The Prescotts lived between Cadillac and Luella in a lovely old red brick two-story house that had been built at the height of the cotton industry. Violet had dubbed it the Prescott Plantation. Cathy squinted at it from her car window and though it was a lovely home, thought it lacked the wide veranda and the big white pillars that she imagined when someone said plantation home.
She didn’t want to go to the Prescotts’ that night. Her stomach knotted up and her head hurt thinking about confrontation. But if Violet started in about the zoning issue, Cathy would stand up for Clawdy’s and that could cause an enormous problem between her and Ethan.
One time, just one time, she’d like to have dinner with Ethan without his mother. They’d done that before they were engaged. They’d go out to a restaurant for dinner and talk for hours. He’d discuss his campaign strategies and ask her what she’d do differently.
“Hmmm,” she mused.
Compared to the books she’d read and the relationships that Marty and even Trixie had had, theirs had been more like a business arrangement from the beginning.
She walked past two brand new white Lincolns parked in the circle driveway on her way to the door. Violet said that even the color of their cars had to be considered, and didn’t the good cowboys always wear white hats?
The idea of a white hat brought on a visual of the cook at the Rib Joint. He wore a white baseball hat turned around backward and had a cute little soul patch like the hero in Candy’s second novel. Did that mean his touch might make her melt like hot barbecue sauce? Would he do unspeakable things to her body?
“Hush!” she scolded. “I’m engaged. I shouldn’t be thinking about another man, even if he does have a cute little soul patch.”
Cathy pushed the doorbell, squared her shoulders, and counted.
One, two, three.
Violet was getting slow on the uptake. Normally she didn’t reach three before the door swung open and Violet did a once-over.
Cathy always felt like she was being scrutinized to make sure she was presentable enough to step over the threshold. Sometimes she envisioned showing up in her gardening overalls and no shoes just to see the expression on Violet’s face. But she kept telling herself over and over that in a few short months, she and Ethan would have their own house and they’d only have to deal with Violet occasionally.
Four.
The door swung open and Violet started at her toes and traveled upward until she got to Cathy’s face. She finally smiled and stepped to one side. “Come in, Catherine. We’ve been expecting you. Did you get a late start?”
“No, ma’am. Just didn’t realize I was driving slow, I guess.”
Cathy checked her watch. She was five minutes early.
“Always remember punctuality is the key to success. Ethan, honey, Catherine is here.”
Cathy hated to be called Catherine. It sounded cold as a tombstone compared to Cathy.
She flashed on a picture of her tombstone. Cold, gray granite with the words Catherine Andrews Prescott in block letters and wife of Ethan Prescott IV underneath her name. She didn’t want to live her whole life only to be remembered as the wife of. She had things to offer, even if it wasn’t any more than part owner of Clawdy’s or mother of or even twin sister of.
Ethan stuck his head out of the parlor and crooked his finger. “Come on in. I’ve got the tea poured. Supper isn’t for half an hour.”
It was what he said every Wednesday and Saturday night. Word for word. They weren’t in bloody England, and Cathy would have much preferred hot chocolate or even a Diet Coke than weak hot tea with a cube of sugar (that’s right, a cube, not a spoonful) and a splash of fat-free milk.
Violet led the way. “Clayton has joined us tonight. Won’t it be wonderful to have a fourth when we set up the Scrabble board after dinner?”
Cathy wanted to grab her purse and run away to the Rib Joint. She’d rather have a root canal with no deadening as spend a whole evening with Clayton, who was the family lawyer as well as the manager for Ethan’s political campaign. And now, from what Trixie had told her, he was also the lawyer who was in charge of rezoning Clawdy’s.
She’d just that day finished the latest Candy Parker novel and had downloaded a new one. What would she rather be doing right at that moment? Clayton on one hand; hot romance on the other. Hot romance would win, hands down. They could even engrave Cathy Andrews, avid reader of erotic romance on her tombstone if she could get away from the chill of his glare.
Cathy put on her best fake smile. “How nice to see you, Clayton.”
“I’m glad to be here,” Clayton said.
His eyes were the color of mud, that cold kind that freezes over in the winter and then turns to slush when it warms up. His angular face, pointed nose, and pinched mouth reminded her of Sunday school pictures of Lucifer. She always wondered if he tucked a long forked tail up behind that high-dollar custom-made suit coat.
Ethan gave her a dry peck on the cheek and led the way to the settee. “Hello, sweetheart.”
She did remember once when his kiss had a bit of warmth. It was the night she had accepted the engagement ring. He was so happy that they’d gone straight into the house from the front porch and told Violet that they were engaged. The three of them had shared a glass of expensive champagne before Ethan drove her home. Of course, Violet went along that night and Cathy would always remember the occasion well. It was the last time that Violet sat in the backseat.
“How was your day?” Cathy asked.
“Clayton and I’ve been very busy with the campaign.”
Clayton picked up the conversation as if on cue. “I was just telling Ethan that he will be riding in the lead car at the Jalapeño Jubilee parade. It will be the Saturday before election so it’s a big thing. We have rented a Cadillac limo with a sunroof so he can stand up and wave at the crowd. Maybe toss candy out to the little children. Of course you and Violet will ride inside, windows down so you can wave and show your support. You should wear white gloves and practice your wave so that it looks graceful.”
Cathy was speechless.
Marty’s Caddy had always been the lead car in that parade. Since it was a convertible, the most important person in the parade got to ride in it and this year Ethan had been elected as the Cadillac Celebrity of the Year because he was running for State Representative. Adam Andrews had driven the Caddy right up until the year he died. Marty had kept up the tradition by driving it the past four years.
“I know that Martha drives the lead car in the parade. Well, this year she will bring up the rear and she will be carrying last year’s celebrity in her car,” Violet said.
Marty was going to go up in mile-high, scalding red-hot flames. There wasn’t a jalapeño in the whole world as hot as the hissy she’d throw when she got that news. Last year’s celebrity had been Andy for having put in ten years on the Cadillac police force and he’d ridden in the Caddy. A week later, Trixie caught him cheating with Anna Ruth, and Marty threatened to put the car up for sale since Andy had touched it. There was no way she’d ever let Andy sit in her car again. For the first time since Adam Andrews bought that car, it would not be in the parade.
Ethan slung an arm around her shoulder and gently squeezed. “You’ll take care of telling Martha that for us, won’t you?”
She couldn’t make words come out of her mouth. The night couldn’t get a bit worse.
Ethan squeezed Cathy’s shoulder again, harder this time. “Are you off in la-la land, sweetheart?”
“No, I’ll tell Marty as soon as I get home,” she whispered.
“Good!” Clayton opened his leather-bound folder to go on to the next item.
Yak. Yak. Yak. Blah. Blah. Blah.
Cathy didn’t hear a word.
“You will need to be here at ten o’clock,” Clayton said.
And we’ll invite Violet to dinner on Sunday evening once a month. That is enough to be polite. That’s what she was thinking when she felt Ethan staring at her.
&
nbsp; “Clayton is talking to you,” Violet said shortly.
“I’m sorry. I was thinking about the wedding cake. There’s a fair in Dallas this weekend, and Trixie, Marty, and I are going. Forgive me. I should have been listening,” she said.
“Well,” Clayton glared at her, “I said…” he shot a cold look her way, “I have a press release ready for the area newspapers. It will come out in full color on the week before Halloween. Timing is everything. And they’ve asked to come here for a photo shoot next Saturday. You will join Ethan in one picture and you will need to be dressed appropriately.”
Should my gloves be wrist or elbow length? she thought.
“And plan to stay for lunch because we will be entertaining the press staff from all the newspapers. Wear a business suit and panty hose are a must.” Violet snarled at Cathy’s dress as if she’d bought it from the clearance rack at the Goodwill store.
Ethan gave her another dry peck on the cheek. “It might seem picky, but it’s all important, Catherine. It takes more than a brilliant political mind to win an election.”
What happened to Cathy? Or is that reserved for the bedroom and I will always be Catherine in this house?
“The press conference is when we will announce that you two will be living in this house,” Clayton said.
Cathy gasped.
She liked the house, but she didn’t want to live in it. She had her heart set on a small three-bedroom frame house on the east side of Cadillac. It had the cutest little picket fence around the yard and roses were already blooming in the flowerbeds. It had been on the market for a year and the price was right for a couple just starting out.
Violet clapped her hands and squealed. “I know it’s a great surprise and I’ve saved it for this very night.”
“You are giving us your home?” Cathy whispered.
“In a sense, but not until I’m dead and then the will says it belongs to Ethan, of course, since he’s my only child. But Catherine, you do realize that the prenup will state that you have no right to it should you ever leave him. But, oh dear, that is such foolishness. You would never leave Ethan. Look at him. He’s perfect.”
Cathy glanced at him. Perfect? Not by a long shot. Kind and sweet? Definitely. His nose was a bit small and his lips just a little too wide to consider him ruggedly handsome, but he was a gentleman and he loved her. That was enough for Cathy.
“And she’s not actually giving anyone this house since she’ll continue to live here too,” Clayton said. “Now, I do believe our time is up. Dinner should be on the table, right, Violet?”
“Yes, it is.” She smiled.
When Cathy stood, Violet hooked her arm through hers and led the way to the dining room. “Don’t worry about that fair, Catherine. Annabel is my best friend and she makes the most gorgeous wedding cakes and she’s agreed to make Ethan’s. We are going to talk to her a week from tomorrow at four thirty. I should’ve told you before now, but she just confirmed that she’ll be available. Put it on your calendar, but don’t worry, I will remind you two days in advance. I was thinking rather than the plain old white wedding cake that we’d have red velvet cake and do the flowers in blue. Isn’t that a lovely idea for a politician who has just won the election? And your bridesmaids can wear red velvet dresses and carry miniature versions of your red, white, and blue bouquet.”
That was the proverbial icing on the cupcake.
Cathy might not even go home that evening. She had her e-reader in her purse. She might just point her mother’s old Chevy Lumina toward California and not stop driving until she hit water. There she’d live in her car and become a beach bum who picked up soda cans and redeemed them at the supermarket to make money to buy more erotic books.
***
Trixie was usually the last one to arrive at the scrapbooking group on Friday nights, but that night she arrived in plenty of time, got her materials out, and was already working on putting a fancy border around a picture of her and her sister when they were preschoolers. Her mother’s birthday was in February and every year she made her a scrapbook in hopes that it would help her to remember. It hadn’t for the past four years, but Trixie still held out hope.
Two other ladies of the six-member group arrived and got their supplies set up. When the last three claimed their spaces, Beulah stood up and said, “Girls, I brought my famous sugar cookies to go with our coffee tonight. And I also brought someone who has never done any scrapbooking. Everyone, make Anna Ruth welcome.”
Trixie remembered a raunchy story that her mother told years before. It had to do with two young southern girls. One married a poor farmer and one a rich banker. The poor girl went to visit the rich one Sunday afternoon. The rich one said, “When we married, my husband gave me that Porsche out there in the driveway. When we were married a year, he built this mansion for me. When I had my first child, he gave me this five-carat diamond. When I had my second son, he gave me a trip to Paris and an unlimited credit card to shop.”
At the end of each sentence, the poor girl said, “Ain’t that nice.”
Finally the rich girl asked, “What has your husband done for you?”
The poor girl said, “He sent me to finishing school.”
“Why would he do that?” the rich girl asked.
“So I’d learn to say, ‘Ain’t that nice’ instead of ‘Screw you, bitch.’”
The story flashed through Trixie’s mind in a nanosecond as she looked up to see Anna Ruth smiling smugly across the table from her.
“Well, ain’t that nice,” Trixie said.
And it was. Andy could blame any bits of paper on Anna Ruth from now on and Trixie wouldn’t be a paranoid worrywart about brushing every square inch of his uniform before he left her bedroom.
Not!
As afflicted with OCD as Anna Ruth was, she would lick the floor to keep from leaving the faintest whisper of a paper lying about like that, so forget the only perk to having the woman in scrapbooking with her.
“Trixie?” Anna Ruth continued to smile like the cat that ate the canary and didn’t even leave a single feather as evidence. Of course she wouldn’t! It would be clutter.
“Anna Ruth, did Andy tell you that I love scrapbooking?” Trixie asked.
“Oh, no, he never mentions you, but I did have to clean up that hobby room of yours when I moved in so I figured it out. Thought I’d never get all those little bits of paper out of the carpet. Didn’t you ever clean house?”
Molly, the queen bee of scrapbooking in all Grayson County, gasped.
Trixie had a smartass remark on her tongue, but she couldn’t ruin Molly’s night, not when the elderly woman had taught her so much about the craft.
“Well, ain’t that nice,” she said, the words saccharine sweet.
Trixie ignored Anna Ruth and fanned out a two-hundred-sheet assortment the size of copy paper in the middle of the table. “I found some lovely paper on sale at Hobby Lobby this past week. I bought two packages. Help yourselves. I’m sharing. I saw the red plaid on top and had to have it for a picture I’m working on it for my mother’s birthday book, but so much of the rest doesn’t go with anything in the book.”
“That is the sweetest thing,” Molly said. “You are always doing something nice for us who don’t get up to Sherman to the store very often. Oh, my! I want that pink gingham check. I’m working on a memory book for my niece’s high school graduation next year and it’ll be perfect for her baby picture.”
Trixie felt a chill pass over her body and looked up to see Anna Ruth glaring at her.
***
The Dairy Queen logo in Texas is referred to as the Texas stop sign. It’s where the old farmers and ranchers go for their morning coffee and to gather around the smokers’ tables to talk about crops, politics, and religion. Women met there in the morning for an hour of gossip, and when school was in session, the kids had lunch and hung out after school to flirt and drink half-price soft drinks during happy hour.
The first sign that a Texas town is head
ed for the ghost town registry is when the Dairy Queen shuts its doors and boards up the windows. Down through history when the Dairy Queen closed, it wasn’t long until the post office and the school were both gone and there are only a few die-hards left, waiting to fill their plots in the cemetery.
So far the Dairy Queen in Cadillac was doing a booming business, and their peanut parfait sundaes were on sale for ninety-nine cents on Saturday evening from five to eight o’clock.
Marty arrived ten minutes before the deadline. She was third in line and kept a watch on the big clock above the ice cream machine the whole time. It was one minute to eight when she hurriedly gave the lady her order for the peanut parfait sundae special that night.
“Make that two, and I’ll pay for both of them,” Anna Ruth’s squeaky voice said right behind her.
Marty looked over her shoulder and down into Anna Ruth’s face. She held her hands tightly to keep from smacking the woman. She’d looked forward to a chocolate sundae all day, and now it wouldn’t even taste good.
The waitress set the sundaes on the counter and Marty pulled out a dollar and a few pennies to pay for hers. No way was Anna Ruth spreading all over town that she’d bought Marty a sundae. Trixie would disown her for sure.
She hoped that paying for her own ice cream would keep Anna Ruth from sitting with her in the booth back in the far corner.
Not so!
The brazen hussy sat down across from her and smiled brightly. “I wasn’t teasing. I intended to pay for our ice cream. I owe you for your vote for me to get into the social club.”
Marty hadn’t blushed in years and she sure didn’t appreciate Anna Ruth for making it happen that night.
The Blue-Ribbon Jalapeño Society Jubilee Page 7