Sunday, May 6, 2001

Clear
High—64°F
Low—52°F
Dew Point 52 °F
Chance of Rain—0%
Wind 16 mph (ENE) Gusting to 25 mph
Sunrise 5:05 AM Sunset 6:58 PM
Moonrise 6:08 PM, Waxing Gibbous, 99% of the Moon is Illuminated

Virginia Beach Oceanfront, 05:08

Tommy Cornelson loved May. Actually, he loved all the months from May through October, but May was special. May marked the end of the Winter season and the beginning of the summer season, so business on his fishing pier picked up considerably, as it did on the entire oceanfront, but it was still early for most of the tourists, so the May business was mainly locals.

He almost regretted doubling his prices. Almost. But they'd double again in mid-June when the Canadians and damnyankees invaded the Oceanfront for the official tourist season. The tourist season was what he lived on the rest of the year round. May and October were buffer months to make up for bad tourist months or to buy luxuries.

He knew he'd feel the opposite regret come October, when he'd have to lower prices again to have any business at all. There were always fishermen willing to pay to fish from his pier, even when the weather turned cold and blustery. Serious fishermen, or subsistence families who relied on the crabs that fed on fish guts from the cleaning stations and whatever fish they could catch. Those months, he'd barely break even.

Those months Lilith and Maribeth would serve coffee and sandwiches, instead of all the deep-fried goodies the tourists loved so much. No clams, no oysters, not even hush puppies. They'd fire the grill for the lunch crowd, but not the fryers, nor the ovens. Oil and electricity cost money, and the restaurant and bait and tackle shops had to be heated.

Just now, Tommy was enjoying a cup of coffee laced with chicory, listening to three of the die-hards discuss the catch of the day. They were expecting the usual spot and croaker, and Spanish Mackerel had been biting of late. One was the local skate expert, and he expected a good catch today.

Tommy listened with half an ear while he read the Sunday paper. He started with the fishing reports from other locations. It wasn't enough to know the local conditions—he was the source of those for the paper, anyway—people expected you to be knowledgeable about what was biting and what was running for miles in either direction, clear down to North Carolina or up to the Eastern Shore.

Next he turned to sports, checking the injury reports for the various Atlantic Football Conference teams, including his own Portsmouth Mariners. Another nice thing about the "locals" season was when his customers talked football, they didn't confuse it with that damnyankee sport with the funny-shaped ball and leather armor and helmets. Some kind of rugby imitation.

Next he turned to the obits, wondering if he'd recognize anyone. At least once a month, he'd spy some old crony of his fathers' or grandfathers' in the notices. Weddings and engagements were after that, looking for his own friends and acquaintances. Once you took the plunge yourself, you kind of expected the rest of your peers to do the same.

He recognized five names in that section, but nobody who'd send him or his husband Vinnie an invitation. Maybe Lilith or Mar would, and one or the other would attend, business permitting. Winston-LaMar-Goudy ... nobody he knew. Phillips-Cross-Magnuson-Sharone ... nope. Hubbard-Lee ... one of the names looked familiar. Where did he know the Hubbards from? The ladies were married, maybe he'd read the announcement of their previous wedding? No matter.

As he finished each section, he traded or passed it on to his wives. They all read quickly, since the paper would be wrapping bait before too long, except for the coupons. The last section he looked at was the travel section. Someday, maybe they'd have enough set aside to take a vacation of their own, when the kids were old enough to stay home and mind the shops. Someplace quiet and secluded, not some tourist Mecca.

For sure he wasn't going to visit the United States, nothing up north that interested him. If he went to a foreign country, he thought he'd stick to the English Commonwealth. Horrible accents, but they did speak the same language. Yep. Someplace like Hawaii. Nobody went there.

Navy Housing, 06:30

Maria enjoyed mornings, although she enjoyed them more once the children were all roused and fed and off to school. Sundays were different, though. "Day of Rest," pfah! Rest for men and children, perhaps, but not for wives or women. Six days each week, her time came when the niños and niñas were fed and sent to school, when the husbands were fed and sent to work, when the beds were made and the clothing and linens laundered.

On Sundays she must take her time from the beginning, while the others slept. Soon enough, they would be feeding them all a Sunday "brunch"—such a lovely word—and engrossed in making them all ready for church. Then there would be the vigilance, the looks, the pinches to keep them all attentive to Jesus and Father Navarone instead of sleeping or fidgeting. Once home, there would be the gathering of the Sunday clothing to launder, and beds to make, and finally dinner to prepare while her husbands monopolized the televideo with their sports.

Madonna joined her at the table with two cups of good Cuban coffee, the kind of dark brew that opens eyes. "I see that Señora Ghirardelli's news has proven true," she said, pointing at the newspaper open to that page.

"Si. Eh-Yes, El Capitan has finally been snared. I had not heard that he chased them long before they caught him. Delilah might not have been surprised, but I was." Maria never referred to DeeDee by that diminutive. It seemed somehow disrespectful, whatever the customs.

Madonna was amused. "You think perhaps they should have run from him harder, if no faster?"

Maria shrugged. "A man values most what he must work to acquire, and least what he obtains without effort. Since I know nothing of his efforts in the matter, it is not for me to judge."

"You sound just like Señora Navarone."

"Our good priest's esposa ... er, wife is a wise woman. As befits the wife of a priest, eh-yes?"

"You need not work so hard to correct your language with me, querida. Be comfortable with yourself. I will always love you."

"The wifes... wives of a Senator should be cultured, educated women, mi esposa acariciada. Able to converse in several languages, no? I practice always."

Madonna laughed softly. "Senator's wives? You dream el sueño grande. ¿El hombre expresa este sueño grande?"

"En Inglés, por favor." Maria replied. "No, Juan has not dreamt so big a dream, not that he has shared. But Alberto, that one thinks Juan has the heart, the fire to go so far. He told me so last night, before we slept."

"Our eldest husband may be right. He often is."

"Then we must learn to be senator's wives."

Hubbard House, 07:49

"Come on, Deb! Shake a tail feather, or we'll never make the oh-eight hundred service!"

"I can't find my earrings!"

"Wear some of mine. The pearls would look good with that dress."

Deborah didn't answer, which Nancy interpreted as, "Fine." Not "fine" as in "that's a great idea," but "fine" as in "have it your way, but Things Will Be Said Later." Every spouse knows that "fine," even when unspoken.

But Deborah was heading for the door moments later, both hands fumbling with her left ear. Nancy could see the pearl stud, and grinned. She checked herself. Purse, check. Keys? Right here. What am I forgetting? She crossed the room to the telephone, and switched on the answering machine. Forgot that yesterday. I hope nobody called. Oh, well. If it was important, they'll call again.

Deborah was waiting by the driver-side door. "My turn to drive," she said, fumbling now with her right ear.

Nancy shook her head. "No way. You drive like an old lady, and we're already going to be late."

Deborah stood her ground. "Come on, cough up the keys. You drive like a maniac. Late or not, we'll get there faster if we don't have to stop for a speeding ticket, or to help someone out of a ditch your lane-changing forced them into."

"I haven't gotten a ticket in years, and I've never forced anyone into a ditch," Nancy retorted.

"That's 'year, ' singular, and the latter says more for their driving skills than yours." Deborah now stood with her hand out for the keys.

"Two out of three?"

"Deal."

The two shook their right fists at each other once, twice, a third time. On the third, Nancy extended two fingers; Deborah kept her fist closed. They repeated the ritual, this time with both palms out. Yet again they shook their fists. Nancy ended with her palm out, Deborah with two fingers. Nancy groaned, but handed Deborah the keys. They got into the car.

Before Deborah could close her door, she heard the sound of the telephone. She bit her lip. Turning to Nancy, she said, "Phone's ringing. Should I answer it?"

And she's the confident one! "No. Let's go. If we're not there by quarter after, we'll have to go to the 09:30 service, and we'll miss brunch at the International House. Let the answering machine do its job."

Deborah closed her door and started the car. As she pulled away, she grinned. "The truth comes out. You aren't worried about the church service; you're afraid they'll stop serving crêpes before you get your fill."

Like that's a big revelation. She knows me so well. "You know me too well. So get a move on, will you?"

Deborah eased up to the posted speed limit, no higher. "You know, International House serves breakfast with crêpes, too. We could have a nice, leisurely meal before services, instead of all this rushing about."

Now, why didn't I think of that? It's still a late breakfast, and not too long til our early dinner. Am I so constrained by habit? "I like the way you think. Let's do that."

Deborah smiled and drove.

Navy Housing, 09:33

DeeDee hung up the phone and turned to Alex. "That was the girls, Lex," she said, excitedly. "They want to come to lunch, and they want to bring their new boyfriends."

"New boyfriends?" Alex asked, crossing the parlor to his favorite chair. A plethora of mixed feelings chased briefly across his face. "And they want to bring them home to meet the parents?"

DeeDee laughed. "You should see your face. You can't decide whether to be happy or sad, proud or protective, nervous or relieved, can you?"

For now, Alex settled for chagrined. "Hey, it's only, what, the second time since high school they've brought someone home for parental review. How should I feel?

"I know. The twins have always been so picky about boys. Or Brenda has," she amended, "which is the same thing."

Alex agreed, nodding. "Nothing wrong with that." In fact, secretly he was just a hair prouder of the twins than of their other six kids. Not that he'd ever let any of them know that.

The phone rang again, and DeeDee answered, giving Alex time to turn reflective. I guess I am prouder of the twins, not that there's any rational reason. All our kids have turned out just fine. Renée is on the partnership track with a law firm in Austin; William and Emíle are working the off-shore oil rigs and coining money; Michelle is happy with her husbands in New Mexico, and she was the first and most recent to make me a grandpa. A soft smile lit his face. Danielle has been accepted to medical school in New Orleans. Always so busy, too busy to write often enough. Douglas rarely wrote either, but he had an excuse, serving in the army with the Columbian Peace-keeping expedition.

DeeDee squealed something into the phone. No matter, he'd find out soon enough. It isn't that the twins are the youngest. Or even that they haven't moved far away. It's just... Alex couldn't articulate, even to himself, that he was fairly certain the girls were the fruit of his loins, his and Alice's. Good parents don't keep score that way. The children of a polygamous marriage were all the parents' children.

DeeDee hung up again. She was practically bubbling as she skipped—She's actually skipping!—over to Alex's chair. She plopped into his lap, and put her arms around his neck.

"It just keeps getting better!"

"More good news, I take it?" Alex was amused.

DeeDee nodded rapidly. "You are off the hook!" she burbled.

His eyebrows rose. "You mean..."

She interrupted him with a short kiss. Pressing her forehead to his, she said, "That was Winnie. Guess whose engagement got announced in today's paper?"

"You mean..."

Her forehead nodding made his nod as well. "You got it! Winnie can't understand what the big deal was about 'secrecy' considering they broke it themselves before the weekend was up." She kissed him again. "Winnie said to tell you the COB says 'don't sweat it, and be prepared to cater a bachelor party, ' so everything's okay."

Alex snorted. DeeDee leaned back to look at his face, wondering why.

"There'll be no bachelor party," he told her. "You didn't watch this boy at work. They'll be married long before anyone can get a party organized." He made motions to shoo DeeDee off his lap. "Speaking of short notice for parties, what do you suppose the girls' boyfriends would enjoy for lunch?"

Hubbard House, 11:44

Deborah and Nancy came home laden with brown shopping bags from the grocery store. After she tossed the keys on a convenient end-table, Deborah removed a bag from her teeth. That allowed her to say, "'I just need a couple of things for dinner, ' yeah, sure." She kicked the door closed with a heel.

"Well, all I needed were a couple of things, but, you know..."

"Yes, I know..."

"Well you're not any better!" They carried the bags to the kitchen. "At least a third of this stuff you picked out," she said as she placed her bags on a counter.

Deborah grinned, unrepentant. "True, but that means you picked the other two thirds." She set her own bags down.

Nancy grinned too. "Any time you want to take over cooking, y—

"I give! I give! So, what's on the menu tonight?"

Nancy gave Deborah a very spousal look, one that said, "You never listen to me, do you." In lieu of answering, she pulled a recipe from under a refrigerator magnet and proffered it.

Deborah took it and read:

Blackened Prime Rib

Serves 8-(16 ounce portions)

1-16 lb. oven ready Rib Roast

Méthode:

Pull back fat cap and liberally sprinkle Blackening Seasoning (recipe to follow) on rib roast. Replace fat cap and netting. Place onto a preheated 350º oven for 4 hours until you have an internal temperature of 145º. Remove and allow to rest for 15 minutes, slice in between each rib and serve with 2 oz. of sauce (Tabasco Horseradish Sauce recipe to follow).

Blackening Seasoning

4 tbsp. Garlic Powder

4 tbsp. Onion Powder

3 tbsp. Lemon Pepper

3 tbsp. Black Pepper

4 tbsp. Dry Rosemary

4 tbsp. Dry Thyme

4 tbsp. Dry Parsley

8 tbsp. Paprika

1 tsp. Cayenne

Méthode:

Mix together and coat prime rib.

Tabasco Horseradish Sauce

Serves 8-(2 ounce portions)

16 oz. Heavy Cream

4 tbsp. grated Fresh Horseradish

1 tbsp. minced Garlic

1 tbsp. minced Onion

2 tbsp. minced Basil

3 tbsp. Unsalted butter

1/4 cup Marsala Wine

4 tbsp. Tabasco

Salt & Pepper to taste

1 tsp. Olive Oil

Méthode:

Heat a saute pan over medium high heat. Add oil, then add onions, garlic and basil. Saute until onions are translucent. Add wine to pan and allow to reduce by 3/4. Add heavy cream and reduce by 1/4. Pull off of heat, add Tabasco, horseradish, salt, pepper and butter then serve 2 oz. over prime rib portion.

Deborah's eyes opened wide. She glanced at the kitchen clock as Nancy moved a slab of beef from the refrigerator to the counter. "Four hours? Isn't it a little late to start..."

"The recipe scales down around fifteen, maybe twenty minutes per pound. This is a ten pound rib roast. We have plenty of time."

"Are you sure?" Deborah asked, doubtfully.

"Positive. Now, we were having this anyway. With Bob coming, I think I need something more substantial than salad and broccoli as sides. Any ideas?"

Judging from eating habits in the wardroom... "Men like starches. Mashed potatoes, corn, peas, that sort of thing." She sort-of remembered something about men's tastes. "No asparagus." Then she remembered what she'd heard, and blushed. Not men's tastes—men's taste. Fortunately, Nancy didn't notice.

"Okay, mashed potatoes and gravy, peas, green beans, I think." Nancy was looking in the freezer.

"I'm going to check our messages," Deborah said. I can't stop blushing. I've got to get out of the kitchen before she notices, and asks why. "I'll help you peel the spuds after." After I get control of my mental images, that is.

The message light was blinking. She pushed rewind.

Navy Housing, 12:10

"Sir, you set a magnificent table."

Despite the grin, Alex's response was almost automatic. "Don't call me 'sir'; I work for a living." He enjoyed the compliment, though. And lunch was really nothing much. Fruit-filled pita sandwiches with his own special sauce, rumaki, vegetable sticks and dip, and dark beer. "I realize you salute Chiefs in 'enrotsie, ' but that's just for practice." He paused. "In the real Navy, we salute you."

Young Mister Rosecranz glanced at his friend, the equally young Mister Lafitte, and both seemed to relax a little.

"Brenda, Jean, help your mother with the dishes." The two had been as nervous as their young men, hovering protectively the entire meal. "Boys, join me on the patio. Bring your beer." They got up and went through the sliding glass doors to the outside.

Once outside, the young men appeared nervous again. "Relax, boys, relax. I'm not going to start an Inquisition. I don't need to know your 'intentions toward my daughters'; they brought you home, that's all I need to know."

The boys tried to relax, and Alex waved them to the patio furniture, aluminum chairs with nylon webbing.

It seemed they weren't going to initiate the conversation, though. "How's the beer?" Alex noticed that Beaufort's glass was nearly full.

Jaime sipped. Beaufort replied, "To tell the truth, sir, I'm not much of a beer drinker."

Alex laughed. "You'll get over that, or turn tee-total in the Navy. Unless you prefer rum?" Beaufort shook his head. "Only the really large ships, battle cruisers or dreadnoughts, carry anything else, and only for special occasions." He shrugged. "It's an acquired taste."

Beaufort sipped, and made a face. "Not one I'm likely to acquire soon, I think."

Positioned as he was, Alex could see that one or the other of the twins had hovered at the sliding glass door while he was chatting with their beaus. He waved Jean out.

"Yes, Daddy?" she inquired, stepping through onto the patio.

"Take Beaufort's beer and bring him a glass of..." he raised an eyebrow at Beaufort, who tried to sputter that nothing special was needed.

"I know what Boo likes. I'll take care of it," Jean said, taking away his beer.

"Jaime?" Alex asked.

Jaimie raised his stein. "I'm good. I'll just finish this; I have to drive, later."

Jean was back in just moments, with a glass of wine. Beaufort smiled embarrassed thanks at her as he took it. Jean seemed inclined to stay. "Perhaps your mother needs help with the leftovers..."

"What leftovers?" In truth, there weren't many. Jean came over to her father, leaned down and placed a kiss on his bald spot. "Never mind, I can take a hint." As she left she told the boys, "Don't let him fuss you. He's just an old sweety."

Alex watched two pairs of eyes follow Jean back into the house. Eyes filled with affection and maybe a touch of possessiveness? He cleared his throat. "And she can cook, too."

"Sir?"

Alex ignored the honorific this time. "If you have no plans for next Sunday, let me take you to a local fishing pier. One of DeeDee's cousins runs it—I can get a discount. Can either of you fish?" Eyes lit up and heads nodded. Excellent! "You catch a few Spanish Mackerel or flounder, and we'll let the girls show you what they learned from the old man. You won't be disappointed." And it'll be nice to be able to spend time with ... my future sons-in-law. I wonder if they know how obvious their fate is?

Hubbard House, 13:00

Nancy entered the parlor still drying her hands with a dish towel. The ribs are coated and in the oven. The sauces are ready to simmer. But if Deb thinks she's getting out of peeling potatoes, she'd better think again. "Deb?"

"Over here."

Deborah was on the sofa by the telephone, her face pale. She was surrounded by scattered sections of the Sunday paper. Nancy suppressed a flash of annoyance for the mess. The expression on Deborah's face concerned her more. "What's wrong?"

Deborah didn't answer right away, and the look on her face was ... unfathomable. Finally, "Perhaps you'd better hear this yourself." She rewound the answering machine. Nancy seated herself by Deborah, gathering some of the newspaper into a neat pile; one section was still clutched in Deborah's fist, wrinkled where she held it. She pushed "play."

"Deborah, Nancy, hi. This is Samantha Stuart-Forrest"— "and Caroline!"— "calling to congratulate you. We were thrilled to see the announcement in today's paper!"

"If I were speaking as your XO, I'd have to warn you again about favoritism, but this is a day for just us girls, so I'm glad you took my advice there, too."

"If Sam told you to grab him, it was good advice. I should know, I tried it myself. Now I know why I got shot down. Congratulations again."

"If you-all can put off the wedding for at least a few days, the ladies of the wardroom"— "and their wives and the men's wives"— "want to throw you a shower. Anyway, congratulations.— "and good luck!" "Call us!"

There was a click, and a beep, and then another message started.

"Nancy Virginia! We hardly ever hear from you as it is, but to have to read something like this in the newspaper? You don't tell your own mothers? I hardly think that's the way we..."

Nancy's finger was firmly on the stop button. She couldn't remember reaching for it.

"There are seven more after that one. Here. Read." Deborah thrust the newspaper section she was clutching at Nancy. Her voice was shaky, and so was the hand. She seemed to have difficulty unclenching her fist.

But she managed. Nancy took the paper and scanned, as she half-expected, the Engagement Announcements. She saw the picture first. She and Deborah, shoulder to shoulder and holding hands; Bob leaning in close behind, his hands on the backs of their chairs; all smiling, all happy. She read the paragraph below: