been planning it for months. We even did some technical climbing in Arizona over Christmas break and we didn’t do too badly.”
“If you don’t count the crevasse where Peter slipped, got tangled in the rope, and practically hanged himself,” teased Mary Beth, beginning to roll up the maps.
“If you had been keeping your mind on the belay and not drooling over that French climber that passed us...” whined Peter, sharply reminding me of Lydia.
“Come on, guys,” Dagny admonished. “We’re a team, remember? We all make mistakes. Remember all the equipment we had to leave on top of Flatiron because you insisted that you’d figured out a way down, Mary Beth? Or how about the time I made you all get cleaned up in that lake when we were in Quantico and it turned out that the water was full of leeches?”
The Mount McKinley Expedition shuddered in unison at the recollection.
“That smells very good,” I said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No. It’s all done. It’s my home-cured corned beef. I make it from my grandmother’s recipe. I told you, I’m having my dad and Peaches for dinner tomorrow night, so I’m using you guys as guinea pigs. Kate, why don’t you just go ahead and have a seat over there?”
I did as I was bidden, taking my place with the rest of them at a round table of well-worn oak.
“If you’ll just hand me your plates, I’ll serve everyone. This platter is too heavy to pass,” said Dagny.
“Aren’t we going to say grace, Aunt Dagny?” Mary Beth inquired reproachfully. I remembered what Babbage had said about Eugene and his wife being deeply religious.
“Give me a break!” groaned Peter.
“Why don’t you say the blessing, Mary Beth,” Dagny replied equably.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” she said as Dagny and Claire bowed their heads and crossed themselves. Peter shot an angry look at Mary Beth, truculently bent his head, and began a minute examination of his fingernails.
“Bless us, O Lord for these, thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty through Christ the Lord,” intoned Mary Beth. “And please speed the soul of Cecilia Dobson to thy safekeeping. Amen.”
“Who the hell is Cecilia Datsun?” Peter demanded, reaching for the breadbasket.
“It’s Dobson, you dope,” Claire replied. “A Datsun’s a car. For your information Cecilia Dobson was Mother’s secretary—the one who dropped dead at the office.”
“My dad said she died of a drug overdose,” reported Mary Beth in an awed whisper.
“That’s not the worst part,” Claire chimed in. “Her family won’t even pay for her funeral. Can you imagine?”
“So what’s going to happen to her?” Mary Beth asked.
“She is going to have a very nice funeral tomorrow afternoon at four o’clock at St. Bernadette’s Cemetery,” Dagny informed her. “We’ve even persuaded your grandfather to close the office early so that the people who worked with her can attend.” She handed me a plate of corned beef and cabbage. “I was wondering whether you might want to come, Kate.”
“Of course,” I said, my good manners getting the better of me.
“Is the company paying for it?” Peter demanded unpleasantly.
“No. I’m paying for it myself, not that it’s anybody’s business,” Dagny replied tersely. I don’t think she was annoyed with her nephew. It was just that there was something in the way that Peter had asked the question that once again brought his mother very sharply to mind.
“They seem like nice kids,” I said, once we’d taken our coffee cups into the living room. A fire burned merrily behind the grate, the flames reflected in the polished surface of the baby grand piano. On the low table in front of us was a spray of dendrobium orchids in a crystal vase and a plate of chocolates. I helped myself.
“These are wonderful,” I said, taking a bite.
“They’re from Belgium. I have a climbing friend who sends them to
“If you don’t count the crevasse where Peter slipped, got tangled in the rope, and practically hanged himself,” teased Mary Beth, beginning to roll up the maps.
“If you had been keeping your mind on the belay and not drooling over that French climber that passed us...” whined Peter, sharply reminding me of Lydia.
“Come on, guys,” Dagny admonished. “We’re a team, remember? We all make mistakes. Remember all the equipment we had to leave on top of Flatiron because you insisted that you’d figured out a way down, Mary Beth? Or how about the time I made you all get cleaned up in that lake when we were in Quantico and it turned out that the water was full of leeches?”
The Mount McKinley Expedition shuddered in unison at the recollection.
“That smells very good,” I said. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No. It’s all done. It’s my home-cured corned beef. I make it from my grandmother’s recipe. I told you, I’m having my dad and Peaches for dinner tomorrow night, so I’m using you guys as guinea pigs. Kate, why don’t you just go ahead and have a seat over there?”
I did as I was bidden, taking my place with the rest of them at a round table of well-worn oak.
“If you’ll just hand me your plates, I’ll serve everyone. This platter is too heavy to pass,” said Dagny.
“Aren’t we going to say grace, Aunt Dagny?” Mary Beth inquired reproachfully. I remembered what Babbage had said about Eugene and his wife being deeply religious.
“Give me a break!” groaned Peter.
“Why don’t you say the blessing, Mary Beth,” Dagny replied equably.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” she said as Dagny and Claire bowed their heads and crossed themselves. Peter shot an angry look at Mary Beth, truculently bent his head, and began a minute examination of his fingernails.
“Bless us, O Lord for these, thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty through Christ the Lord,” intoned Mary Beth. “And please speed the soul of Cecilia Dobson to thy safekeeping. Amen.”
“Who the hell is Cecilia Datsun?” Peter demanded, reaching for the breadbasket.
“It’s Dobson, you dope,” Claire replied. “A Datsun’s a car. For your information Cecilia Dobson was Mother’s secretary—the one who dropped dead at the office.”
“My dad said she died of a drug overdose,” reported Mary Beth in an awed whisper.
“That’s not the worst part,” Claire chimed in. “Her family won’t even pay for her funeral. Can you imagine?”
“So what’s going to happen to her?” Mary Beth asked.
“She is going to have a very nice funeral tomorrow afternoon at four o’clock at St. Bernadette’s Cemetery,” Dagny informed her. “We’ve even persuaded your grandfather to close the office early so that the people who worked with her can attend.” She handed me a plate of corned beef and cabbage. “I was wondering whether you might want to come, Kate.”
“Of course,” I said, my good manners getting the better of me.
“Is the company paying for it?” Peter demanded unpleasantly.
“No. I’m paying for it myself, not that it’s anybody’s business,” Dagny replied tersely. I don’t think she was annoyed with her nephew. It was just that there was something in the way that Peter had asked the question that once again brought his mother very sharply to mind.
“They seem like nice kids,” I said, once we’d taken our coffee cups into the living room. A fire burned merrily behind the grate, the flames reflected in the polished surface of the baby grand piano. On the low table in front of us was a spray of dendrobium orchids in a crystal vase and a plate of chocolates. I helped myself.
“These are wonderful,” I said, taking a bite.
“They’re from Belgium. I have a climbing friend who sends them to
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