Perfectly Correct

"What a beautiful day!" I said to Ms. Wonder who waded knee-deep in suitcases and socks, like a goddess of the sea cavorting on the rocky shore. "Packing?" I asked as if the ritual was unfamiliar to me. 

"Un-packing," she said for we keep no secrets between us. And it was at that moment that the dirty work of yesterday raised its ugly head and smirked at the false joy that had greeted me when I woke. 

Every year, starting about the middle of October, there is a good deal of anxiety and apprehension among owners of the better-class country houses throughout coastal Carolina waiting to hear which one will get the Genome’s patronage for the holidays.

This year we had decided early, and a sigh of relief went up from a dozen stately homes, all listed on the Historic Register, as it became known that the short straw had been drawn by the Garden Inn outside Savannah.  

And yet, scarcely 10 hours earlier, this daughter of the Russian steppes and I sat at William's Gourmet Kitchen—"It’s not fast food; it’s awesome food fast" —and we agreed that the outing was off.

Once again, Shakespeare has put the finger on the nub when he said, it's when you're feeling really good about the way things are going that Fate sneaks up behind you with a blunt instrument. Not a direct quote but it conveys the sentiment nicely. 

As if waking from a dreamless sleep, I gradually became aware that Ms. Wonder was looking at me as though waiting for an answer. 

"Hmm?" I said. 

"Did I hear you say something about the Orlovs?" she said. 

"Did I say that out loud?" I asked. She nodded. 

"I was thinking about how Count Orlov must have felt," I said, "after Katherine the Great told him she never wanted to see him again in this world or the next, and then opening the cupboards, found there was no more vodka." 

A deep silence ruled the next several moments after my crack about the Count. Then Ms. Wonder spoke. "Are you going to stand there all morning?" 

"There are times, Poopsie," I said, with a small tremble in the voice, "when one asks oneself if there is any point in making an effort." 

"The mood will pass," she said and I had to admit that she was probably right. 

I nodded in response but it had no chirpiness to it. It was the nod that Napoleon might have given in the Paris coffee shop on a morning in 1812 when someone said, Back from Moscow so soon?

"You know how it is," I said, "I'm in agreement with the general principle but I seem to be in neutral gear and having a little difficulty following through.

"I understand," she said, "it was much the same with Hamlet."

I nodded.

"Don't be a victim," she said. "We may not be able to visit Savannah, but we can still enjoy the holiday lights in Airlie Gardens. We can use the time to refresh, rebuild, and reinvigorate."

"You wrap the whole thing up very neatly," I said. "It almost sounds like fun."

"Good," she said.

"I suppose you know, you've wiped away my disappointment," I said. "I feel positively bucked! Thank you." 

"Not at all," she said. "You see, no matter what the Fate sisters have in store for you, there's no need to let them steal your joy."

And I had to admit that, once again, she was perfectly correct.