My Kind of Christmas

property; berry bushes separated gardens.
    But even more fun than the house and land were the people. The kitchen was full of women—Jilly, Kelly, Kelly’s step-daughter Courtney, Becca Cutler, whose young husband was Jilly’s assistant and partner, and Shelby Riordan. Kelly, she learned, was a chef and she was the one directing the activity.
    “I can help,” Angie offered.
    “Do you bake?” Kelly asked.
    “Sure. Miserably.”
    They all laughed. “Then partner up with Courtney—she’s getting scary good at this stuff at fifteen. She’s working on sweet bread rolls—the biggest, softest, most delicious rolls in California—my great-grandmother’s recipe.”
    “Right over here,” Courtney invited, calling Angie down to the end of the work island. “Roll the dough balls about this size and we load them in the pan like so. Last fall Kelly, Jilly and I made tons and tons of zucchini bread, pumpkin bread and cranberry bread. Most of it we’ll thaw for the Christmas baskets.”
    “Who do they go to?”
    “A lot of people! First of all, those who have fallen on hard times, especially the elderly who live off the grid in outlying areas. Then there are lots in town who barely squeak by. And this year we’re putting together the baskets—er, I mean, boxes. Baskets are too pricey. We’re putting them together here because there’s so much more room than at the bar and because Jilly has ginormous freezers in the cellar. And pantry shelves for Kelly’s canned goods and sauces and stuff that she sells all over the place. Jilly grows it, Kelly uses it.”
    “It’s special stuff,” Becca added. “Organic, heirloom fruits and vegetables. Very beautiful, healthy, delicious stuff.”
    Angie rolled dough and listened to them extol the virtues of the farm, of the retail food business. Patrick had disappeared—the men were staying clear of the kitchen. And then, quite suddenly, the landscape in the kitchen changed. A huge pot came out of the refrigerator and went to the stove, bags of greens and vegetables joined forces in an enormous wooden bowl, the last batch of bread was some fresh-baked French loaves that were sliced and slathered with a garlic paste. Angel-hair pasta was rinsed, plates and flatware went to the table.
    “My God, you all work together like a machine!” Angie exclaimed.
    “We’ve done this before, many times,” Kelly said. “We’re all kind of related, at least by work and marriage. And when you get down to it, we share a common purpose—keeping the farm going, the people fed well and the food at the dinner table five-star.”
    “Amazing,” Angie said. “It’s almost communal living at its best.”
    “Sometimes more than almost,” Jilly said. “There have been many friends and family members under this roof.”
    “But Jilly would rather be in the garden or traveling with Colin,” Kelly assured her. “Jilly is a master farmer and Colin is a brilliant painter, but neither of them is interested in running a hotel. For that, they need help.”
    The table was crowded for dinner. Angie had never before been terribly impressed with spaghetti and meatballs, but today she was awed. “This is the best I’ve ever had,” she said. “The sauce is wonderful and the meatballs—God, they are perfect in every way.”
    Kelly took the opportunity to brag. “First of all, Jill grew these tomatoes and they’re priceless. There’s a farmer in the valley with free range turkeys for the meat—he’s a love. I buy a lot of turkey meat from him. In fact, I like to pick out my turkey and—”
    Several people at the table said, “Ewwww…”
    “Well, I don’t name them!” Kelly said.
    “She picks her calves, too,” her husband, Lief, said. “You probably don’t want to know any more about this process. Chefs like to go to the wharves and smell the fish, grow their lobsters and select their shrimp and crab. She’s very fussy about scallops but she’ll take just about any duck I shoot.”
    “And deer?”
    “She leaves the venison to Preacher.”
    “He’s the best there is,” Kelly confirmed. “But you’re right about the turkey meatballs. And the sauce, my nana’s—the best recipe I’ve ever used. Perfect. And there’s tiramisu for dessert.”
    “You will die, it’s so good,” Becca said.
    And it was during dessert that Patrick urged her to fill them in on Megan. Before they’d even picked up plates, everyone was eager to add to the fund.
    Late that night, back at