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close for several moments, and when at last they open again, she mutters, “Come in.”
    Fifteen minutes later we’re sitting in front of the fireplace, warming ourselves, sipping freshly brewed coffee.
    Maggie, trying to convince us she’s finally awake, talks incessantly. “There was no problem waiting. Douglas and I figured between you two driving up together, so much could go wrong, we hadn’t planned to start worrying until next Tuesday. So I curled up by the fireplace while Douglas, the insensitive monster, went to bed.”
    “I am not an insensitive monster!” says a voice behind us. “I am a pussycat!”
    We all turn to find Douglas, standing at the foot of the staircase, bathrobed and indignant.
    “Ugh!” says Maggie. “Look who’s up: Grumpy!”
    Chris and I greet Douglas, who grunts hello to us and then mumbles something nasty about the lousy sleep he’s had, the racket we were making which woke him, the house being too cold, his displeasure at seeing the dogs again and why isn’t there a cup of coffee for him?
    “Yes, Sahib,” says Maggie, groveling into the kitchen.
    Douglas walks over to the floor-length glass door leading to his snow-covered terrace and watches the flurries falling over the freshly whitened fields that is his spectacular front yard.
    “Would you just look at this shitty weather?” he growls.
    “Snow is shitty weather?!” barks Maggie back at him, from the kitchen. “On Thanksgiving —in the country, in a ski town, no less, you provincial putz!”
    “Don’t try to cheer me up.”
    Maggie returns to the living room with Doug’s coffee. She hands it to him, and he complains it’s not hot enough.
    “Fine. You want it hotter; heat it up.”
    “I remember when you were sweet and innocent.”
    “How dare you! I was never sweet and innocent!”
    Douglas switches hostile attentions from his wife to us. “And you two certainly took your fat time getting here. What the hell happened?”
    “It’s a long story.”
    “Forget it then. Long stories bore me. In fact, this whole day bores me. Fuck everybody; I’m going back to bed. Wake me when the turkey’s ready.” Douglas puts his coffee down, reiterating it’s not hot enough, then turns and walks back upstairs.
    “You know, sleep doesn’t sound like such a bad idea,” I submit.
    “Well, I’m not at all tired,” says a spritely Chris, who has now been up for twenty-four hours. “You go to bed. I’ll stayand gossip with Maggie, and we’ll stuff the turkey and have a good time without you, quitter.”
    “Take the big guest room at the top of the stairs, Steve,” shouts Maggie. “And try not to wake the ogre. If he doesn’t have his solid fifteen hours, he’s impossible.” “Right.”
    I get a solid six hours myself, waking in the early afternoon to good old-fashioned country-holiday smells: freshly crushed cranberries, pumpkin pie, sweet potato pudding.
    Throwing on a pair of slacks and a sweater and going downstairs, I arrive just as the turkey is being carried out of the oven. Most of the dinner guests have arrived by now.
    Five of them are new friends of Maggie and Douglas’ whom I meet for the first time. The other three are old skiing companions.
    Chris, sitting near the fireplace, talking to some fellow in a multi-competition-striped ski sweater, spots me and rushes over.
    “Isn’t he fabulous ?” she whispers enthusiastically, planting a short kiss on my cheek.
    “Who?” I whisper back, obtuse thing that I am.
    “Who?” Chris raises her voice before returning to gentle whisper. “The one with the stripes. He’s on the U.S. Ski team . . . second string. Douglas says he’s got the strongest thighs in the East!”
    “Could’ve fooled me.”
    “If I work on him through hors d’oeuvres, he’ll be mine before pumpkin pie.”
    “Good luck.”
    “Don’t you just worship outdoorsy types?”
    “Can’t get my fill.”
    “Oh, Steve,” Chris bubbles, kissing me again, “I’m so glad we came.