit Mystery Series

—FOREIGN RELATIONS—

coming soon! 

Deck the Halls

“Tell me again why we’re doing this.” Tom did not look up from his iPhone.

“Because it’s Christmas, and people expect a successful business like ours to be decorated for Christmas.”

“What people?”

“People. Mortgage companies, other Realtors.” I could see I wasn’t convincing my boss, since he apparently couldn’t be bothered to look up. I tried some more. “Okay, clients, Tom. Our clients.”

“All right, Pankowski,” he mumbled. “You’ve convinced me. But don’t go nuts, and keep it tasteful.” Then his face broke into a wide grin as he held up his phone to show me two svelte ladies mud wrestling.

“Right, tasteful; I’ll keep that in mind.”

I left the office and drove immediately to Kit’s house, where I found my best friend in the process of supervising the decoration of her own home for Christmas. This meant an army of professionals in her living room assembling a twelve-foot Christmas tree and adorning it with priceless ornaments. Outside in her yard, I’d passed another team wrapping her roof and windows with garland and silvery lights. The pièce de résistance was a display of three oversize deer, silver with monster red velvet bows, forever caught in the headlights of passing cars.

“Phew, this is so exhausting.” Kit took my hand and led me into her chaotic living room. “You are so lucky that you don’t have to decorate.”

“Well, since I’ll be in Door County for Christmas, I don’t see the point.”

“Exactly. Lucky, lucky, lucky.” She steered me through the room into the kitchen, where she picked up an ornate crystal jug and filled two glasses with a creamy yellow liquid. “Here, drink this—first eggnog of the season.” She sprinkled some nutmeg from a silver shaker over each glass.

I took a sip. “Delicious, Kitty Kat. Cheers. Merry Christmas.”

She sipped from her own glass after offering the same toast.

“So, Tom finally agreed to let me decorate the office for Christmas,” I said, relaxing into the high-backed stool at her counter.

“Oh goody. Does that mean carte blanche at the Dollar Store?”

“Of course not.” I smiled. “He said—”

“Wait, don’t tell me. Is he having you actually make the decorations? Ya know, by hand and stuff, out of old newspapers?”

“Kit, really, you are terrible. I’ll probably go to Hobby Lobby or somewhere.”

“Hobby Lobby?” she repeated, as if I’d suggested going to a landfill. “Hey, go easy, go easy.” I realized her remarks were now aimed at the hapless individual standing at the kitchen door swinging a glass ornament precariously in his left hand. “That’s Waterford,” she yelled. “You break it, you buy it.”

I finished my eggnog and said good-bye. It was a little too late to begin shopping for seasonal knickknacks, so instead I went home to my tiny apartment, where I donned my cozy jammies, got comfy on the couch, and cradled a cup of cocoa in my hands. It wasn’t exactly true that I hadn’t decorated my home for Christmas. Quite the contrary, in fact. I stretched out my legs so that my feet could reach the coffee table, and took a look around.

From my vantage point I could take in all the decorations I had displayed, all handmade in another lifetime by my daughter, Emily, who is now grown and married and living in California: a papier-mȃché snowman who was unfortunately no longer white, but an unflattering shade of yellow, his stovepipe hat long since lost; a garland of silver bells, sadly missing a couple of its clappers; and a poor Santa made from clay, his head way out of proportion to his body, but still able to give a jolly smile that showcased his rosy cheeks.

I’d go to Hobby Lobby in the days to come, but I decided I’d take Santa with his oddly misshapen physique and give him pride of place on my desk at the office.

Kit was right about one thing: I was lucky, lucky, lucky.

Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner (Thanksgiving 1975)

“Mom!” I ran into the kitchen, where my mother was stirring cranberries in a small pan. “Buddy says you invited his friend for Thanksgiving.”

My mother looked up. “Why aren’t you dressed, Valerie?”

“I’m dressed,” I said, running my hand over my new, and totally awesome, polyester pants, which not only looked terrific but were so comfortable. “And why didn’t you tell me you were inviting Tom Haskins?”

“Oh, excuse me,” she said, not taking her eyes from the dark-red glob to which she was now adding walnuts. “I didn’t realize I had to check with my fourteen-year-old daughter before extending invitations to my very own house.” Was she being sarcastic? If so, it was a new side of her, and one I didn’t like.

“Mom, are you sure you meant to invite Tom?” I tried a new approach. “He’s wild, you know.” I knew she hated wildness, in any form, but prayed she didn’t want an example of Tom’s particular wildness, because I’d be hard-pressed to come up with one.

“How so, Valerie?” she asked. “Because I find that hard to believe. When he was here on Saturday, he helped me bring groceries in from the car, without my asking, and it was such a pleasure—especially since I have to pay my own children a small fortune in order to get them to lift a finger around here.” Okay, that surely was sarcasm, or maybe it was cynicism; either way, it was totally untrue.

Last Saturday, when I had watched my brother, Buddy, and his pal Tom from my bedroom window, I had hoped they wouldn’t linger. I was in no shape to be seen by Tom. My new winged hairstyle, à la Farrah Fawcett, refused to flip back correctly, even though I had clipped it in place while sleeping.

“And your hair?” my mother continued. “What is that supposed to be? Why is it sticking out?”

“It’s not done yet,” I said, although it was more than done. But if Tom Haskins was coming to dinner, I'd have to redo it.

My mother poured the cranberry contents from the pan into a glass dish shaped like a swan. “Go change, Valerie,” she said. “Wear a dress or a skirt, not pants.”

An hour later I reappeared in the kitchen, where my Mom was now peeling potatoes. I was wearing my fabulous new brown corduroy jumper and cream-colored turtleneck. “That’s a little better,” she said, glancing in my direction. “Now go start setting the table.”

She’d already set the table, of course, probably the night before, while I was in my room listening to “Born to Run,” which actually belonged to my brother, and talking on the phone to Kit, my best friend. But now I wandered around the dining room imagining Tom Haskins eating turkey and green bean casserole in my house.

No doubt about it, Tom was the coolest boy in our school. Even if he did make me very nervous whenever he spoke directly to me, which wasn’t that often. I tried to make it sound like no big deal to the other girls at school that he was best friends with my brother, but I knew that gave me a little extra clout. With everyone except Kit, of course, who told me she thought he was obnoxious.

“What is that smell?” My mother wrinkled her nose as she came into the dining room with an empty bread basket. Obviously, she was referring to my Charlie perfume, which I may have gone a little overboard with; but I loved it so.

“Where shall we seat Tom?” I asked, ignoring her still-wrinkled nose. “In between Buddy and me,” I answered my own question, but I immediately began feeling even more nervous. What would I talk about?

“For heaven’s sake, he can sit anywhere he wants, although he might need a surgical face mask to combat that cologne you’re wearing.”

In the remaining few hours before our guests (fourteen in total) were due to arrive, I scoured my dad’s newspaper for interesting topics to chat with Tom about, changed clothes twice (settling on my mom’s new Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress, which was a little too tight for me, but pleased my mother), and then for good measure, I resprayed some more Charlie.

At two o’clock, the appointed hour, everyone had arrived except Buddy and his pal. When I heard the back door in the kitchen open, I elegantly made my way toward it, tugging at my mother’s dress, which I noticed rode up unflatteringly when I sat down.

Buddy was alone.

“Where’s Tom?” I tried not to appear disappointed. “I thought he was with you.”

“Yeah,” Buddy said. “He couldn’t make it.”

First, I let out a huge sigh of relief, then immediately regretted the time I’d wasted learning interesting facts about the Vietnam War, Patty Hearst, and the plot of Jaws. “He’s not coming?” I asked.

“He went skiing. Last-minute thing. No big deal.”

“How rude,” I said. But I was already heading up to my bedroom to change back into my polyester pants.

The Imperfectionist Helps Val & Kit Pack for London

We’re going to let our guest blogger introduce herself (since we love her way with words!):

Hi! I’m Kira, a recovering perfectionist with a penchant for pasta and strong (black) coffee. Not together, obviously. I adore food, interior design, and red lipstick. I dream about moving to Florence on the regular. You’ll probably catch me drooling over Carrera marble or swooning over correct grammar. I’m a native Chicagoan and now reside in Lincoln Park with my husband Thomas. I strive to live a life of authenticity and love (not always successfully). Join me (on the imperfectionist blog site) as I try to quell my obsession with perfection and embrace life as it is, rather than as I think it should be.

So here's the skinny: in the soon-to-be-released Foreign Relations, No. 6 in The Val & Kit Mystery Series, the lifelong friends are headed to foggy London-town to hit up some super-tourist-y attractions before making their way to Little Dipping, the village where Val's daughter Emily lives. If you haven't read the books (which you should - they are so good!) fret not, as I think you can grasp a pretty accurate picture of their personalities based solely on their packing lists (above). So let's jump right in to their fun-filled four days of sightseeing, pastry-eating, and champagne-drinking, shall we?

DAY ONE: ARRIVAL

As you can imagine, Kit likes to travel in style. High style. She actually sometimes mistakes herself for Princess Kate, and thinks the world should treat her accordingly. Needless to say, an 8-hour plane ride across the big blue ocean isn't going to keep her from sporting something fabulous (hence, the Valentino studded flats), while also managing to make a sleep mask look chic (not pictured: ear plugs to drown out the annoying children and talkative neighbors). After downing her complimentary glass of champagne (what, you thought she was traveling coach?!) she cozies up in her cashmere sweater and falls fast asleep.

Val, on the other hand, is a no-nonsense traveler. Comfort is the name of her game, as I'm sure you've gathered from the chic gym-shoe-plus-yoga-pants look she's sporting for the long flight. Other necessities include a shot of Nyquil and some highly educational and thought-provoking reading material. Grateful for her dear friend's generous offer to bump them both up to first class, she tucks her polyester airplane blanket under her chin and is soon softly snoring.

Our girls have got their priorities straight: after landing at Heathrow Airport, they cab it to their hotel, order room service, and lie in bed watching The Great British Bake Off while scarfing down creme brulee. Gotta eat up, we've got a big day tomorrow!

DAY TWO: BUCKINGHAM PALACE

After a luxurious breakfast of fresh-baked croissants (Val may have had two, but who's counting) and the best damn cafe au lait either woman has ever tried, the pair made their way to Buckingham Palace, where Kit mistakenly felt a little too at home (no, Kit, you can't touch the suits of armor just because they're shiny and pretty). Clearly a women of comfort, Kit's attire included 4-inch leopard stilettos and leather pants, obvious choices for perusing the streets of London (what cobblestones?).

Val's still rocking her Nike sneakers, seeing as her ankles are swollen from the plane ride (or was it the second croissant?). Boyfriend jeans and a cozy sweater are her uniform for the day - along with her $24 cross-body purse from Target, which Kit insists has got to go ("But it's the perfect size for traveling!!" says Val). Highlights of the day include watching Kit getting kicked out of the Queen's bedroom for trying to lie on the bed and that second glass of delicious bordeaux at lunch.

DAY THREE: KENSINGTON GARDENS

Ok, so by now our girls are finally getting over the jet-lag and are ready to do some serious sightseeing. Or in Kit's case, shopping (you mean Chanel doesn't count as a monument?!). So their morning started off with another one of those deliciously addictive cafe au laits and a thick slice of brioche (with clotted cream for Val). Then it was off to the races! First stop was Kensington Gardens, where the girls lucked out weather-wise. They toured the gardens and picked up a second cafe au lait (calories don't count, it's vacation!!). Val was enamored by the beauty but Kit admittedly found it a little dull. So dull, in fact, she may have wandered off to the shops down the street. Which meant the girls missed their scheduled red tour bus ride!! (Val had been so looking forward to sitting down for a bit.) Kit promised to make it up to Val, so she did the only thing she knew how: steered them straight to Harrod's (where she may have done some serious damage with her credit card). They wrapped up their evening with dinner in a classic English pub, stuffing their faces with fish and chips. Like I said, calories don't count when you're on vacation!

DAY FOUR: BIG BEN

With a hearty meal and a good night's rest, the gals are up and at 'em early today. No one is missing any scheduled tours on Val's watch! Unfortunately, the weather has taken a turn for the worse, and it's raining cats and dogs. But that doesn't stop our girl Kit from donning her Louboutin's, now does it? Practical-minded Val opts instead for a pair of duck boots and a waterproof parka, just like any sane person would do. They make their way to Big Ben for their scheduled tour and somehow Kit manages to still look chic as ever, even after their trek in the rain. Val, on the other hand, is sporting a sort of drowned-rat look, since the wind broke her umbrella on the way there. After their very long, very dry tour of good old Benny Boy, the girls opt for another meal in a warm and cozy pub. On a whim, they decide to take a tour of Shakespeare's Globe Theatre (Kit's always sworn she was an actress in another life). A stage rehearsal of Twelfth Night was taking place, and our girls couldn't help eyeing the strapping young lads on stage. Hey, there's no harm in looking! Back to the hotel after for a hot shower. It's room service tonight, as both gals have to pack up for tomorrow's big trip to Little Dipping.

Back home during the planning phase, in a moment of pure panic, Val decided Kit should be the one to rent the car and she would navigate. Need I remind you, in England they drive on the other side of the car. On the other side of the road. I don't even want to imagine how that ride is going to go. Hey, at least she'll look good going in the ditch. Heck, maybe they'll even be rescued by a handsome English countryman enjoying his estate for the weekend.

Our girls can dream.

The Start of a Beautiful Friendship (Val & Kit, Circa 1971)

“I’m waiting, Valerie.”

I didn’t dare to even look up at Miss Lovegrove. I could hear Cissy Reynolds in the desk behind me laughing, even though she must have had her hand over her mouth, covering her huge horse teeth. I kept my head down and yanked uselessly on the bangs my mother had taken the hedge trimmers to the night before.

There, my mother had declared with satisfaction. Now you’ll be the neatest girl in fifth grade.

“Answer the question. At once,” Miss Lovegrove said.

“I . . . er . . . I . . .”

“We can’t hear you, Valerie. It’s quite a simple question. Or would you prefer I check your homework—oh, wait. I just remembered, you didn’t turn in your homework assignment.” She did a good job of feigning surprise, making me think she’d be better suited to teach drama than geography.

“I’m sorry, Miss Lovegrove. I somehow lost my paper . . .” I kept my head bent.

“Did your dog eat it?” James Turner, two rows ahead, turned in my direction and smirked. Even without looking at him, I knew his nose was probably running and he’d soon wipe it with the sleeve of his sweater.

“Young lady, we will discuss your so-called missing homework after class,” Miss Lovegrove continued, “but right now I need you to tell me the capital of Greece.”

“That’s soooooo easy,” someone at a desk behind me whispered loudly.

“Everyone knows that,” another voice wafted in my direction.

“What an airhead,” floated from my right.

“Valerie Caldwell, come to the front of the class at once,” I heard Miss Lovegrove say.

But before I could move, another voice, from the very back row, filled the room. “Oh, for crying out loud. Athens. It’s Athens, you stupid woman.”  

I turned my head. Katherine Juckett was leaning back in her chair, tapping her desk with a pencil. I didn’t know her very well, but I did admire her bangs, which were long, past her eyebrows, and similar to Olivia Newton-John’s. I gave her a weak smile, and she in turn gave me a wink.

***

Later, after we left the principal’s office, and after Mr. Clemmings had doled out a suitable punishment (more for Kit than for me), we walked home together for the first time.

“I did know Athens was the capital,” I said.

“Of course you did. My mom was there last summer. She loves ouzo, ya know.”

“Ooo…?” I tried to repeat the word.

“It’s some kind of Greek booze. My mom can’t get enough.”

“Oh,” I said. I wanted to thank her for her outburst in class, but I wasn’t sure quite how to say it.

“Hey, have you seen Love Story? I’ve seen it already, but I’d go again in a heartbeat. I think I might marry Ryan O’Neal. Let’s go on Saturday. My mom will drive us.”

“I . . . er . . .”

But before I could finish my sentence, we were at the next street corner. She stopped and waved at me. “I live down here. See you tomorrow, Valerie.”

A Note from Roz: You Know It’s Hot When . . .

. . . your electric-service provider contacts you to advise that your bill is too high. Huh? Are they making too much money? And, then, when you ignore them (sorry, I refuse to set my air conditioner any higher), they send you a follow-up e-mail, just in case you had passed out from the heat and didn’t get the first dispatch.

So, what should I expect from Houston in the summer? Has it always been this hot? Did I somehow miss the temperature readings last year? This week my phone told me it was 99 degrees at 8:00 p.m. (totally my own fault for being out so late).

The good news on the horizon (is there even a horizon, or does the sun just refuse to go down?) is that I will be spending much of August in England. I just checked the long-range temperature for London and surrounding areas for the next thirty days. Temperatures are expected to hover in the 70s, and it’s sounding positively brrrrr (i.e., chilly). But I’m skeptical; is the UK playing a joke on me, lulling me into a false sense of weather-related security?

Either way, the trip is a must. Not just to see my beloved family, but also to assume the role of as many Disney characters as I can while playing with my six-year-old grand-niece. I am usually relegated to being a servant, nanny, or generally unscrupulous person, while Emily transforms into a variety of delightful princesses. She definitely gets the better wardrobe. (I’m Val to her Kit in the as-yet-untitled No. 6 of The Val & Kit Mystery Series, to be published later this year.)

          

While in the UK, I plan to brush up on the Queen’s English in preparation for that next mystery, which is set in jolly old England. And in terms of weather, it’s gonna be perfect. But just in case anything untoward should happen, I will remember to keep calm and stay out of the heat.