by Ann B. Ross
“Perfect. Janelle’s a nice girl with a level head. I’ll recommend her. I’m glad that’s settled.” I turned to leave the kitchen, then stopped. “In fact, everything’s settled except inviting the guests. I guess I’d better do that before we get too far along.”
“Yes’m, I guess you better.”
* * *
—
I already knew who, besides the Crawfords, I was going to invite—the youngest couples I knew, Hazel Marie and J. D. Pickens, for one, and Binkie and Coleman Bates, for the other. Neither couple was what you’d call young—after all, age depended on one’s perspective—but both had young children, as did the guests of honor, so an appropriate subject for conversation was at hand.
I had briefly thought of expanding my guest list, but quickly discarded that idea. The new couple could be easily overwhelmed with too many names and faces to remember, and a large group prohibited any kind of meaningful conversation. Much better to have a more manageable guest list, not least because I would have a chance to take the measure of the physician I might have to rely on if circumstances of dire need should arise. It behooves us all to prepare for the worst.
I knew what to look for in the new doctor. I wanted to see a friendly and outgoing—but not too outgoing—personality. No joking, loud laughter, or hyperactivity for me. I like a doctor who is all business with the exception of greeting me politely and with obvious interest in my welfare.
I wanted to see a neat, well-dressed—but not too expensively dressed—professional. I well recalled having been sent by Dr. Hargrove for a bone density test, merely as a preventive measure, and being seen by a doctor whose belt flap hung loose, and, furthermore, his pants had not been properly hemmed. They had been so long that the cuffs were frayed from dragging along the floor as he walked. All I could think of at the time was if he couldn’t be bothered to thread a belt through the loops, what else would he be careless about. What, I wondered, did such a slapdash approach to his appearance say about his interest in caring for a patient? A lot, I concluded, and decided to go elsewhere if my test indicated a need for treatment. It didn’t, thank goodness.
I also wanted to see, or perhaps feel, from the new doctor an air of competence. I wanted to see someone who was comfortable with himself and his knowledge, cool in emergencies, and sure of himself, but without any hint of arrogance.
A lot to ask? I didn’t think so. To my mind, what I was looking for was entirely reasonable to expect of a physician. Actually, when you come right down to it, these matters were entirely reasonable to expect of any professional—be he, or she, lawyer, accountant, insurance agent, or whatever.
* * *
—
Sue Hargrove’s phone rang so many times that I was on the verge of hanging up when a soft voice tentatively asked, “Hello?”
“Mrs. Crawford?”
“Yes?”
Deciding that enough questions had been asked, I firmly said, “This is Julia Murdoch. I am a friend of Sue Hargrove, and her husband, as well. We are so glad to have you in town, and I was wondering if you and Dr. Crawford would have dinner with us Thursday evening.”
“Oh, well, I don’t know.” She paused, and just as I was about to fill the silence, she went on. “I’ll have to see what Don thinks. He might have plans. But you’re very kind to ask us. May I call you back?”
“Oh, yes, please do.” I gave her my phone number, then the information she would need in relaying the request to her husband. “Come about six o’clock, if you will. And I understand that you will need a babysitter. You couldn’t do better than Janelle Maybin.”
I gave her that number as well, but before I could go on Lauren Crawford said, “Well, I don’t know. Don doesn’t like leaving the children with strangers. I’ll have to ask him.”
I hardly knew how to reply to that, but finally said, “Please tell him that Sam and I are eager to meet you both and to introduce you to two couples who could make your stay in Abbotsville most pleasant. They, too, have small children and will be getting babysitters. You’re fortunate that Janelle will be available.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll tell him.”
“And,” I went on more urgently, “let me know as soon as you can.” I wanted her to know that I couldn’t wait until Thursday afternoon to invite the other guests.
“Yes, ma’am, I will. Thank you so much.”
Thanking her in turn, I hung up. Then, shrugging my shoulders at the lukewarm response to an invitation, I chalked it up to being a young wife overwhelmed with two small children, a move to a strange place, and perhaps to having been poorly raised.
“Poor raising” was a catchall category in which we placed anyone who seemed out of step with the way we did things—specifically social things—in Abbotsville. They were subsequently judged on how quickly and eagerly they caught on and began to fit in. After that phone call, I had my doubts about Lauren Crawford’s agility.
Chapter 7
*
Still feeling slightly discomposed by Mrs. Crawford’s tepid response to my phone call, I found myself going over and over it for the next hour or so. I kept thinking of what I would say if I could take her in hand and instruct her in the niceties of social matters—for her own good, of course. And for her husband’s as well, since the wife of a professional man can at times mean the difference between success and failure. Here is what I would tell her:
No matter how difficult your day has been, when someone calls to extend an invitation, your response is always given with great warmth and appreciation. You must sound delighted, even if you’re not. By the choice of your words and the tone of your voice, you let the caller know that her invitation has brightened your day even if you would never in a million years accept whatever it is that she’s offering. That’s only good manners. After all, she didn’t have to ask you in the first place, and you should acknowledge your awareness of that.
But you do not hem and haw, and say that you have to ask your husband. That makes you sound like a child instead of a grown woman with a mind of her own. It is permissible, however, to say that you have to check with him to be sure he hasn’t made plans of which he has yet to tell you. But you do not give the impression that you would much rather the caller had never thought of you at all.
Take Hazel Marie and Binkie as examples. They were both thrilled to be invited to my house for dinner—at least they made me think they were. But even if they had not been actually thrilled—I mean, really, how could they be when dining in my home wasn’t exactly a rarity—neither of them had let me know it. They immediately accepted the invitation, thanked me for it, and left me feeling that I had done them a great and unexpected favor by including them.
To sum up, in a well-run household, it is the wife who oversees and directs the social life of the couple—Amy Vanderbilt said so, as had Emily Post before her. The wife doesn’t have to ask permission to arrange an evening with friends—she will already know her husband’s likes and dislikes, and will be ready with a polite and believable excuse if one is needed. Therefore, when she accepts an invitation, she tells her husband what they will be doing on a certain evening at a particular time, as well as what he should wear, and he, in turn, acquiesces with no more than a minimum of protest.
That was it. That’s what I would tell her if she asked my advice—an unlikely occurence, I acknowledged with a sigh. And even more unlikely, since it was the good doctor himself who returned my call and accepted my invitation to dinner.
Ah, well, maybe the new doctor’s wife was younger than I’d thought. Maybe she was tired of meeting new people every few months, knowing that no long-term friendships would ensue. Maybe she’d had enough of her husband’s wanderlust and expressed it in the passive-aggessive manner I’d detected in her responses. And maybe I’d just caught her at a bad time, and she would prove to be a delightful young woman who would add zest to my circle of friends. And, final
ly, maybe I didn’t know what I was talking about and was reading too much into a simple telephone conversation.
Actually, as I thought of all my good advice going to waste, I recalled that I had once had an apt pupil who’d taken whatever I’d said to heart and was now a prize graduate. Hazel Marie had come to me as a pitiful example of a young woman who’d never had any training in—nor even an introduction to—gracious living. Why, she hadn’t even known the difference between a tea and a coffee, much less the need to reciprocate after accepting an invitation. And, my stars, her clothes and makeup! Not enough of one and too much of the other. But she had listened to what I said and watched what I did, and turned herself into a lovely young woman with excellent manners and an air of refinement. Then when she married Mr. Pickens and I’d thought all my tutoring had been for naught, she had been able to soothe even that savage beast. Filled with confidence by that time and in her own sweet way, she had turned him into the semblance of a gentleman—rough around the edges though he continued to be.
* * *
—
Lillian and I were so accustomed to having guests for dinner that we could probably do it blindfolded, as the saying goes. Although why anyone would want to do it that way, I don’t know. While she prepared the food, I set the dining-room table, using my second best china—the Spode, not the Haviland, since this was to be a casual, friendly affair. Also for that reason, the two five-armed candelabra stayed in their usual places on the sideboard while a low arrangement of florist flowers was centered on the table with two single candlesticks spaced on each side.
Binkie and Coleman were the first to arrive on that cold, blustery evening, and I marveled again at the change in Binkie. In her office she was strictly business, but in a social setting, she was as bright and talkative as she could be. She was always a happy addition to any gathering, laughing and mixing easily, as Coleman watched her with indulgent admiration.
Hazel Marie and Mr. Pickens came in along with a gust of wind, which sent him straight to the fireplace, while Hazel Marie asked, as she always did, if she could help.
After shaking hands with the men, then hanging coats and scarves in the hall closet, Sam saw that everyone was seated in the living room, where the conversation, sparked by Binkie, was already lively. Mr. Pickens was his usual impudent self, whispering to me that I looked lovely by candlelight—a remark that needed no response other than a roll of my eyes.
When six-twenty had come and gone with no word from the Crawfords, I signaled to Lillian to serve the hors d’oeuvres—hot olive cheese puffs—and punch in small stemmed glasses. My friends had long before given up expecting anything livelier in my home, although I was beginning to question what harm there would’ve been to serve the occasional spirited drink, especially on a wintry evening. But not this evening, and not to a doctor on perpetual call.
Having planned a heavy meal, I had deliberately gone light with the predinner snacks—to my regret, for I distinctly heard Mr. Pickens’s stomach grumble at the slim pickings. But what could I do? The guests of honor were missing, inexcusably late without the courtesy of a phone call.
Sam, however, came to the rescue. Standing, he said with an easy smile, “Julia, I think we should feed these hungry people and save some for the Crawfords. He’s undoubtedly been held up by an emergency. That’s what you get, folks, when you invite a busy doctor to dinner. Let’s adjourn to the table.”
That was all well and good, I thought as we took our places at the table, but what was holding up Lauren Crawford? I couldn’t count the number of times that Sue Hargrove had come alone to everything from a formal dinner party to the cotillion’s annual dance at the country club. A doctor’s wife either learns to go it alone or resigns herself to a limited social life.
Just as we were all seated, the doorbell rang. Sam sprang to his feet as Lillian, bearing a platter of sliced roast beef, appeared from the kitchen. He hurried to the door, and she backed out of the dining room. We were going to have either a cold entrée or a reheated one.
Excusing myself, I hied to the living room to greet the latecomers, herding them quickly toward the table, as Sam took their coats. Dr. Crawford made a few easy apologies, saying simply that he’d been unavoidably detained and left it at that.
After making introductions, I directed the guests of honor to their places—Lauren Crawford on Sam’s right and Dr. Don Crawford on my right. Spreading my napkin in my lap, I nodded to Lillian as she peeped around the swinging door of the kitchen, and the dinner began.
While Lillian served the various dishes, I was eager to put Dr. Crawford at ease. “We are so glad to have you in town, Dr. Crawford—”
“Don, please,” he said easily.
I smiled at the expected correction. “Thank you, Don. We hope you’ll enjoy your stay in Abbotsville. We don’t have big city amenities, but I think you’ll find the town has its compensations.”
Binkie, seated on my left, laughed as she added, “Golf, and golf, and a little more golf. That’s about all the compensations we have, unless you’re a hunter, in which case you have to wait for the right seasons.”
Mr. Pickens, down on Sam’s left, immediately picked up on Binkie’s idea of local amenities. “I beg to differ, Ms. Enloe-Bates,” he said with a teasing smile. “Why, we have empty streets that’re perfect for runners, and we have a miniature golf course for beginners, and don’t forget the shuffleboard court. And there’s high school football, basketball, and volleyball if you’re into spectator sports. And, oh, yes, we have fairly good television reception for three stations, but if you want more than that, you have to get cable.”
“Oh, J.D.,” Hazel Marie said, “it’s not that bad. You’ll make them think we live in the sticks. And, really, Lauren,” she said, turning to Mrs. Crawford, “there’s so much to do here, you’ll have to keep a schedule. There’s the book club and the garden club, circle meetings, Women of the Church meetings and their projects, and I’m sure the medical wives have a club as well.”
The bantering went on like that for several minutes, but as I kept an eye on the table, I’d noticed a brief look of dismay cross Lauren’s face as Hazel Marie had listed the numerous activities in town. And as I did, I couldn’t help but note the stark contrast between Mrs. and Dr. Crawford. He was a nice-looking, almost handsome man, with dark hair and startlingly blue eyes. He had a compact build with a strong-looking upper body of average height. She, on the other hand, was a Nordic blonde, so blond in fact, that another shade or two lighter would’ve qualified her as an albino. She wore her hair slicked back and gathered with a narrow black velvet ribbon. Even her eyelashes and brows were blond, with no effort having been made to darken them. Her complexion, too, was so fair and untouched with cosmetics that I knew Hazel Marie would love to get her hands on her. Her only touch of color came when Sam or anyone else directed a question or comment to her. Then her face flushed and she answered without looking away from her plate. Lauren Crawford was a slight young woman who would’ve been better served dressed in something other than a gray sweater-dress that was so roomy she could’ve turned around in it without creating a ripple.
While absorbed in my critical, but concerned, assessment of the doctor’s wife, the conversation had gone on around me. As I tuned back in, I heard the word surfing, but declined to comment because I wasn’t sure if they were talking of surfing the waves or the Web.
Since neither was of interest to me, my attention returned to that colorless young woman who certainly needed a helping hand—preferably one holding at least a lipstick. Maybe, I thought, when she notices how attractive Hazel Marie and Binkie are, she’ll take the hint.
Her husband, however, elicited no censure from me. He was neatly dressed in a white shirt, subdued tie, and a long-sleeved blue sweater—perfect for a casual dinner on a bitter night. As, indeed, were the outfits of both Coleman and Mr. Pickens, although their sweaters were of different colors. Don
Crawford fit right in, both dressing and conducting himself as if he’d been brought up in Abbotsville.
His wife was another matter entirely, and I recalled that handsome men often seemed to choose unattractive wives. Not always, of course, as assuredly Coleman and Mr. Pickens had not, but it happened often enough to be noticed.
Giving Lillian a signal to pick up the plates to clear the table for dessert, I recalled that it was far more common that beautiful women chose unattractive husbands. But in many of those cases, wealth went a long way toward improving a man’s looks.
After dinner, we regathered in the living room, where Sam stoked the fire and made sure that everyone was comfortably seated. The conversation continued with Coleman’s telling of serving a warrant on a wanted man who had been found hiding in a clothes dryer, and Mr. Pickens telling how Ronnie waited patiently by the door on the days that the little twin girls were in preschool. Several others joined in to tell the Crawfords about Ronnie, the Great Dane, who was boarding with the Pickens family until his owner, Thurlow Jones, regained his health. Then, of course, we had to tell some stories about Thurlow, the town’s most outrageous citizen.
It was only awhile before I noticed that Lauren Crawford had had little, if anything, to add to the conversation, although her husband’s open interest encouraged the telling of more stories of local lore. Sam, too, had noticed her nonparticipation, for, seated next to her, he tried to draw her out or at least to include her. She responded in monosyllables or with a smile, a nod, or a glance at her husband.
Hazel Marie had noticed as well, for she moved across the room to a chair next to Lauren and began asking about her children. Hazel Marie did this in an intimate manner so that the two of them were not the center of attention. Lauren seemed to respond warmly, although I could not hear what was said.