Something's Cooking

Chloe Cleavage was on her third sweater of the day because she owned no apron. The lavender sweater had been done in by grease splatters when she was basting the turkey, the pink sweater was attacked by flying mashed potatoes, and she was determined to make the pecan pie without harming her red sweater. (She could not put on a sweatshirt because Calico Johnson had been very noncommittal about what time he would turn up.) She was starting to think maybe she understood the concept of the apron now, and would get one someday in the future, but it was too late today. This was it! Her big chance to snare Mr. Moneybags for a more committed relationship! Never having actually cooked a Thanksgiving meal was no deterrent to this quest. She popped the pie in the oven just as Johnson rang her up to say he would be there in an hour. She finished arranging the table (including the flowers she had bought herself, just in case he did not bring any--he was a very busy man), then lay down on the couch with cucumber slices on her eyes.

Across the Potomac, in Virginia, Bridezilla was bustling around the kitchen in the house (her future home!) of her new fiance. She did think it was a little weird that all his windows had shades, blinds, AND curtains, but he insisted that his Marine Corps operations had been of a nature that he could have potential enemies hunting him down at any time. Bridezilla was planning to open up at least the windows next to the front door before her parents came--after all, a house needed some natural light at two in the afternoon, and she didn't want her parents thinking her new fiance was some kind of a caveman! True, there were some stuffed animal heads on the wall, but she was certain that these would be moved to the basement after their wedding next April. Not that she objected to his frequent weekend hunting trips (she found this far manlier than her ex's constant weekend legal memo-writing absences), but , naturally, you could not have chintz-covered couches and lace curtains co-mingled with antlers and such. She smiled as he stole a spoonful of sweet potato pie filling before she stuck it in the oven, then only took half a bite and offered her the rest of the bite. (Like we're sharing wedding cake at the reception!) His cellphone rang, and with an "oh, it's my brother in Georgia!", he exited to go finalize a Weapons 'R Us gun deal with some Italian buyers (who were fronting for Somali pirates)--just a little quick cash while they were waiting for another Pentagon contract to come through.

Back in Washington, Angela de la Paz was in the Adams Morgan apartment kitchen cooking with her grandmother. The Warrior had kept his promise and brought Angela here on a day when he knew she would be safe--safe from her uncle, safe from prying eyes, and safe from the misguided social worker that had put her into hellacious foster care. The Warrior had declined the invitation to stay, but had promised to return by 4 p.m. to pick Angela up. Her grandmother did not understand why Angela could not stay, probably because she could not face the truth about her son, Angela's uncle. Angela kept assuring her grandmother that things were fine, she was doing well in school, the Warrior was taking good care of her, and she was safe, but Angela knew things in her life were not as they should be, and she did not know how to fix them. She hated not being with her grandmother. She still missed her mom, and had been having dreams lately that her mother was still alive--had not drowned in the Potomac as reported. She wished she was a grown-up and could get a house, and all the people she loved could live there. She said none of this to abuela, and kept a smile up because this was a day to be thankful for what they had.

Several miles to the south, a third of Southest Plaza was already burned to the ground as firefighters battled to put out the remaining flames. Out on the sidewalk, Golden Fawn was huddled with her new husband, Marcos Vasquez. His mother was leaning on Vasquez's arm and tut-tutting in Puerto Rican Spanish. Golden Fawn's grandmother and cousins were huddled nearby, shaking their heads in dismay. It was clear that Vasquez's apartment was toast, but they could not yet tell if Golden Fawn's would make it. The newlyweds were trying not to grin, but couldn't help it--they hated this place so much! Now, without a doubt, they knew it was time to move out and move on. Destroying the real estate demon living in Southwest Plaza was simply not Golden Fawn's destiny, and they needed to turn their attentions elsewhere. They stole another happy kiss, then resumed trying to contain their joy, aware of the misery all around them.

A hundred feet away, property manager Button Samuelson was on the phone with Calico Johnson discussing the fire. "I think that troublesome Indian woman and her fiance might have something to do with this. They seem to be smiling."

"Don't even go there," replied Johnson on his cellphone, pulling up to Chloe Cleavage's apartment building up in Northwest. "Any allegation of arson will just delay the insurance. Try to put some blame on fire hydrants--that's a safe excuse these days." He exited his sports car, walked around to the front of the block, and was surprised to see ladder trucks deployed and firefighters hosing down some flames on the east side of the building. Is she on the east side? Only a dozen residents were in town and evacuated from the building, including Chloe--who was currently lying on an ambulance stretcher inhaling oxygen. (It was her burning candle that had ignited the too-dry baby's breath in her centerpiece during Chloe's nap.) Why hasn't she called me? He looked down at his cellphone with growing alarm, then started running towards the ambulance where he now saw a low-cut sweater-clad victim on a gurney. Chloe! She smiled up at him, and he said, "Don't worry!" She drifted happily off into consciousness, sure that this was it!--her sugar daddy would surely invite him to move into his mansion now.

Over at the Heurich mansion (the Brewmaster's Castle), the less than nuclear-family-powered members of the Heurich Society were holding their annual Thanksgiving dinner, a "Killer Bunnies" game set up on the table in-between the Virginia baked ham, Waldorf salad, yams, and apple pie. A grumpy Henry Samuelson was supposed to be dining with his daughter, but she had called an hour earlier to tell him one of her properties was on fire, and he was unleashing his frustration by taking the game a little too seriously. (It didn't help that he was the only one who had not had a cocktail before dinner.) "Hah!" he yelled in glee, as his killer bunnies took out a few more opponents.

Over on the Potomac, the fog lingered above Ardua, just the way she liked it.