“To hold weekly talks for our guests.” Cat sent a jaundiced eye over the handmade posters stacked on her desk. Tossing them into the garbage can was tempting. She didn’t dare. “As much as I hate disappointing the Sirens, it’s up to you to kill the idea without angering them. We’re building an image as the perfect family destination, not a pit stop for spooky spiritual excursions.”
“This isn’t my problem. You’re the one who believes in channeling energy and the mystical qualities of feminine power. Use your vibes to influence them.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“Only because you’re Silvia’s daughter. Can’t you restrain her troops?” Linnie knit her fingers behind her head, the amusement in her eyes increasing. “When you finish work, ask Beefcake Bill for advice on how to let them down. I’ve got nothing.”
The reference to the blow-up doll in her suite put a twinge of anxiety in Cat’s belly. Did Linnie mean she wouldn’t deal with the Sirens? A dismissal of their silly ideas was sure to make Penelope mourn in dignified silence. Tilda? She’d throw a tantrum for all of ten seconds.
Norah and Ruth were another matter. They’d find devious ways to make Cat’s life hell. Or they’d ask Silvia to intervene. Cat adored her mother, but a volcanic eruption she could do without.
“Linnie, I can’t stand up to them. They’re like weird fairy godmothers hovering around the edges of my life. There isn’t a woman in the bunch I haven’t known forever. Would you want to disappoint a quirky great-aunt who never forgot a grudge?”
“You’re acting like they’ll drag you behind the woodshed for twenty lashes.”
Frustration welled in Cat. Naturally Linnie believed she was overreacting. Until Linnie’s friendship with Frances, she’d rarely given the Sirens a second thought. Nor did she have knowledge of their more memorable feuds.
“When it comes to getting even, they’re inspired,” Cat said. “Trust me. I know what I’m talking about.”
“Yeah?” Linnie noticed the plaster dust on her sweater and brushed it away. “Enlighten me.”
“Here’s a fascinating tidbit. When you and I were in our early twenties, Tilda spread gossip about Norah getting breast implants.”
“Breast implants at her age? Impressive.”
Norah didn’t have the most agreeable personality, but it was impossible not to admire her glamour. “In Manhattan,” Cat supplied. “From what I heard, she took a flight one evening and didn’t return to Sweet Lake for three days.”
“I wonder if she got a discount, like a senior coupon day from her favorite plastic surgeon. Maybe AARP runs deals.”
The conversation was veering off track, and Cat shushed her. “Anyway, the day after Tilda texted around town about Norah’s boobs, all the watermelons and every last tomato went missing from her garden. She thought raccoons had invaded, but there wasn’t any mess in the garden rows.” She paused for emphasis. “Then Tilda noticed a feather token hanging from one of the naked tomato plants.”
“Like this one?”
From her pocket Linnie produced a feather. Blue like the ocean, the feather clung to a length of twine. Last summer Frances had given her the token, to provide strength and protection, or a virtue like fortitude, which most people rarely mustered.
For the oldest Siren, the color held special significance. Cat recalled times during childhood when she snuck into the backyard to find her mother whispering soothing words to her closest friend as they prepared the tiny objects. On those nights, when grief unaccountably consumed Frances, the tokens were crafted with blue feathers only. Even the stones and the shells were painted a vivid blue like the Pacific Ocean.
Cat said, “The token in Tilda’s garden had red feathers, not blue. Pretty ominous.”
“What happened to the stuff poached from her garden?”
“She got a nasty surprise after driving into work. The fruit was heaped on the doorstep of Lyons Realty with a sign impaled through the mess.”
“What was on the sign?”
“ʻGot something to say? Grow a pair.ʼ”
Linnie chuckled. “Guess that stopped her twitchy texting finger.”
“Yeah, and imagine what they’ll do if I nix their ideas. Do me a solid. Just this once.”
“Pass.”
“Pretty please?”
“No, but I totally understand if you need to check the odds of survival.” With ill-concealed mirth, she strolled around the desk and pulled open a drawer. She withdrew the Magic 8 Ball. “Go on. I know you want to.”
No one sensible believed a children’s toy foretold the future, but Cat did resort to the Magic 8 Ball in times of stress.
In times of crisis? Prayer was always a good bet. She also wore enough Siren tokens and amulets to send dark energy fleeing across state lines. Success was never guaranteed, but she liked the notion of feminine protection increasing the odds on a spiritual level.
She gave the ball a furious shake. “Will the Sirens forgive me?” she asked aloud.
The answer pulled a groan from her. Don’t count on it.
Ditching the mirth, Linnie patted her back. “Two for two?”
Another shake, and Cat asked, “Will anything else go wrong today?”
The answer sent her worry into the stratosphere.
Better not tell you now.
Birdsong drifted across Walnut Grove Memorial Gardens.
The acres of tree-dotted grounds served many of the towns in the area, and Frances approached her husband’s grave with pride quickening her strides. Before his unfortunate passing, her beloved Archibald was the owner of Sweet Lake’s only construction company. His success had allowed her to secure a plot on the cemetery’s central hill.
Silvia, less impressed by grand gestures, plunked down the mason jar of black-eyed Susans they’d brought. “Hello, Archibald.” She appraised the unmarred grass on either side of his grave. “I see you’re still lonely up on your perch. What’s that? No one else in these parts can afford to join you?”
“He has Demeter to keep him company,” Frances pointed out. Her sweet Persian had trotted off to heaven one short year after the dreadful loss of Archibald.
“We’re not discussing your deceased pet.”
“I’m curious. Why did you give your younger daughter a feline name if you despise the glorious creatures?”
The remark put disgust on Silvia’s face. “There’s nothing glorious about an animal shedding fur like a chemo patient. As for my daughter, Catalina is a family name. There’s no connection to felines whatsoever.”
“Don’t get snippy. We’ve just arrived.” Twigs and papery leaves deposited by the breeze were scattered on the headstone’s gleaming top. Brushing them away, Frances bent slightly as if to engage a child. She wasn’t sure why the posture brought the conviction Archibald heard her words from wherever he resided in the afterlife. “Now, let’s see. News. Quite a bit has happened since we last dropped by.”
“Are we back to your kooky conversations with the dead? No wonder Tilda got it into her head to develop a seminar about the afterlife. No doubt she caught you chatting with the family portraits in your den. You’re one lousy role model.”
The remark was a senseless provocation. “Silvia, you believe in the afterlife. You’ve burnt enough incense to honor your ancestors to fill a temple in Jerusalem.”
“Not the same as holding a conversation with a headstone in the deluded belief anyone’s listening.”
“Stop acting like you’re an expert on my late husband’s conversational preferences. I’m sure Archibald looks forward to these chats.” She offered his grave a beatific smile before landing her deadly regard on her friend. “You’re in such a terrible mood, I can only assume Marco is on sabbatical from the sexual arena. Any other woman would hang party streamers from the rafters to have a man his age with a strong libido. Can’t you let him rest once in a while? If he’s not putting out, don’t zap me with your negative energy.”
“My only frustration is yo
ur kooky behavior.”
Pure poppycock, but Frances held her tongue. Shrugging off her comrade’s bad mood, she told her late husband, “This will tickle you pink. The Wayfair now has three talented leaders. Jada is now co-manager, and Cat’s also been promoted. She’s handling all of the inn’s marketing.”
Silvia gave a mulish look. “He knows. You told him the last time we visited.”
Undeterred, Frances gave the headstone her full attention. “Archie, did I mention the south wing?” It was just like Silvia to get peevish because she was still fuming over the cat. “Linnie has a crew putting on a new roof. Once they’ve finished, they’ll overhaul the interior. New heating and cooling, replastering—the works. Soon every room at the Wayfair will be open to guests.”
“He knows.”
Frances gripped the handle of her sun parasol. “Sweetheart, do you remember the autumn dance?” The notion of whacking Silvia was an awful lure, and she despised violence. “Linnie is reinstating the custom. Not in the ballroom, at least not this year. She’s bringing in a band and hosting the gala on the beach. They’re expecting several hundred people.”
“Now, there’s something he didn’t know.”
“Zip it. I’m communing with my husband.”
“No, you’re stalling.” Silvia patted the headstone. “Archie, they aren’t bringing in a big-band ensemble like you remember, or asking people to dress up. My daughter’s hired a band of youngsters from Cleveland. Blue jeans and rock and roll. There’ll be couples doing the nasty in the forest.”
“Ignore her sass, dear. She’s chewing sour grapes over Demeter.”
Sparks lit in Silvia’s dark eyes. “Bingo.” She poked Frances in the chest. “I still haven’t forgiven you.”
An old complaint, and Frances swiveled away. Calmly she went about rebuilding the tiny memorial for the feline’s grave. “Demeter, Silvia says hello.” The groundskeepers never failed to mow right over, sending the stones flying every which way.
“I’ll put up with these nutty conversations with your late husband because he mixed a mojito nearly as well as I do. I am not offering salutations to a dead cat.”
“Hush, now. Demeter will hear you.”
“Frances, someone pulled the aces from your deck.”
“You’re tossing around insults in a cemetery? Better watch out. You’ll create enough bad energy to chase your hide for weeks.”
Seeming to catch herself, Silvia regarded the marble headstone. “I’m sorry, Archie. I’d give your wife my last pint of blood if she needed it. She wasn’t this off-center when you were alive. Since you’ve gone, she’s flakier than a Christmas blizzard.”
From the grass Frances retrieved the last stone, a heart-shaped beauty of silver granite. “I’d give you my last drop of blood.” Rising, she sent a baleful glance. “But only if you were bleeding to death.”
“Sneaking in here to bury a cat—I should’ve put you six feet under.”
“What did you want me to do, toss her out by the lilacs?”
“She could’ve fertilized your lilacs for three years straight. Small dogs were afraid of your massive Persian.”
The part about small dogs was beyond dispute, but comparing Demeter to compost was deplorable. Frances angled her chin. “You aren’t a cat person, Silvia. You don’t understand.”
“I should thank my lucky stars you aren’t a dog person. How would we have hauled a Great Dane over? I nearly broke my hip vaulting onto the grounds.”
“We didn’t vault.” They’d brought a ladder for the midnight excursion, climbing gingerly over Walnut Grove’s iron gate. Silvia had taken a bit of a tumble going over, but she did more harm to her festive capris than her bones. In Frances’s estimation, if she traded a burrito for a salad occasionally, she’d remain more nimble.
The sun burst out from behind a cloud, urging Frances to snap open her parasol. In contrast, Silvia risked melanoma and grass stains by reclining on the turf. Her eyes drifting shut, she tipped her bronzed face toward the sky. Even in the autumn she never missed an opportunity to work on her tan.
Frances slipped off her pumps. “Did you bring sunscreen?” The grass felt soft beneath her toes, as if Mother Earth thrummed energy through the soles of her welcoming feet. “Skin cancer is a serious matter.”
“It’s September, not July.”
“UV rays are present year-round.”
“I’ll take my chances. The sun isn’t hot.”
“You’re insane. I’m sweating like a moose.”
“Do moose sweat?”
Frances tugged lightly at the collar of her dress. “Visit Toronto. Ask a Canadian.”
Opening an eye, her drowsing friend regarded her with interest. “Tell me when you’d like to begin.” Sinking deeper into the grass, she ran slow fingers through her thick black hair, fanning the tresses out around her head. A dye job to cover the grey, but there was no faulting the stylist’s technique. “I cleared the morning schedule. Meeting with my first client this afternoon to organize P&L statements. Working on payroll for the Wayfair afterward. Take all the time you need.”
“I’m not ready yet.”
“I don’t care about the stalling. Use every delaying tactic at your disposal, just shut up about the cat—and the sun. I’m tanning.”
“And working your way to cancer.” Reluctantly Frances retrieved the tin from her purse. Placing her purse on the headstone, she inhaled deeply.
Silvia eyed the tin. “You did a nice job this year.”
The compliment provided a needed balm for her ravaged emotions. “I think so too,” Frances murmured. She’d chosen cobalt blue and azure for the feathers and stones, and baby blue for the connecting twine.
Sadness coasted through her. Time didn’t soften the grief, which lay inside her like a pockmarked stone scraping against the memories, sharpening the regrets. Like a heart-stone, painful and malignant.
The breeze caught the ruffle on the plunging neckline of Silvia’s blouse. “Do you think Archie minds?” She smoothed the ruffle back into place. “We could do your remembering just as easily by the lake. Our own small act of love.”
“No act of love is small.” Frances looked over the rolling hills. “We have privacy here. Besides, a cemetery is naturally imbued with the sacred. The energy of Walnut Grove feels right.”
“I hate the plastic.”
“What?”
Rising on one elbow, Silvia appraised the vast expanse of emerald hills dotted with headstones. “Plastic flowers,” she clarified. “Most people don’t visit often, and the fake stuff bothers me. If you love someone, you should bring a real bouquet.”
A point of decorum upon which they both agreed. At dawn Frances had filled the jar to ensure the black-eyed Susans remained fresh. “My husband appreciates our thoughtfulness.”
During their marriage he’d brightened many a dreary winter day by surprising her with fresh roses, tulips—whatever struck his fancy. Their marriage had celebrated an eternal spring in no small part because of Archibald’s thoughtfulness.
A memory Silvia dulled by remarking, “He would appreciate the gesture if you’d intended the bouquet for him.”
“Oh, do be still.”
“We should’ve asked Penelope for roses. The ones in your garden are nearly dormant.”
“Her yellow roses are still blooming profusely.”
“Wonder how she fared at the inn. Four of our members went up to see Cat yesterday.”
The change of topic put Frances on alert. “About the talks for the inn’s guests? I thought we agreed to wait until after the October concert. Why are they bothering your daughter now?”
“Penelope and the others were eager to pitch their ideas.”
“How did it go?”
“I didn’t ask Cat when she came for dinner last night. We had other matters to discuss.” Silvia’s head lolled to the left, her nostrils flaring to inhale the carpet of greenery. “She’ll come around. Hosting talks by the Sirens will give the
inn prestige. I’d like to see her promote them in the ads she’s developing.”
A fool’s dream, but Frances hid the opinion. Cat’s devotion to her mother was strong, yet she had other duties now. Along with the new responsibilities, the hardworking girl carried too much guilt for the mistakes of the past. The Mendozas guarded their middle daughter with admirable tenacity, but they seemed unaware of the scars of self-doubt festering in her.
“We shouldn’t expect her to consider the seminars until after settling into her new responsibilities. For heaven’s sake, she’s still unpacking her office.”
Silvia plucked a blade of grass, held it up to the light. “She’ll never finish unpacking her office. I adore my daughter, but she’s a procrastinator.”
“Let’s wait a few weeks.”
“Are you deaf? Penelope and the others have already talked to her.”
“Then let me follow up. Cat has such a strong desire to please you. I don’t want her to feel pressured.”
“I won’t pressure my daughter.”
Frances twirled her parasol in hopes of dispelling the tension jangling through her. “You’re like a mad bull when you’re intent on getting your way,” she said, risking the firestorm. “If I speak with her, she won’t skirt the truth. We have no idea if she likes the idea or not.”
“Now you’re implying my daughter will lie to me?” The suggestion pulled Silvia from her sleepy repose. She struggled to her feet. “Not one of my children would ever lie to me. They love me too much to dishonor our relationship with falsehoods. How can you think otherwise?”
“Calm down, will you?”
Silvia’s hands sliced through the air. “I’ll do nothing of the sort. You’re implying my middle child, mi angelito, is more apt to speak truthfully to you than her beloved mami. Forget what I said about a pint of blood. I wouldn’t give you a drop of my precious—”
Tiring of the rant, Frances snapped her parasol shut and took aim. She struck once, on the crown of Silvia’s head.
The assault, coming unexpectedly, produced the intended result. Silvia’s hands stopped flailing. The rant ended.
Then her more bullish impulses shuddered across her face.
The Comfort of Secrets (A Sweet Lake Novel Book 2) Page 3