The Perfect Christmas - Debbie Macomber [42]
“How do you do?” her neighbor cooed sweetly. “Please call me Phyllis.”
“Phyllis,” Cassie repeated. She’d lived in the building for three years and hadn’t been aware of Mrs. Mullinex’s first name, which didn’t appear on the mailbox, not even as an initial. Her neighbor had never seen fit to share it with Cassie.
“I didn’t realize Cassie had a male friend,” Mrs. Mullinex said ever so coyly. “She is a sly one.”
Cassie excused herself and disappeared inside the kitchen while she prepared the hors d’oeuvres. She’d leave Simon to fend for himself. When she heard the two of them chatting amicably, Cassie sighed. Simon possessed a few social graces, after all—but none that he was willing to display for her benefit.
Mr. Oliver showed up next. “The Seahawks game starts at four. This isn’t going to take longer than that, is it?” he asked as he barreled past her and into the condo. He looked around and when he saw Phyllis Mullinex, a frown darkened his face.
“Mr. Oliver,” Mrs. Mullinex greeted him stiffly.
“Phyllis.”
They glared at each other like alley cats with hackles raised, each waiting for the other to make the first move.
“So…you two know each other,” Cassie commented, watching them carefully.
“No,” said Mrs. Mullinex.
“Oh, yes, we know each other very well,” Mr. Oliver countered. “Would you mind if I turned the TV on?” he asked as he claimed the most comfortable chair. Not waiting for a response, he reached for the remote, leaned forward and pressed the on button. The television screen lit up and he immediately found the station he wanted. It featured another football game—not the Seahawks.
“I’d like to introduce my friend Dr. Simon Dodson,” Cassie said, speaking loudly enough to be heard above the roar of the sports announcer.
Mr. Oliver acknowledged Simon with a disinterested nod of his head.
Her doorbell rang again. Grateful for an excuse to escape, Cassie rushed forward to answer. Bob, the rap aficionado from next door, stood on the other side. He’d apparently gone to some effort with his appearance; he’d greased his graying hair back from his forehead and donned a fresh pair of jeans and a sweater. He grinned when he saw her and handed her a lone rose.
“Welcome,” Cassie said and brought him into the room.
When he saw the others, Bob’s face fell. “You didn’t say there’d be anyone else here,” he said.
“Oh…sorry. I assumed you knew.”
“So, dinner isn’t just for the two of us?”
“Ah…no. I’m sure you’ve met Mrs. Mullinex and Mr. Oliver,” Cassie said, motioning toward her guests.
“No, and I don’t particularly care to,” he grumbled.
“This is my friend Dr. Simon Dodson.”
Bob’s frown deepened. “You have a…friend?”
“Well, yes, sort of.” The last thing she needed was for Bob to think she was interested in his attentions. If avoiding that trap meant stretching the truth, then so be it.
The oven timer went off, and Cassie took the opportunity to leave and close the kitchen door behind her. After all her hard work, this meal was going to be a disaster. None of these people liked one another.
Simon followed her into the kitchen. “Should the turkey come out yet?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said distractedly as he slipped his hands into her Santa-face oven mitts.
“Simon,” she pleaded. “What are we going to do?”
“About what?”
“Can’t you see?” she cried. “Mrs. Mullinex and Mr. Oliver can barely stand to look at each other, and Bob thought this dinner was going to be a private affair between him and me.”
“It’ll be fine,” he said soothingly.
Cassie sincerely doubted that.
Simon lifted the turkey out of the oven and set it on top of the stove.
Cassie thanked him. “According to my cookbook, the turkey should sit for no less than fifteen minutes before being carved.”
“Do you need help with anything else?”
“No.” She’d seen to everything before the guests were due. “I just have to get the food into the serving dishes.”
Bowls lined the counter. Cassie was pleased with her organizational abilities. The potatoes were cooked and ready to be mashed. Green beans simmered on the stovetop. She drained off the