“We’ll make it a good one, son.”
Sandy began to lead the way to the parking lot. “If food will help,” he said, “I think you can count on Mom. Wait until you see the turkey she’s got!”
“With cranberry sauce?” Richard Holt asked.
Sandy nodded. “Also with dressing, sweet potatoes, plum pudding—”
“Stop!” Ken’s father commanded. “Let us waste no more time talking. On to Brentwood! That is,” he corrected himself, as he came to a halt beside the boys’ red convertible, “on to Brentwood after a quick stop at my apartment. I want to get rid of some of this luggage and change my clothes. I’ll sit in the back seat with the bags, if you don’t mind,” he went on, “so I can be sorting out the things I want to take with me. It’ll save time.”
Sandy started the motor and the car slid smoothly into the line of traffic heading for New York City. Forty-five minutes later he pulled to a stop before the building in which Ken’s father maintained his seldom-used apartment.
“Give me five minutes,” Richard Holt said.
“Shall I carry your bags up, Dad?” Ken asked.
“I’ve got them.” The correspondent swung one in each hand. “They’re considerably lighter than they were.” He nodded toward a heap of packages on the back seat. “Don’t go snooping in those things while I’m gone.”
“Word of honor,” Ken said, grinning.