“I’m afraid so.”
“Won’t be the merriest Christmas we ever had,” he said quietly. He peered out the window at the prettily lighted snowscape, sniffed the steaming home smell of the kitchen, shook his grizzled head. “Take me awhile to get used to the idea of not having Lenore for a daughter-in-law. Always saw those kids together”—he gave a stifled chuckle—“since that day we found ‘ern together! Cute little thing, she was. Didn’t blame Chuck a bit.”
“Henry!”
He slapped her bottom gently. “Don’t be hypocritical, Mother!”
Nora came in. That is, the front door burst open and stayed open long enough to send a few bushels of arctic air down the hall into the kitchen. Then the door slammed. Galoshes thudded as they were kicked into the hall closet. Then that door slammed. There was a long indrawn sniffle followed by a sneeze. Followed, in turn, by a sotto voce “Dammit!”
“Nora?”
“Yes, Mom. Not burglars and not the Fuller Brush man. Not the Realsilk Hosiery man or any other secret lover you were expecting.” The words sounded nasal. She came into the kitchen, saw her father. “Hi, Pop.”
“Nora, let me see your throat,” Beth said.
“I’m all right!”
“You sound as if you were catching cold.”