“Yours are just as good,” Bernie told her.
“Not quite,” Libby said as she followed Bernie back out onto the set. Hortense’s had more texture to them. Libby was wondering what kind of pastry tube Hortense had used to get that pebbled effect when she realized that Bernie was talking.
“You know,” she was saying, “Hortense may be the ultimate bitch but you have to hand it to her in the interior design department. Although I like what you did better.”
Libby smiled. “Me, too.”
But what Hortense had done wasn’t bad at all. She’d just gone in a different direction. And it had taken her a lot less time to execute, something Libby reminded herself she should bear in mind for next year. The mini Christmas tree on the end of the counter was decorated with homemade cookies that Hortense had baked, painted with gold leaf, and shellacked on her last show. The bows that were knotted around the garlands of greenery were made out of a cream-colored organza that had been shot through with gold thread.
In addition, Hortense had taken light green glass bowls and filled them with smooth river stones, into which she’d embedded groups of ivory tapers. She’d put those on the window sills. A huge poinsettia that Hortense had placed in a basket, woven in Africa out of reeds, sat on the kitchen table, while a lavender plant sat off to one side of the sink. The effect was both elegant and homey at the same time.
Libby sighed as she looked around. There was no denying that Hortense was a genius at what she did: she excelled at taking simple household objects and giving them a new look. Although drying cattails, spraying them gold, and making them into Christmas wreaths was going a little too far in her opinion. She was just thinking that the shredded-wheat wreath wasn’t a particularly good idea either when she heard a noise.
“What was that?”
Bernie shook her head.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“I did. It’s coming from behind the door on the left.”
“That’s Hortense’s office.” Bernie cocked her head and listened for a moment. “I think you’re right. I think someone is in there.”
Libby felt a wave of panic. why did she always let Bernie talk her into these things? “What if it’s Hortense?”
“It’s not, and even if it is, so what? We’re not doing anything wrong.”
Somehow Libby didn’t think Hortense would agree with her sister’s assessment of their situation. “How do you know it’s not her?”
“Because she’s getting her hair done.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I know the woman who does it.”
“I still think we should leave,” Libby said.
“You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do.”
After all, Libby reasoned, since they weren’t supposed to be here in the first place, why not get out while the going was good?
“Don’t you want to find out what’s going on?” Bernie said.
“Why assume something is going on?”
Bernie pointed to the door. “Then what’s that noise?”
“A mouse?”
“A mouse on steroids.”
Libby bit her lip. Why had she ever said anything to Bernie? All Bernie eve did was complicate things.
“After all,” Bernie said. “What’s the worst that can happen?”
Longely is an imaginary community, as are all its inhabitants. Any resemblance to people living or dead is pure coi-cidence.
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Copyright © 2004 by Isis Crawford
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-8863-9
A Catered Wedding Page 27