My grandmother smiles. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away from Sunday Night Lunch.”
In the Betsy-Tacy books, the Ray family eats their main meal at noon on Sundays, so they always have sandwiches for supper. Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid thought my grandmother would get a kick out of it if we used their term for the meal for our book club meeting tonight. She was right, because Gram is beaming.
“Except it’s Thursday night, and nobody’s hungry,” mumbles my mother, obviously not willing to let the whole Christmas decoration thing go.
“Who’s not hungry?” asks Cassidy, jogging down the hall from the kitchen. Murphy, her family’s scruff-muffin of a dog, is right at her heels, and her little sister Chloe is perched on her shoulders. “I’m starving. What took you guys so long?”
“Cassidy,” her mother chides. “Don’t be rude.”
“I’m not being rude, just honest.” She grins at us.
Cassidy Sloane is always hungry. She eats like a horse and never gains an ounce. It’s totally not fair. I know it’s because of all the time she spends at the rink, but still, I’d kill for her figure. She’s built like her mother, tall and lean. Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid used to be a model, a famous one, and Cassidy and her older sister Courtney obviously got her genes. As my eyes slide over to my mother, I can’t help hoping that in my case maybe the family genes will skip a generation.
“BECCA!” Chloe squeals. She’s eighteen months old, and does a lot of squealing.
“Chloe!” I squeal back, reaching up for her. I’m one of Chloe’s regular babysitters now that Cassidy is so busy with her hockey team, the Lady Shawmuts, and with Chicks with Sticks, the girls’ hockey club she coaches.
I give her a kiss, and Chloe pats my turtleneck. “Ooo,” she says, and gives it a kiss. Everybody laughs.
“See if you can teach her to say ‘cashmere,’” calls Gigi from the living room, where she’s sitting with the rest of the book club. “The girl’s got good taste.”
“Mother!” protests Mrs. Wong.
Gigi winks at me.
“I like your outfit, too,” I tell Chloe, running my finger over the brown velvet headband that’s nestled in her blond curls.
“Oui, mademoiselle, you look très chic,” adds Megan. She switched to French this year at school, leaving me without a study partner in Spanish class. Gigi put her up to it. She loves everything French.
Chloe grins at us. She’s still dressed in her Thanksgiving outfit: brown velvet leggings and a matching dress with a pattern of autumn leaves on it. She looks adorable. But then, Chloe always looks adorable. She’s the cutest little kid I know.
I carry her into the living room and pause by the sofa. “Hey, Emma.” I pass her the book of poems my brother gave me. “Stewart asked me to give this to you.”
“Thanks,” she replies, taking it from me.
Chloe spots Jess sitting next to Emma and starts to squirm. Jess babysits for her too, when she has time. She’s a lot busier this year at Colonial Academy, the fancy private boarding school here in Concord that she goes to. She’s there on a full scholarship, thanks to my mother, who’s on the board of trustees and who recommended her for it. My mother always wanted me to go there too, but fat chance of that. Not with my grades. Homework is not on my Top Ten List of Fun Things to Do. Which is fine, because Colonial Academy is a girls’ school, and I would rather shave my head than go to a school that didn’t have boys in it.
I hand Chloe to Jess and move closer to the fire that’s blazing on the hearth.
“Everything looks just beautiful, Clementine,” says my grandmother, glancing around at all the greenery and glowing candles.
“It smells good too,” I add, taking a deep sniff. I love holiday smells—pine, cinnamon, yummy things baking in the oven. I think if I had to pick one time of year as my favorite, this whole stretch from Thanksgiving to Christmas would be it.
“I’m just sorry we didn’t get the tree up in time for you,” says Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid. “The crew wasn’t able to squeeze it in before they left yesterday.”
My mother shoots my grandmother a knowing look. “Elves,” she whispers.
“I’m glad there’s no tree yet,” says Mrs. Wong. “Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, and I like to savor it. There’s too much rush-rush these days.”
“I know, Lily, and I agree with you,” Cassidy’s mother replies. “If I didn’t have the holiday special to film this weekend, I’d have waited another couple of weeks to decorate.”
“I don’t mind if Christmas hurries up this year,” says Jess.
Of course she doesn’t. That’s because she gets to spend it with Savannah Sinclair and her family, skiing in Switzerland. She’s been talking about nothing else ever since she found out she was going. Savannah is a senator’s daughter, and she and Jess roomed together at Colonial their freshman year. Things didn’t go so well back then, but they got over it and now they’re good friends. This year the two of them are in a quad with Adele and Frankie, Jess’s other best friends at Colonial, and all three of them are going with the Sinclairs to Switzerland for the holidays.
We’re probably going to be stuck here in boring old Concord. My family was supposed to go on a Christmas cruise with the Wongs, but we had to cancel after my dad lost his job.
“Soup’s on, ladies,” says Cassidy’s stepfather, appearing in the doorway with a tray of mugs.
Cassidy’s older sister, Courtney, is right behind him. She’s carrying a platter of sandwiches, and so is the guy who’s with her. I don’t recognize him, but I figure he must be Courtney’s boyfriend, because Cassidy’s been talking about how her sister was planning to bring him home for Thanksgiving. I size him up. Tall, athletic-looking, sandy hair, brown eyes. Megan looks over at me and lifts an eyebrow in approval. I raise one back in silent agreement: seriously cute.
“Where are my manners?” cries Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid, springing to her feet. “Book club—meet Grant Bell.”
Courtney’s boyfriend grins. “Hi.”
“Hi,” we chorus back.
Courtney tucks her arm in Grant’s and smiles up at him as her mother goes around the room making introductions. I can’t help feeling a pang of envy. Does everybody in the world have a boyfriend but me?
Stanley clears his throat. “On the menu tonight, we have Clemmie’s famous carrot-yogurt soup, plus Mr. Ray’s famous turkey-and-stuffing sandwiches—cut bite-size, for delicate appetites.” He suppresses a shudder as he points to the second platter. “And these, uh, other sandwiches too.”
“The secret to good onion sandwiches,” says Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid, swinging into TV chef mode, “is to use only the best bread, lots of sweet butter, and Bermuda onions that have been sliced paper thin and sprinkled with vinegar—I used an herbed rice vinegar—plus salt and pepper, and allowed to marinate for at least an hour.”
In the Betsy-Tacy books, onion sandwiches are a staple at the Ray family’s Sunday Night Lunch. They sound totally gross to me, and by the look on his face, it’s obvious that Stanley thinks so too.
“Hope somebody brought breath mints,” mutters Cassidy.
“And a killer dessert,” adds Emma.
“Emma Jane Hawthorne!” says her mother.
Emma smiles sheepishly. “Sorry. I’m sure your sandwiches are really good, Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid.”
“Actually, there is a killer dessert,” says Cassidy’s mother. “I made fudge.”
“Oh, good!” says Gram. “It wouldn’t be a true Deep Valley party without fudge.”
Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid passes her the platter of onion sandwiches, and she selects one and takes a bite. “Mmm—nice and crisp and light. Just the thing after a big Thanksgiving dinner.”
The sandwiches make their way around the room to mixed reviews.
“Sheesh, Mom, these are awful,” says Cassidy, gagging.
“No kidding,” I gasp as my eyes start to water.
“Surprisingly good,” says Mrs. Hawthorne, and Megan nods in agreement. “I like the
m too,” she says.
Megan has a cast-iron stomach. You’d have to, to survive her mother’s cooking. Anything probably tastes better than the tofu-infested casseroles Mrs. Wong is always dreaming up. I used to dread going to Megan’s house after school, because there were never any decent snacks. I mean, kale chips? Who serves kale chips to elementary schoolers? All that changed, of course, when Gigi came over from Hong Kong to live with them. Megan’s grandmother is a fabulous cook.
“I guess nobody ever kissed anybody back in Deep Valley, did they?” Cassidy says, leaning over and breathing in Jess’s face.
“Cassidy!” Jess fans the air indignantly with her napkin.
I set my onion sandwich aside and concentrate on the mug of soup, which is delicious. I didn’t think I’d have room for dessert, but when Mr. Kinkaid reappears with the fudge, there’s no way I can resist. Cassidy’s mom’s fudge is almost as good as Gram’s.
“Shall we get down to business here before we pick our Secret Santas?” asks Mrs. Hawthorne. She always likes to get down to business.
Megan nudges me with her foot under the table. I nudge her back. The two of us have hatched a plot to make sure we choose each other.
“First of all,” continues Mrs. Hawthorne, “I’d like to introduce our honored guest. I hope you’ve all had a chance to meet Becca’s grandmother, Grace Gilman, who is the reason why we’re reading the Betsy-Tacy books this fall. Mrs. Gilman, perhaps you’d like to tell us a bit about your relationship with the series.”
Gram looks around the room, smiling. “I am so thrilled that the ‘Winding Hall of Fate,’ as Betsy calls it, led me here to your meeting tonight! I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know about the Betsy-Tacy books. I guess when you’re a girl, and you’re from Minnesota, it’s pretty hard not to. Maud Hart Lovelace was born and raised in Mankato, which is just a hop and a skip from my hometown of St. Peter.”
“Do you have a favorite?” asks Gigi.
Gram doesn’t even hesitate. “Betsy and Tacy Go Downtown,” she replies. “I adore that book. Aspiring writer Betsy getting her uncle Keith’s trunk to use for a desk; meeting the fun-loving Mrs. Poppy; and of course the wonderful Christmas shopping trip.” Her eyes crinkle around the edges as she looks over at Megan and me. “My guess is that unlike Betsy and Tacy, though, you girls will be buying more than just ornaments tomorrow, right?”
“Oh yeah,” I reply, slapping Megan a high five.
“I loved Downtown too,” says Mrs. Delaney. “I especially love the way Betsy’s parents support her dreams of being a writer, and let her go to the library all by herself, and out to lunch at a restaurant, too.”
“Me too,” says Emma. “That was my favorite part. Well, that and Mrs. Poppy—I love her! She’s so cheerful and . . .” Her voice trails off as her gaze wanders over in my mother’s direction.
Mrs. Poppy is built kind of like my mother, on the large side. Actually, Mrs. Poppy is a whale. A really nice one, but a whale. She and her husband own a hotel in Deep Valley, and she loves to eat.
Fortunately, my mother is too happy thinking about the book to realize the direction Emma was going in. “And of course we can’t forget Winona eyes,” she adds.
“What are Winona eyes?” asks Cassidy.
Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid frowns. “Didn’t you read Betsy and Tacy Go Downtown?”
“Um,” says Cassidy.
“Cassidy! You promised!”
“Mom—I told you, I hardly have time to tie my shoes these days!”
Gram explains to her about how the girls tried to hypnotize Winona into taking them to the theater by staring at her. “Let me demonstrate for you,” she says, goggling intensely at Cassidy, who laughs.
“Let’s talk about the boys,” says Mrs. Delaney. “Who’s Team Tony and who’s Team Joe?”
In the high school books, there are these two guys that Betsy Ray likes—well, there are more than two, actually, but the main ones are Joe Willard, who’s handsome and supersmart and a good writer but kind of standoffish, and Tony Markham, who’s handsome and funny and a good dancer but a little on the wild side.
I’m Team Tony, of course, and so is Megan. Jess is Team Joe, like Emma—no big surprise there. Cassidy thinks the whole idea is stupid and refuses to choose.
“I guess I’d have to say I’m Team Tony,” says Gram. “How could anyone resist a T.D.S.?”
“What’s a T.D.S.?” asks Cassidy, and her mother’s mouth drops open.
“Cassidy Ann Sloane!” she exclaims. “You haven’t read Heaven to Betsy, either?”
Cassidy squirms a little. “I started it.”
Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid closes her eyes and shakes her head. “I apologize for my daughter, Grace. After you bought her the books and everything.”
“Cassidy, you’ve got to read them all!” says Emma. “They’re really good.”
“Will you all please get off my case?” grumbles Cassidy. “It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just that seriously, between hockey and school, I’ve got my hands full.”
My grandmother leans forward and pats her knee. “No need to explain yourself to me, dear. School has to come first. And hockey, too. T.D.S. stands for ‘tall, dark stranger’—Tony Markham, the mysterious boy who shows up at Deep Valley High School.”
“Kind of like Tristan Berkeley did last year at Alcott High,” says Megan, and Cassidy turns bright red. She does not like to be teased about Tristan.
“What I want to know is how the Deep Valley girls all stay so slim,” says her mother, taking pity on her and changing the subject. “They’re always eating! Muffins, cake, banana splits at Heinz’s!”
“Don’t forget fudge,” says Mrs. Delaney, helping herself to another piece.
“You must remember that it’s the early 1900s,” says Mrs. Wong, who always takes everything seriously. “There aren’t very many cars and the girls walk everywhere. Plus, a valley implies that there are hills, so that would give them even more exercise too.” Mrs. Wong loves geography.
“Thank you, Lily,” says Mrs. Hawthorne, pulling a sheaf of papers out of her tote bag. Among them are maps of Deep Valley, which she distributes to each of us, along with a second handout. “You’ve just provided me with the perfect introduction to this month’s fun facts.”
FUN FACTS ABOUT MAUD
1) Maud Hart Lovelace was born on April 26, 1892, in Mankato, Minnesota. “I lived the happiest childhood a child could possibly know,” she once said. She drew on those happy childhood memories for the Betsy-Tacy series.
2) She knew very young that she wanted to be an author someday. “I cannot remember back to a year in which I did not consider myself to be a writer,” she once recalled. “I remember following my mother around as a tyke, asking her, ‘How do you spell “going down the street’”?’ See? I was writing a story already.”
3) When Maud was ten, her father printed a booklet of her poems, and at eighteen, she sold her first story to a magazine. She grew up to write a number of short stories and historical novels for adults, but today is best known for her books for young readers.
4) Betsy-Tacy, the first of the Deep Valley books, was published in 1940. It was an instant success, and was followed by nine others. Betsy’s Wedding, the final book in the series, was published in 1955. Maud also wrote three additional stories set in Deep Valley: Winona’s Pony Cart, Carney’s House Party, and Emily of Deep Valley.
5) Deep Valley is based on a real place—Maud’s hometown of Mankato—and the characters are based on people she knew growing up, including her best friend Bick Kenney, who became Tacy Kelly in the book. If you travel to Mankato today, you can tour Maud’s and Bick’s homes, which are right across the street from each other, just as Betsy’s and Tacy’s are in the books, and you can sit on a replica of the hillside bench where the real-life Maud and Bick, as well as their fictional counterparts, would often meet.
“It’s just like Louisa May Alcott and the Orchard House here in Concord,” says Emma. “Louisa bas
ed her characters on real people too.”
“Maybe you’ll end up writing about Concord and all of us someday,” Megan tells her.
My mother gets a funny look on her face at this. She’s probably thinking about Emma’s father and Spring Reckoning again. Mr. Hawthorne is a writer, and my mother is convinced that one of the characters in his novel—not a very flattering one—was based on her.
Cassidy reaches over and prods Emma with her toe. “I guess I’d better be nice to you so you don’t talk trash about me in all those books you’re going to write.”
“Maybe we should give you Winona eyes to make sure you don’t,” I suggest, and we all stare at Emma solemnly until she starts to laugh.
Mrs. Sloane-Kinkaid glances at her watch. “I hate to break up the party, but it’s been a long day, and we have to get up at the crack of dawn to drive to Rhode Island.”
“Yes, of course!” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “I totally forgot about the hockey tournament. Are you girls ready to choose your Secret Santas?”
We nod, and she pulls a Santa hat out of her tote bag, along with a pile of pens and three-by-five cards. Megan’s mom starts passing them around.
“Let me remind you how this works,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “You’ll each choose a name, and you will become that person’s Secret Santa for a week. Seven days—seven presents. Keep them small, okay? No spending a lot of money.”
“I would encourage you all to think about homemade gifts,” says Mrs. Wong.
“Fat chance,” mutters Cassidy, who hates crafts. I smile at her. My feelings exactly.
“When will we find out who our Secret Santas are?” asks Jess.
“At our next meeting.”
“We have to wait until January?”
Mrs. Hawthorne nods. “Probably. We moms haven’t had a chance to check our calendars and set a date yet.”
“I have a snoggestion,” says Gram. “Snoggestion” is another of my grandmother’s favorite terms, along with “Winona eyes.” It’s what Betsy Ray’s father calls a really great suggestion. “If you’re interested, that is. Some of my friends back in Cleveland are big Betsy-Tacy fans too, and every year we have an ornament exchange. We pick names, just like you’re about to do, and then look for ornaments that have something to do with one of the books to give to each other.”