Two Holts: Happy Birthday, Mr. Steele!
Sunday, 2 November 1986 (A weekly conversation)
“How are the babies?”
“What happened to ‘How are you, Kate?' ”
“Because all you do is complain. I want to know how my nieces or nephews are coming along.”
“If they squabble as much after they are born as they seem to be doing now, I’m in a world of
trouble. Murphy had his hand on my belly last night, and one of them kicked so hard his hand slid
off.”
Laura had to laugh at that one. “You only have ten weeks to go.”
“Evil witch. When it’s your turn, you’ll understand that you’re not helping at all. I’m putting a lot
of trust in my doctor when she tells me that twins usually come early.”
“Early? Around Christmas?”
“Or New Year's Day.”
“What do you want to do about the holidays then?”
“I won’t be able to travel by Christmas, so everyone can come here if Remington promises to make
dinner.”
“I think it’s safe to say he’ll go for that. Mom has already asked him to do the turkey for
Thanksgiving, and I’ll bet he ends up cooking everything. Will you be able to come for that?”
“Probably. I’ll clear it with my doctor. I know Mom wants to host now that all her girls are
married. I think she wants to be the matriarch of the Holt clan for the day.”
“Do you think we’ll survive?”
“It’s three against one. We don’t have a chance.”
Sunday, 9 November 1986 (The knee)
“How are you doing, Laura?”
“I’ve had better days.”
“Remington called us Wednesday and told us what happened.”
“He’s been a godsend this week. Did he tell you I’m having surgery on Monday?”
“Not yet. He said your knee was pretty torn up.”
“Yeah. The doctor wanted to wait for some of the swelling to go down before he operated.”
“Are you okay with that?”
“Hey, I’m strung out on painkillers. Nothing bothers me at the moment.”
“How’s Remington doing with all this?”
“You know him. Any time there’s a disaster, he steps up to the plate. He didn’t panic, hasn’t
bitched about having to rearrange everyone’s duties at the office and doesn’t get annoyed at me
when I’m in a crappy mood--he just deals with it. I’m going to owe him half my soul by the time
this is over.”
“How’s the hovering?”
“Tolerable. Actually, I’d have been in a lot of trouble without him. It’s kind of nice knowing he’s
here.”
“Check your forehead; you might be running a fever. Laura? Letting someone else help her?”
“Hey, the nurses at the hospital don’t look anywhere nearly as good as he does. And he sounds
better too.”
Sunday, 16 November 1986 (Birthday plans)
“Hey, twin, how’s the gimpy knee?”
“I hate this, Kate.”
“Sure you do. What’s the doc say?”
“If I’m lucky, I’ll be on crutches by next week. Right now, I have to use a wheelchair. A
wheelchair! As if I’m a bloody invalid or something?”
“ ‘Bloody invalid’? You sound like Remington.”
“Don’t threaten me like that.”
“Pissy, aren’t we?”
Laura sighed. “I’m sorry. This is more annoying than I thought it would be. I’ve been so grouchy
this week that I’m surprised Remington hasn’t dropped me over the edge of the terrace. Can we
change the subject?”
“Sure. I can complain about being a million months pregnant or we can talk about Thanksgiving at
Mom’s house.”
“May I ask your advice on something else?”
“Sure.”
“Remington’s birthday is coming up. We’ve never celebrated it before, and I don’t know what to
do for him.”
“What do you mean you haven’t celebrated it before?”
“Until a few days before we got married, I never knew the date.”
“When is it?”
“December first.”
“Oh, yay! That means we can have a party for him at Thanksgiving! That will keep Mom from
driving me bonkers about the babies.”
“Uh … do you think that’s a good idea? I don’t know if he should be subjected to one of Mom’s
cakes.”
“Hey, we all survived and he’s part of the family. Even Murphy had to eat one this year.”
“True. If he complains, I’m sure Murphy will remind him.”
Sunday, 23 November 1986 (Tile floors)
“I’m going to kill Murphy.”
“What’d he do this time?”
“He’s decided that our bathroom and kitchen need new tile, and he has already ripped out half of it.”
“So what’s wrong with that?”
“Because I know damned well he’s going to get stuck on a case, and it will be Christmas and I won’
t have any floors. And the babies will be here after that, and according to Frances, we won’t get
anything done for a year.”
“Come on, Kate. Murphy’s good at finishing what he starts.”
“Sure he is, Laura, but you haven’t seen him when he gets that little home improvement gleam in
his eye. He starts playing with his toolbelt and firing up his toys in the garage.”
“Didn’t you say the nursery is beautiful?”
“It’s gorgeous. But it took him four solid months, and now he thinks he’s going to get the tile floors
done in three weeks?”
“Hmmm. Good luck with that. Don’t let him answer the office phone.”
“Yeah, right.”
“So when are you two coming?”
“Wednesday. You’re not changing your mind about letting us stay with you?”
“Not at all. Remington will probably be glad for the company. I haven’t been very sociable this
week.”
“Good. Mom and I would kill each other if I had to stay with her for four days.”
“I can’t wait to see you, Katy.”
“Me too, Laura.”
Thursday, 27 November 1986 (Thanksgiving Day)
Exasperated, Remington pointed to the door. “Out. All of you. If anyone who is or was ever
named “Holt” walks into this kitchen during the next half hour, she isn’t getting dinner.”
Four identical expressions of mutiny faced him--three with their arms crossed and one holding onto
her crutches--before they edged out one by one. Laura left last. “I can’t believe you are doing this
to me.”
“Laura, I’m cooking dinner for ten and I don’t even get to use my own kitchen.” He walked to her
and kissed her well enough to distract her from her pout. “I can’t play referee and do this too.
Sorry, love, you’re on your own for a bit.”
She gave him a shy half-smile. “Serves me right for getting used to your handling my mother.
You’re wonderful with her.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere right now, but everywhere later,” he retorted with a grin.
“Promise?”
“Always. Now go entertain your sister long enough for me to get things done around here.”
“Okay, Mom,” Laura shot back sarcastically as she hobbled out of the kitchen.
“Will you do me a favor?”
“Maybe.”
“Send Donald and Murphy in here.”
“No. You boys are not hiding out in here. But I’ll send Mindy and Danny in to help.”
Murphy strolled in anyway, having seen the gaggle of women spilling out. “Short help’s better than
no help.” He stepped out of Laura’s way as she left.
“What does that make you?”
“I don’t know. But I do know that you are making Donald and me look very bad at the moment.
Our wives are wondering why we can’t pull off Thanksgiving dinner like you.”
“Just a little hobby I picked up somewhere along the way.”
“Whatever. Do you need help?”
Remington eyed him for a minute. “How are you at sautéing sweet potatoes?”
“You’re kidding me, right? I was thinking more like setting the table or slicing bread.”
“Abigail has already set the table, so you can slice the bread and butter it.” He set a French loaf in
front of Murphy with a small bowl of honey butter he’d mixed up earlier. For a few minutes, only
the sounds of Remington putting the last touches on dinner could be heard as he dished up food and
added the final garnishes to his serving dishes.
“Steele, may I make an observation?” Murphy sounded quite serious.
“Ah, all right.”
“You make a better wife than Laura.” A dishtowel smacked him in the face.
The Holt-Piper-Steele-Michaels family crammed together at Abigail’s dining room table, and very
little conversation was heard while they collectively stuffed their faces with Remington’s creations.
When they were done, the sad turkey carcass was flanked by empty dishes with only the occasional
spoonful of food left inside. The children bolted outside to play on the swing set their grandma had
put in for them, leaving the adults to groan in misery.
Remington by virtue of being the chef, Laura on her crutches and Kate at nearly eight months
pregnant abstained from doing dishes and disappeared into the living room. Murphy, Frances and
Donald admirably managed cleanup while Abigail reset the table. In true Holt tradition, she retrieved
the balloons, candles and cake from the laundry room and placed them on it. Gifts brought in secret
and stashed there by the family were retrieved and piled in the center.
By the time the cleanup crew finished, Laura was asleep in her husband’s lap on the sofa and Kate
dozed in the chair beside them. Remington was trailing his hand through Laura’s hair and watching
Kate sleep. Several times during the day, he’d had to swallow hard at Kate’s round belly and to
lock away the desire to see Laura’s curve in the same fashion. Not yet, mate, he told himself.
We’ve still got quite a long way to go.
Murphy wandered in first and actually caught the naked longing in his brother-in-law’s eyes for a
split second before they changed to simple amusement at the water splashed over his shirt. For
once, he didn’t tease Steele. Instead, he gently roused Kate and pulled her to her feet while
Remington did the same for Laura.
Kate rubbed her face and eyed her sister. “I’m manufacturing a couple of million cells an hour.
What’s your excuse for sleeping in the middle of the afternoon?”
“Tryptophan poisoning,” Laura retorted to Remington’s chuckle.
Abigail sashayed into the living room. “All right, dears, I think we’re ready. Donald, will you get
the children? We’ll have dessert in the dining room.” Six groans immediately sounded out in
chorus, punctuated by three shrieks of delight from the kids dashing through the house.
“Cake! Ice Cream! Grandma? Grandma? Whose birthday is it?” The last was from Laurie Beth.
Everyone else crowded around the table again. The Steeles had just stepped inside when Abigail
said, “Why, it’s Remington’s, of course! Well, not today exactly, but on Tuesday; it’s so close
we’ll celebrate today, Laurie Beth.”
Steele immediately flashed a wide grin and sat on the chair Abigail indicated at the head of the table.
Only Laura noted his shoulders were suddenly tense. After a rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday,”
nine sets of eyes watched him take a bite of cake--one with happy anticipation and eight others with
barely concealed amusement.
But he ate it without flinching, forcing the others to do the same although even the kids knew to
soak the cake in melted ice cream first. Afterward, the presents were piled in front of him, and
Laurie Beth insisted on sitting in his lap to help him open them.
Laura could see the slightest tremble in his hands as he reached for the gift the little girl passed to
him.
“This one’s from us, Unca Remy--me, Danny and Mindy. Open it first,” she insisted.
“Why, thank you, Miss Piper.” She giggled and laid her head against his shoulder as she watched
him open the box. Inside was a collection of trinkets the children had picked out for him: a Slinky
from Laurie Beth, a box of colored pencils from Mindy and a model car kit from Danny. The little
girl carefully explained. “You like old cars, so Danny picked that. Auntie Laura says you draw
really nice, so Mindy got pencils, and I think everyone should have a Slinky. They’re really cool.”
Remington had to fight hard to keep his composure and thank the children. He started to pull the
Slinky out of the box, but Laurie Beth stopped him. “No, Unca Remy. You have to open
everything and thank everybody before you can play with your toys,” she said seriously.
He gave her shoulders a squeeze, and she handed him another box out of the little pile on the table.
“Of course, Miss Piper. We must do it properly.”
A few minutes later, Remington had a stack of gifts he’d unwrapped. Abigail gave him two shirts
and a tie. Kate found for him a VHS tape of Shadow of a Doubt (Teresa Wright, Joseph Cotten,
Universal, 1943). Murphy gave him a football and laughed at Steele’s horrified expression. Donald
and Frances gifted him with a crepe pan from Williams-Sonoma, a copy of The Joy of Cooking and
a request that he assume responsibility for the turkey at Thanksgiving every year.
Overwhelmed by it all, he hugged Laurie Beth again and asked permission to open his Slinky.
“Okay, Unca Remy. I’ll show you how it works. We have to go use the stairs on the porch.” All
three kids led him outside and spent the next half hour instructing him on the intricacies of getting a
Slinky to “walk” down the stairs.
Kate sidled up to Laura. “Not bad, Lunatic. He didn’t even flinch at Mom’s cake.”
“No, he wouldn’t. Especially since this was his first birthday party … with the family,” she added
to cover her slip.
“What did you decide to do for him?”
The edge of Laura’s mouth turned up. “I have a few surprises in store for Tuesday.”
That evening at Abigail’s, the family told funny stories on each other in the living room. Murphy
and Laura played card games with Danny and Laurie Beth on the floor while Remington sat with
Mindy on the sofa and drew pictures with her. He showed her how to create simple shadows and
highlights with the pencils and sketched a quick picture of her that he tore out and handed to her
with a kiss to her forehead.
Afterward, he and Danny spread the model car kit across the newspaper-covered dining room table.
It wasn’t long before Donald and Murphy sat down to help assemble and glue the little Corvette
together. It was nearly midnight when they finished, and Donald had to shake his son awake to see
the finished model before towing him out to the real car to go home. Frances nudged Mindy along
and Remington carried a sleeping Laurie Beth. She woke long enough while he fastened her seat
belt to mumble, “Happy Birthday, Unca Remy.”
“Thank you, Miss Piper. It’s been a lovely day.”
“You talk funny. But I like it.”
He ruffled the hair on her head. “I’m glad you do, sweetheart. Now go back to sleep for the drive
home.”
After Murphy and Kate turned in for the night at the penthouse, Remington sat cross-legged on the
bed and played with his Slinky. Laura could see that he was lost in thought. She sat next to him
and brushed his lock of hair out of his eyes. “Remington?”
“Hmm?” He was bemused by the toy.
“Sorry about Mom’s cake. Even Murphy got initiated with it this year.”
“Well, that’s something. I can’t complain though. It was my first real birthday cake and it was
definitely … memorable.”
“Daniel never did anything for you?”
“No. Oh, at some point in the year, he would take me somewhere and call it my birthday, but it
was never the same day or even the same month. Somewhere along the way, I just added a year to
my age in January.” He sprawled backwards on the bed and propped up on his elbow. “It’s been a
little disconcerting to know I’m nearly a full year younger than I’ve touted for most of my
adult life. I’m only now turning thirty-four.”
“Only three years older than I. That’s an interesting perspective.”
“How so?”
“That you’ve done so much more than I’ve even contemplated.”
“High school, college, an apprenticeship, and starting not one, but two agencies isn’t enough?”
“But it’s mostly been right here in Los Angeles. You’ve seen the world.”
“Laura, if you really want to see it, I’ll take you to the better parts of it. I wouldn’t wish some of
the places I’ve been on anyone.” Remington rolled off the bed, set the Slinky on the dresser and
pulled back the covers. “Come, love; this is getting a bit too philosophical for two in the morning.”
She eased under the covers and settled into his embrace, resting her head in the hollow of his
shoulder. He brought his arm around her slim waist. Closing his eyes, he decided that this had been
one of the better days of his existence.
Friday, 28 November 1986 (An interlude with Murphy)
Murphy spent part of the afternoon teaching Remington to throw a football in between games on the
television. They’d left the twins propped up on the sofa and headed for a narrow park behind the
apartment building.
“Why are we doing this?” Steele attempted to launch the ball in a poor imitation of Murphy’s
demonstration and succeeded in bouncing it off a nearby tree.
“Because you’re an American citizen now, and you can’t be a man in America and not get football.”
“Can’t I scream at the telly a bit and mutter obscenities under my breath like you and call it a day?”
“You could, if you had any idea what you were screaming and muttering about. The way you do it,
you change sides like a four-year-old.”
“Bugger off.”
“Sure. Look--” He walked the ball to Steele. “Choke up and put your fingers on the laces. Even
Frances throws better than you do, and you're the one with the magic fingers.”
Annoyed, Remington bit off a curse of frustration. He looked at the ball again and tossed it to
Murphy. “Let me see you throw it. I’ll go chase the damned thing down, but let me see you do it
instead of watching it come after me like a bullet.”
Murphy gave him an odd look and launched the ball into the air. When it landed, Steele jogged over
to it, set his fingers to the laces and threw it in a wobbly spiral to his brother-in-law who caught it
neatly with a whoop. He zinged it hard back to Remington who ducked and let it fly over his head.
“Damn it, Michaels, I am not your bloody target!”
Murphy doubled over with laughter and had his hands on his knees while he gasped for breath.
Irritated to no end, Steele lifted the ball and set his fingers on the laces again. This time he zipped it
across the lawn, and Murphy barely got his hands up in time to catch it and fall over backward, still
chuckling.
“All right, all right, that last one was uncalled for, but you look so good when you duck!” He
sobered up somewhat, but a grin still played around on his face. “Look. Okay, I think you’re
getting the throwing part down. To catch the football, you’ve got to hold your ground and put both
your hands up. No flinching.”
Steele raised an eyebrow. “Michaels, my whole bloody life--if anything comes at me--my job has
been to get out of the way.”
“Yeah, well, now you’re about to learn something new. Come on; I’ll give you an easy lob and we’
ll work up to a decent pass.”
At the end of another hour, Steele was catching the balls a healthy percentage of the time and getting
them back to Murphy. When they were covered in sweat and called it quits, they grinned at each
other.
“Well, Steele, there’s hope for you yet.”
“Next time we’ll go to the boxing ring, Michaels, and we’ll see who ducks.”
“Now, that has some real possibilities.”
Tuesday, 2 December 1986 (Happy Birthday, Mr. Steele!)
Remington’s hopes for sleeping late and taking in an afternoon movie crumbled when Ian called mid-
morning.
“Mr. Steele, my apologies, sir, but Mildred is going home to deal with a water leak at her house.
Her neighbor called just a few minutes ago. Mrs. Steele is out with Kaleb, and someone needs to
meet with Mr. O’Dell about the skip-trace we’ve been working for him. He’s due in court first
thing in the morning and needs an update. Mildred left all the data here.”
Heaving a reluctant sigh, Remington asked, “What time is the appointment?”
“Two-thirty, sir.”
“I’ll be there.” What happened to being irresponsible?
“Thank you, sir. And my apologies again for disturbing you on your birthday.”
He arrived at the office with a few minutes to spare and took the time to familiarize himself with the
data. O’Dell was nice enough, just long-winded, probably an excellent characteristic for an
attorney. Mildred returned to the office just as he was finishing up at four and managed to occupy
him with other questions until nearly five, ensuring that he was caught in afternoon traffic all the
way home.
Whatever irritation he had about the afternoon’s interruptions evaporated when he pushed open the
foyer door. Laura was meticulously putting the final touches on dinner, and rich aromas wafted
through the flat.
“Good Lord, Laura, you’ve been cooking!” Suddenly, he grinned. “So that’s the reason behind
Mildred’s little emergency. Cleverly done, love.”
Laura gave him a wry smile. “I think I remember your saying something about its being difficult to
surprise someone when you live with him. I promise we’ll go to the cinema tomorrow to make up
for today.” Anxiously, she wiped her hands on her apron and shifted on her crutches. “You have a
few minutes if you want to change clothes.”
Taking the hint, he shrugged off his jacket and carried it in one hand. “I’ll do that. But I want this
first.” He indulged in a long kiss with her, and ironically, it settled her nervous tension, and she felt
her shoulders relax a fraction.
While he was changing, Laura poured wine, retrieved the salad from the refrigerator and placed the
warm bread on the counter. As he crossed the living room, she plated the fettuccine as she’d seen
him do dozens of times and set it on the island. “Putting everything on the dining room table was a
little beyond what I could do with crutches, so I hope the kitchen is okay for tonight.”
“Laura, this looks wonderful.” She’d placed candles all around and had soft music playing in the
background. He assisted her onto the bar stool before taking his own.
“I wanted to do something special for you on your birthday.” She apprehensively watched him take
a bite of his pasta. Fettuccine Alfredo was one of his favorite dishes, and she’d had Frances on the
phone the whole time she made the sauce. She thought it tasted okay, but. …
Remington closed his eyes to savor the flavor. “You made this--it’s not from a jar.”
“No. It’s not.”
“Laura, I think I’m putting you on kitchen duty at least once a week from now on.”
Relieved, the tension left her shoulders and she laughed. “You might not want to count on it, but it
is a testament to your teaching abilities and Frances’ patience that I made that.”
“Thank you, Laura. It’s good. Better than good.” He took her hand and kissed it. “No one has
ever made me dinner for my birthday.”
After dinner was cleared, Laura admitted that baking a cake was beyond her abilities and brought
out a delicate confection from Che’ Rive. “Anything I make might rival Mother’s, so I picked this
up this afternoon,” she told him.
They settled in front of the fire afterward and Laura brought out a large bag abundantly filled with
gifts, all of which were beautifully wrapped with Remington’s name on the tags. He was a little
astounded by the size of the stack, but it took him only seconds to realize what she’d done.
“Thirty-four? Isn’t that a bit excessive?”
“Probably.” She handed him a package. “Start with this one. Don’t worry; I cheated a little bit.”
He grinned when he saw what she’d done. The first nine gifts proved to be a professional set of
cutlery from Germany, rounding out Remington’s collection of kitchen knives.
“Ah, trying to make sure I do the cooking for a while yet.”
“Of course. A woman has to know what her talents are. One of mine is making sure the chef is
happy.”
The next eight were season tickets to the Pantages Theater for the upcoming run of Broadway
shows. Additional packages revealed a set of drawing pencils and paper, a small box of oil pastels
that he’d mentioned wanting to try and a wooden art box in which to keep everything. Gifts twenty-
two and twenty-three were a pair of cufflinks, twenty-four was a black sweater with thin blue
stripes, and twenty-five stumped him completely.
“Socks?”
Laura laughed at his expression of disbelief. “Everyone gets at least one gift that makes him wonder
what the other person was thinking. I’m making sure you get one.”
“Actually, I think Murphy covered it with that football. Be sure to tell him I said that.”
“I will. And I’ll need your help for the next one. It’s in the spare bedroom behind the bed.”
Remington found the large wrapped box and carried it to their place in front of the fire. “A compact
disc player? Laura--“
“You’ll need these as well.” Gifts twenty-seven through thirty-three proved to be CD versions of
his favorite music.
Lastly, Laura handed him a small box. He unwrapped it and stared at the disc inside. It was in a
simple clear case, and the cover had “Happy Birthday, Remington” written on it. “What is this?”
“I found a recording studio.” She hesitated. “And I made a CD of music for you.”
Remington turned the case over and read the listing of tunes. All of them were ones that Laura had
played for him over the past several months--ones that he had commented that he liked. He pulled
at his ear, trying to understand. Then he got it. “A recording studio? This is you playing?”
She nodded. “I had most of it done before I hurt my knee, and it was interesting finishing out the
last few songs. I had to schedule a few ‘extra’ appointments with the ‘physical therapist’ in the last
two weeks to get it completed. Murphy and Kate picked it up on Wednesday before they came
over.”
He sat cross-legged, holding the CD and staring dumbfounded at her. “You did this for me?”
“I did.”
“Laura, I--I’m touched.” He leaned across and pressed his lips to hers.
They spent the next hour setting up his new compact disc player in the living room. And then they
spent the rest of the night listening to the crisp, clear sounds soaring through the flat.
Wednesday, 3 December 1986 (Another day at the office before slipping out to the cinema)
“So, Chief, what’d you get for your birthday?”
“A compact disc player, a CD from my favorite artist, a Corvette, some pencils and a Slinky. Oh,
and a football.”
“Sounds like a perfectly good birthday to me.”
Remington put the toy Corvette on the shelf in his office where he could see it from his desk. The
Slinky and the pencils stayed in his top right drawer--ideal for doodling and thinking or just spending
a few minutes being the child he never was.
28 March 2009
Sunday, 2 November 1986 (A weekly conversation)
“How are the babies?”
“What happened to ‘How are you, Kate?' ”
“Because all you do is complain. I want to know how my nieces or nephews are coming along.”
“If they squabble as much after they are born as they seem to be doing now, I’m in a world of
trouble. Murphy had his hand on my belly last night, and one of them kicked so hard his hand slid
off.”
Laura had to laugh at that one. “You only have ten weeks to go.”
“Evil witch. When it’s your turn, you’ll understand that you’re not helping at all. I’m putting a lot
of trust in my doctor when she tells me that twins usually come early.”
“Early? Around Christmas?”
“Or New Year's Day.”
“What do you want to do about the holidays then?”
“I won’t be able to travel by Christmas, so everyone can come here if Remington promises to make
dinner.”
“I think it’s safe to say he’ll go for that. Mom has already asked him to do the turkey for
Thanksgiving, and I’ll bet he ends up cooking everything. Will you be able to come for that?”
“Probably. I’ll clear it with my doctor. I know Mom wants to host now that all her girls are
married. I think she wants to be the matriarch of the Holt clan for the day.”
“Do you think we’ll survive?”
“It’s three against one. We don’t have a chance.”
Sunday, 9 November 1986 (The knee)
“How are you doing, Laura?”
“I’ve had better days.”
“Remington called us Wednesday and told us what happened.”
“He’s been a godsend this week. Did he tell you I’m having surgery on Monday?”
“Not yet. He said your knee was pretty torn up.”
“Yeah. The doctor wanted to wait for some of the swelling to go down before he operated.”
“Are you okay with that?”
“Hey, I’m strung out on painkillers. Nothing bothers me at the moment.”
“How’s Remington doing with all this?”
“You know him. Any time there’s a disaster, he steps up to the plate. He didn’t panic, hasn’t
bitched about having to rearrange everyone’s duties at the office and doesn’t get annoyed at me
when I’m in a crappy mood--he just deals with it. I’m going to owe him half my soul by the time
this is over.”
“How’s the hovering?”
“Tolerable. Actually, I’d have been in a lot of trouble without him. It’s kind of nice knowing he’s
here.”
“Check your forehead; you might be running a fever. Laura? Letting someone else help her?”
“Hey, the nurses at the hospital don’t look anywhere nearly as good as he does. And he sounds
better too.”
Sunday, 16 November 1986 (Birthday plans)
“Hey, twin, how’s the gimpy knee?”
“I hate this, Kate.”
“Sure you do. What’s the doc say?”
“If I’m lucky, I’ll be on crutches by next week. Right now, I have to use a wheelchair. A
wheelchair! As if I’m a bloody invalid or something?”
“ ‘Bloody invalid’? You sound like Remington.”
“Don’t threaten me like that.”
“Pissy, aren’t we?”
Laura sighed. “I’m sorry. This is more annoying than I thought it would be. I’ve been so grouchy
this week that I’m surprised Remington hasn’t dropped me over the edge of the terrace. Can we
change the subject?”
“Sure. I can complain about being a million months pregnant or we can talk about Thanksgiving at
Mom’s house.”
“May I ask your advice on something else?”
“Sure.”
“Remington’s birthday is coming up. We’ve never celebrated it before, and I don’t know what to
do for him.”
“What do you mean you haven’t celebrated it before?”
“Until a few days before we got married, I never knew the date.”
“When is it?”
“December first.”
“Oh, yay! That means we can have a party for him at Thanksgiving! That will keep Mom from
driving me bonkers about the babies.”
“Uh … do you think that’s a good idea? I don’t know if he should be subjected to one of Mom’s
cakes.”
“Hey, we all survived and he’s part of the family. Even Murphy had to eat one this year.”
“True. If he complains, I’m sure Murphy will remind him.”
Sunday, 23 November 1986 (Tile floors)
“I’m going to kill Murphy.”
“What’d he do this time?”
“He’s decided that our bathroom and kitchen need new tile, and he has already ripped out half of it.”
“So what’s wrong with that?”
“Because I know damned well he’s going to get stuck on a case, and it will be Christmas and I won’
t have any floors. And the babies will be here after that, and according to Frances, we won’t get
anything done for a year.”
“Come on, Kate. Murphy’s good at finishing what he starts.”
“Sure he is, Laura, but you haven’t seen him when he gets that little home improvement gleam in
his eye. He starts playing with his toolbelt and firing up his toys in the garage.”
“Didn’t you say the nursery is beautiful?”
“It’s gorgeous. But it took him four solid months, and now he thinks he’s going to get the tile floors
done in three weeks?”
“Hmmm. Good luck with that. Don’t let him answer the office phone.”
“Yeah, right.”
“So when are you two coming?”
“Wednesday. You’re not changing your mind about letting us stay with you?”
“Not at all. Remington will probably be glad for the company. I haven’t been very sociable this
week.”
“Good. Mom and I would kill each other if I had to stay with her for four days.”
“I can’t wait to see you, Katy.”
“Me too, Laura.”
Thursday, 27 November 1986 (Thanksgiving Day)
Exasperated, Remington pointed to the door. “Out. All of you. If anyone who is or was ever
named “Holt” walks into this kitchen during the next half hour, she isn’t getting dinner.”
Four identical expressions of mutiny faced him--three with their arms crossed and one holding onto
her crutches--before they edged out one by one. Laura left last. “I can’t believe you are doing this
to me.”
“Laura, I’m cooking dinner for ten and I don’t even get to use my own kitchen.” He walked to her
and kissed her well enough to distract her from her pout. “I can’t play referee and do this too.
Sorry, love, you’re on your own for a bit.”
She gave him a shy half-smile. “Serves me right for getting used to your handling my mother.
You’re wonderful with her.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere right now, but everywhere later,” he retorted with a grin.
“Promise?”
“Always. Now go entertain your sister long enough for me to get things done around here.”
“Okay, Mom,” Laura shot back sarcastically as she hobbled out of the kitchen.
“Will you do me a favor?”
“Maybe.”
“Send Donald and Murphy in here.”
“No. You boys are not hiding out in here. But I’ll send Mindy and Danny in to help.”
Murphy strolled in anyway, having seen the gaggle of women spilling out. “Short help’s better than
no help.” He stepped out of Laura’s way as she left.
“What does that make you?”
“I don’t know. But I do know that you are making Donald and me look very bad at the moment.
Our wives are wondering why we can’t pull off Thanksgiving dinner like you.”
“Just a little hobby I picked up somewhere along the way.”
“Whatever. Do you need help?”
Remington eyed him for a minute. “How are you at sautéing sweet potatoes?”
“You’re kidding me, right? I was thinking more like setting the table or slicing bread.”
“Abigail has already set the table, so you can slice the bread and butter it.” He set a French loaf in
front of Murphy with a small bowl of honey butter he’d mixed up earlier. For a few minutes, only
the sounds of Remington putting the last touches on dinner could be heard as he dished up food and
added the final garnishes to his serving dishes.
“Steele, may I make an observation?” Murphy sounded quite serious.
“Ah, all right.”
“You make a better wife than Laura.” A dishtowel smacked him in the face.
The Holt-Piper-Steele-Michaels family crammed together at Abigail’s dining room table, and very
little conversation was heard while they collectively stuffed their faces with Remington’s creations.
When they were done, the sad turkey carcass was flanked by empty dishes with only the occasional
spoonful of food left inside. The children bolted outside to play on the swing set their grandma had
put in for them, leaving the adults to groan in misery.
Remington by virtue of being the chef, Laura on her crutches and Kate at nearly eight months
pregnant abstained from doing dishes and disappeared into the living room. Murphy, Frances and
Donald admirably managed cleanup while Abigail reset the table. In true Holt tradition, she retrieved
the balloons, candles and cake from the laundry room and placed them on it. Gifts brought in secret
and stashed there by the family were retrieved and piled in the center.
By the time the cleanup crew finished, Laura was asleep in her husband’s lap on the sofa and Kate
dozed in the chair beside them. Remington was trailing his hand through Laura’s hair and watching
Kate sleep. Several times during the day, he’d had to swallow hard at Kate’s round belly and to
lock away the desire to see Laura’s curve in the same fashion. Not yet, mate, he told himself.
We’ve still got quite a long way to go.
Murphy wandered in first and actually caught the naked longing in his brother-in-law’s eyes for a
split second before they changed to simple amusement at the water splashed over his shirt. For
once, he didn’t tease Steele. Instead, he gently roused Kate and pulled her to her feet while
Remington did the same for Laura.
Kate rubbed her face and eyed her sister. “I’m manufacturing a couple of million cells an hour.
What’s your excuse for sleeping in the middle of the afternoon?”
“Tryptophan poisoning,” Laura retorted to Remington’s chuckle.
Abigail sashayed into the living room. “All right, dears, I think we’re ready. Donald, will you get
the children? We’ll have dessert in the dining room.” Six groans immediately sounded out in
chorus, punctuated by three shrieks of delight from the kids dashing through the house.
“Cake! Ice Cream! Grandma? Grandma? Whose birthday is it?” The last was from Laurie Beth.
Everyone else crowded around the table again. The Steeles had just stepped inside when Abigail
said, “Why, it’s Remington’s, of course! Well, not today exactly, but on Tuesday; it’s so close
we’ll celebrate today, Laurie Beth.”
Steele immediately flashed a wide grin and sat on the chair Abigail indicated at the head of the table.
Only Laura noted his shoulders were suddenly tense. After a rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday,”
nine sets of eyes watched him take a bite of cake--one with happy anticipation and eight others with
barely concealed amusement.
But he ate it without flinching, forcing the others to do the same although even the kids knew to
soak the cake in melted ice cream first. Afterward, the presents were piled in front of him, and
Laurie Beth insisted on sitting in his lap to help him open them.
Laura could see the slightest tremble in his hands as he reached for the gift the little girl passed to
him.
“This one’s from us, Unca Remy--me, Danny and Mindy. Open it first,” she insisted.
“Why, thank you, Miss Piper.” She giggled and laid her head against his shoulder as she watched
him open the box. Inside was a collection of trinkets the children had picked out for him: a Slinky
from Laurie Beth, a box of colored pencils from Mindy and a model car kit from Danny. The little
girl carefully explained. “You like old cars, so Danny picked that. Auntie Laura says you draw
really nice, so Mindy got pencils, and I think everyone should have a Slinky. They’re really cool.”
Remington had to fight hard to keep his composure and thank the children. He started to pull the
Slinky out of the box, but Laurie Beth stopped him. “No, Unca Remy. You have to open
everything and thank everybody before you can play with your toys,” she said seriously.
He gave her shoulders a squeeze, and she handed him another box out of the little pile on the table.
“Of course, Miss Piper. We must do it properly.”
A few minutes later, Remington had a stack of gifts he’d unwrapped. Abigail gave him two shirts
and a tie. Kate found for him a VHS tape of Shadow of a Doubt (Teresa Wright, Joseph Cotten,
Universal, 1943). Murphy gave him a football and laughed at Steele’s horrified expression. Donald
and Frances gifted him with a crepe pan from Williams-Sonoma, a copy of The Joy of Cooking and
a request that he assume responsibility for the turkey at Thanksgiving every year.
Overwhelmed by it all, he hugged Laurie Beth again and asked permission to open his Slinky.
“Okay, Unca Remy. I’ll show you how it works. We have to go use the stairs on the porch.” All
three kids led him outside and spent the next half hour instructing him on the intricacies of getting a
Slinky to “walk” down the stairs.
Kate sidled up to Laura. “Not bad, Lunatic. He didn’t even flinch at Mom’s cake.”
“No, he wouldn’t. Especially since this was his first birthday party … with the family,” she added
to cover her slip.
“What did you decide to do for him?”
The edge of Laura’s mouth turned up. “I have a few surprises in store for Tuesday.”
That evening at Abigail’s, the family told funny stories on each other in the living room. Murphy
and Laura played card games with Danny and Laurie Beth on the floor while Remington sat with
Mindy on the sofa and drew pictures with her. He showed her how to create simple shadows and
highlights with the pencils and sketched a quick picture of her that he tore out and handed to her
with a kiss to her forehead.
Afterward, he and Danny spread the model car kit across the newspaper-covered dining room table.
It wasn’t long before Donald and Murphy sat down to help assemble and glue the little Corvette
together. It was nearly midnight when they finished, and Donald had to shake his son awake to see
the finished model before towing him out to the real car to go home. Frances nudged Mindy along
and Remington carried a sleeping Laurie Beth. She woke long enough while he fastened her seat
belt to mumble, “Happy Birthday, Unca Remy.”
“Thank you, Miss Piper. It’s been a lovely day.”
“You talk funny. But I like it.”
He ruffled the hair on her head. “I’m glad you do, sweetheart. Now go back to sleep for the drive
home.”
After Murphy and Kate turned in for the night at the penthouse, Remington sat cross-legged on the
bed and played with his Slinky. Laura could see that he was lost in thought. She sat next to him
and brushed his lock of hair out of his eyes. “Remington?”
“Hmm?” He was bemused by the toy.
“Sorry about Mom’s cake. Even Murphy got initiated with it this year.”
“Well, that’s something. I can’t complain though. It was my first real birthday cake and it was
definitely … memorable.”
“Daniel never did anything for you?”
“No. Oh, at some point in the year, he would take me somewhere and call it my birthday, but it
was never the same day or even the same month. Somewhere along the way, I just added a year to
my age in January.” He sprawled backwards on the bed and propped up on his elbow. “It’s been a
little disconcerting to know I’m nearly a full year younger than I’ve touted for most of my
adult life. I’m only now turning thirty-four.”
“Only three years older than I. That’s an interesting perspective.”
“How so?”
“That you’ve done so much more than I’ve even contemplated.”
“High school, college, an apprenticeship, and starting not one, but two agencies isn’t enough?”
“But it’s mostly been right here in Los Angeles. You’ve seen the world.”
“Laura, if you really want to see it, I’ll take you to the better parts of it. I wouldn’t wish some of
the places I’ve been on anyone.” Remington rolled off the bed, set the Slinky on the dresser and
pulled back the covers. “Come, love; this is getting a bit too philosophical for two in the morning.”
She eased under the covers and settled into his embrace, resting her head in the hollow of his
shoulder. He brought his arm around her slim waist. Closing his eyes, he decided that this had been
one of the better days of his existence.
Friday, 28 November 1986 (An interlude with Murphy)
Murphy spent part of the afternoon teaching Remington to throw a football in between games on the
television. They’d left the twins propped up on the sofa and headed for a narrow park behind the
apartment building.
“Why are we doing this?” Steele attempted to launch the ball in a poor imitation of Murphy’s
demonstration and succeeded in bouncing it off a nearby tree.
“Because you’re an American citizen now, and you can’t be a man in America and not get football.”
“Can’t I scream at the telly a bit and mutter obscenities under my breath like you and call it a day?”
“You could, if you had any idea what you were screaming and muttering about. The way you do it,
you change sides like a four-year-old.”
“Bugger off.”
“Sure. Look--” He walked the ball to Steele. “Choke up and put your fingers on the laces. Even
Frances throws better than you do, and you're the one with the magic fingers.”
Annoyed, Remington bit off a curse of frustration. He looked at the ball again and tossed it to
Murphy. “Let me see you throw it. I’ll go chase the damned thing down, but let me see you do it
instead of watching it come after me like a bullet.”
Murphy gave him an odd look and launched the ball into the air. When it landed, Steele jogged over
to it, set his fingers to the laces and threw it in a wobbly spiral to his brother-in-law who caught it
neatly with a whoop. He zinged it hard back to Remington who ducked and let it fly over his head.
“Damn it, Michaels, I am not your bloody target!”
Murphy doubled over with laughter and had his hands on his knees while he gasped for breath.
Irritated to no end, Steele lifted the ball and set his fingers on the laces again. This time he zipped it
across the lawn, and Murphy barely got his hands up in time to catch it and fall over backward, still
chuckling.
“All right, all right, that last one was uncalled for, but you look so good when you duck!” He
sobered up somewhat, but a grin still played around on his face. “Look. Okay, I think you’re
getting the throwing part down. To catch the football, you’ve got to hold your ground and put both
your hands up. No flinching.”
Steele raised an eyebrow. “Michaels, my whole bloody life--if anything comes at me--my job has
been to get out of the way.”
“Yeah, well, now you’re about to learn something new. Come on; I’ll give you an easy lob and we’
ll work up to a decent pass.”
At the end of another hour, Steele was catching the balls a healthy percentage of the time and getting
them back to Murphy. When they were covered in sweat and called it quits, they grinned at each
other.
“Well, Steele, there’s hope for you yet.”
“Next time we’ll go to the boxing ring, Michaels, and we’ll see who ducks.”
“Now, that has some real possibilities.”
Tuesday, 2 December 1986 (Happy Birthday, Mr. Steele!)
Remington’s hopes for sleeping late and taking in an afternoon movie crumbled when Ian called mid-
morning.
“Mr. Steele, my apologies, sir, but Mildred is going home to deal with a water leak at her house.
Her neighbor called just a few minutes ago. Mrs. Steele is out with Kaleb, and someone needs to
meet with Mr. O’Dell about the skip-trace we’ve been working for him. He’s due in court first
thing in the morning and needs an update. Mildred left all the data here.”
Heaving a reluctant sigh, Remington asked, “What time is the appointment?”
“Two-thirty, sir.”
“I’ll be there.” What happened to being irresponsible?
“Thank you, sir. And my apologies again for disturbing you on your birthday.”
He arrived at the office with a few minutes to spare and took the time to familiarize himself with the
data. O’Dell was nice enough, just long-winded, probably an excellent characteristic for an
attorney. Mildred returned to the office just as he was finishing up at four and managed to occupy
him with other questions until nearly five, ensuring that he was caught in afternoon traffic all the
way home.
Whatever irritation he had about the afternoon’s interruptions evaporated when he pushed open the
foyer door. Laura was meticulously putting the final touches on dinner, and rich aromas wafted
through the flat.
“Good Lord, Laura, you’ve been cooking!” Suddenly, he grinned. “So that’s the reason behind
Mildred’s little emergency. Cleverly done, love.”
Laura gave him a wry smile. “I think I remember your saying something about its being difficult to
surprise someone when you live with him. I promise we’ll go to the cinema tomorrow to make up
for today.” Anxiously, she wiped her hands on her apron and shifted on her crutches. “You have a
few minutes if you want to change clothes.”
Taking the hint, he shrugged off his jacket and carried it in one hand. “I’ll do that. But I want this
first.” He indulged in a long kiss with her, and ironically, it settled her nervous tension, and she felt
her shoulders relax a fraction.
While he was changing, Laura poured wine, retrieved the salad from the refrigerator and placed the
warm bread on the counter. As he crossed the living room, she plated the fettuccine as she’d seen
him do dozens of times and set it on the island. “Putting everything on the dining room table was a
little beyond what I could do with crutches, so I hope the kitchen is okay for tonight.”
“Laura, this looks wonderful.” She’d placed candles all around and had soft music playing in the
background. He assisted her onto the bar stool before taking his own.
“I wanted to do something special for you on your birthday.” She apprehensively watched him take
a bite of his pasta. Fettuccine Alfredo was one of his favorite dishes, and she’d had Frances on the
phone the whole time she made the sauce. She thought it tasted okay, but. …
Remington closed his eyes to savor the flavor. “You made this--it’s not from a jar.”
“No. It’s not.”
“Laura, I think I’m putting you on kitchen duty at least once a week from now on.”
Relieved, the tension left her shoulders and she laughed. “You might not want to count on it, but it
is a testament to your teaching abilities and Frances’ patience that I made that.”
“Thank you, Laura. It’s good. Better than good.” He took her hand and kissed it. “No one has
ever made me dinner for my birthday.”
After dinner was cleared, Laura admitted that baking a cake was beyond her abilities and brought
out a delicate confection from Che’ Rive. “Anything I make might rival Mother’s, so I picked this
up this afternoon,” she told him.
They settled in front of the fire afterward and Laura brought out a large bag abundantly filled with
gifts, all of which were beautifully wrapped with Remington’s name on the tags. He was a little
astounded by the size of the stack, but it took him only seconds to realize what she’d done.
“Thirty-four? Isn’t that a bit excessive?”
“Probably.” She handed him a package. “Start with this one. Don’t worry; I cheated a little bit.”
He grinned when he saw what she’d done. The first nine gifts proved to be a professional set of
cutlery from Germany, rounding out Remington’s collection of kitchen knives.
“Ah, trying to make sure I do the cooking for a while yet.”
“Of course. A woman has to know what her talents are. One of mine is making sure the chef is
happy.”
The next eight were season tickets to the Pantages Theater for the upcoming run of Broadway
shows. Additional packages revealed a set of drawing pencils and paper, a small box of oil pastels
that he’d mentioned wanting to try and a wooden art box in which to keep everything. Gifts twenty-
two and twenty-three were a pair of cufflinks, twenty-four was a black sweater with thin blue
stripes, and twenty-five stumped him completely.
“Socks?”
Laura laughed at his expression of disbelief. “Everyone gets at least one gift that makes him wonder
what the other person was thinking. I’m making sure you get one.”
“Actually, I think Murphy covered it with that football. Be sure to tell him I said that.”
“I will. And I’ll need your help for the next one. It’s in the spare bedroom behind the bed.”
Remington found the large wrapped box and carried it to their place in front of the fire. “A compact
disc player? Laura--“
“You’ll need these as well.” Gifts twenty-seven through thirty-three proved to be CD versions of
his favorite music.
Lastly, Laura handed him a small box. He unwrapped it and stared at the disc inside. It was in a
simple clear case, and the cover had “Happy Birthday, Remington” written on it. “What is this?”
“I found a recording studio.” She hesitated. “And I made a CD of music for you.”
Remington turned the case over and read the listing of tunes. All of them were ones that Laura had
played for him over the past several months--ones that he had commented that he liked. He pulled
at his ear, trying to understand. Then he got it. “A recording studio? This is you playing?”
She nodded. “I had most of it done before I hurt my knee, and it was interesting finishing out the
last few songs. I had to schedule a few ‘extra’ appointments with the ‘physical therapist’ in the last
two weeks to get it completed. Murphy and Kate picked it up on Wednesday before they came
over.”
He sat cross-legged, holding the CD and staring dumbfounded at her. “You did this for me?”
“I did.”
“Laura, I--I’m touched.” He leaned across and pressed his lips to hers.
They spent the next hour setting up his new compact disc player in the living room. And then they
spent the rest of the night listening to the crisp, clear sounds soaring through the flat.
Wednesday, 3 December 1986 (Another day at the office before slipping out to the cinema)
“So, Chief, what’d you get for your birthday?”
“A compact disc player, a CD from my favorite artist, a Corvette, some pencils and a Slinky. Oh,
and a football.”
“Sounds like a perfectly good birthday to me.”
Remington put the toy Corvette on the shelf in his office where he could see it from his desk. The
Slinky and the pencils stayed in his top right drawer--ideal for doodling and thinking or just spending
a few minutes being the child he never was.
28 March 2009
Steele Holting On
Steele Holting On
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