Richard Holt was back at the car again in six minutes flat. “O.K., men,” he said, sliding into the front seat beside Ken. “Head for Brentwood—and don’t spare the horsepower.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Sandy let the car move forward. A moment later he was heading southward toward the Holland Tunnel and New Jersey across the Hudson River.
“Now,” Mr. Holt said, settling himself comfortably, “you can begin to tell me what Mom’s preparing for tonight. After all, the Christmas turkey is still two days away. She doesn’t expect me to fast until then, I hope.”
“Not quite,” Sandy assured him. “For tonight she’s got—”
Several hours later Richard Holt shoved his chair back from the Allen dinner table and sighed luxuriously. “Sandy didn’t exaggerate a bit,” he assured Mom Allen. “My only worry now is recovering my appetite in time for the turkey.”
Mom’s eyes twinkled at him. “One good way of working off a meal is to wash the dishes, Richard.”
“Now, Mom,” Pop protested. “Dick’s a guest.”
“I always think of him as a member of the family,” Mom said.
“Thank you, Mom,” Richard Holt said. “It’s an honor—even if it does make me eligible for dishwashing.”
Mom stood up. “Then that’s settled. I’ll just leave everything in your capable masculine hands, while I run down the street to visit with my sister for a while.”