The Season of Silver Linings

by Christine Nolfi

  “They don’t. Both of the churches in town are booked, and the invitations have gone out. They can’t change the date.”

  Ruth grunted. “Philip will get the patio finished in time. He’s not about to disappoint the happy couple.” She stabbed a finger at the catalog. “Can we get back to deciding on wedding favors? I like the Hangover Kit. It comes with a bottle of Gatorade, pain pills for nasty headaches, and a cute eye mask.”

  From behind the laptop, Silvia glared. “Forget it, Ruth. We’re going for elegant, not tacky.”

  “What’s your big plan, Silvia? Making candles in teacups? I like arts and crafts as much as the next woman, but I’m not dealing with hot wax unless I’m removing the fur on my legs.”

  Norah Webb stared them both down with heavy-lidded eyes. “We’re not resorting to crafts, or remedies for partygoers who can’t hold their liquor. Leave the drunks to their just deserts. This is a formal affair. We won’t stop looking until we find a wedding favor both stylish and unique.”

  Ruth pushed the catalog toward her. “Take it away, Norah. You’ve been married a grand total of four times. You’re the expert.”

  The remark put thunder in Norah’s eyes. “Ruth, I’ve had all of your company I can tolerate in one afternoon,” she said from between clenched teeth. “Put a lid on it.”

  “Make me.”

  “Keep pushing, and I will.”

  “I’m scared, Norah. Shivering in my boots.” To Millicent, the feisty Siren added, “Norah isn’t really a marriage expert. None of her men last long. Living with her kills them of one ailment or another.”

  The insult brought a growl from Norah’s throat. Without warning, she yanked on one of Ruth’s long, white braids. As they tussled, she managed to shape the braid into a noose. Shock and a hearty dose of good sense urged Millicent to stumble back from the table.

  Penelope came across the grass. “Sorry I’m late.” Her greeting evaporated beneath the shrieking.

  Millicent considered herself well versed in the vagaries of human behavior. Even so, she’d never seen two women go at it like demons from hell. Moving to safety behind Penelope’s back, she asked, “They won’t draw blood, will they?”

  “Don’t be frightened. They like to carry on. Frances will stop them.”

  “Stop them?” Frances Dufour weighed less than Millicent’s thighs. There was the outside chance the elderly Siren carried mace in her purse, but it seemed unlikely. “How will she stop them?”

  Serenely, Penelope gestured at the picnic table. “Just watch,” she advised.

  The words were barely out when Frances tapped Silvia on the shoulder. Silvia leaned back slightly, allowing Frances to reach past her. A silk parasol lay on the bench.

  Millicent’s hand flew to her mouth as Frances took up the parasol like a sword. Leaning across the picnic table, Frances popped Ruth on the top of her scalp. The dazed Siren shook her head like a wet collie. Then pop! Frances got Norah too.

  The battling Sirens pulled apart.

  “They’ll mope now,” Penelope confided.

  Shock and dismay rounded Millicent’s eyes. “Do they usually settle their differences with a catfight?” It seemed best not to inquire if Frances normally restored order through physical assault.

  “Not too often, but it’s never pretty when they do.” Behind the thick lenses of her glasses, Penelope’s eyes twinkled. “We should go. They’ll get moody, and make the vibrations all wrong. I hate dreary vibes, don’t you?”

  She made no sense. “Of course,” Millicent said.

  “Are you ready?”

  For what, Millicent refused to hazard a guess. A discussion on ancient healing practices?

  “To visit my shop,” Penelope clarified. “You walked into town this afternoon to visit Gift of Garb.”

  She followed up the extraordinary remark by taking Millicent’s fingers in a gentle grasp. Under normal circumstances, hand-holding by two mature women fell into the category of behavior best reserved for the onset of senility. Even so, the affection seemed a happy accident, nearly a rescue. After the conversation with Vasily about her worries and fears, Millicent was feeling lost.

  The Siren tugged her across the grass like a toy train.

  The consignment shop occupied a skinny building tucked into a shady alcove of Sweet Lake Circle. A hint of sandalwood perfumed the store’s musty air. The checkered linoleum floor was dated; long rows packed with clothing ran toward the cash register at the far end. For a secondhand shop, the place was busy. Millicent counted eleven shoppers, all women of varying ages.

  “You’re operating a healthy business,” she said, impressed.

  Penelope laughed. “You’re surprised. Don’t be. Most people around here can’t afford to shop in Neiman Marcus or Bloomingdale’s.”

  A chill darted down Millicent’s spine. Of all the department stores to bring up, how did Penelope stumble upon her two favorite places to shop? Her interest in high fashion was nonexistent. But she insisted on quality, which explained why her conservative wardrobe came from Neiman Marcus and Bloomie’s.

  Brushing off the coincidence, she started down the center aisle. Penelope wasn’t psychic. People didn’t have special faculties, or a sixth sense. Utter nonsense.

  She asked, “How do you acquire your stock?”

  “People bring in their gently used outfits. There are a lot of towns in the area, and word gets around. If an item sells, I split the profit with the seller. Keeping the books straight is the biggest chore.”

  “You manage all this by yourself?”

  Penelope noticed a blouse on the floor and hung it back on the nearest rack. “I hire kids from the high school, a few teens in foster care—once in a while, I’ll get a call from social services to help a kid discharged from juvie,” she said, straightening several other garments on the rack. “I like hiring kids prone to getting in trouble.”

  As far as business plans went, this wasn’t a winning strategy. “Why not hire well-behaved teenagers? I’d imagine they’d cause less problems.”

  Penelope nodded enthusiastically, as if she understood Millicent’s objections but found them misguided. “They would, but the kids with behavioral issues need structure,” she pointed out. “A job where they must show up on time, rules to follow if they want a paycheck—a job gives them a sense of self-worth. Some don’t last long—about half of the teens quit in the first month. When they do stick it out, the vibrations they create are marvelous. Turning around a young person’s life is the best kind of magic.”

  Understanding dawned—Penelope wasn’t concerned with profits. This was a noble quest. Her small enterprise gave troubled kids the chance to believe in themselves. Millicent’s admiration for her grew.

  “I wish I had your patience,” she heard herself say, and the remark stirred the fragments of memories she’d worked hard to forget. “I can summon the patience of Job when helping college students with their academics. I never learned how to translate the virtue to my personal life.”

  “You mean with teenagers?”

  “They operate more on emotion than intellect. They’re unpredictable. I’m more attuned to the intellectual, I’m afraid.”

  Once again Penelope nodded, this time with compassion entering her gaze. “Did you raise children?” she asked.

  An uncomfortable question, and Millicent struggled for a response. No, she’d never rocked a baby at her breast or helped a young child learn to read. But she’d navigated the difficult world of parenting once she met her soul mate.

  “I didn’t marry until my fifties,” she said. “My stepdaughter was in high school when I entered her life.”

  A peculiar notion caught Millicent off guard. She sensed she wasn’t telling Penelope anything she didn’t already know. As if the Siren had gleaned the most painful excerpts from the book of Millicent’s life. As if such a trick were possible.

  “Your stepdaughter—did you get along?” Penelope asked, as if testing how much Millicent would reveal.
/>
  “It depended on the day. There were periods when she confided in me. Nearly trusted me. She had a mercurial personality.”

  “Lots of highs and lows?”

  Millicent nodded. “There were days when she was bright like sunshine and equipped with superhuman energy. Then she’d go through periods of sleeping until noon, only to wake up in a combative mood. Overall, we didn’t get along as well as I’d hoped.”

  Much as she enjoyed Penelope’s company, lending a more thorough explanation didn’t appeal. The details were too difficult for a public airing.

  Which Millicent refused to offer. The retelling would overwhelm her.

  Behind the cash register, a flurry of children’s art covered the wall. Glad for the diversion, she let her attention drift from one drawing to the next. With an eager nod from her host, she walked behind the checkout counter. Many of the clumsy drawings featured princesses and fairy godmothers.

  “You have a granddaughter?” she guessed.

  Penelope smiled. “Not yet. My son, Ozzie, is single. He’s a mail carrier in town. Philip’s daughter is the artist.”

  “The little girl with the magician’s cape and fairy crown?”

  The Siren’s rheumy gaze became attentive. “You know about her fascination with make-believe? Why, you haven’t met Fancy yet.”

  Oddly, she didn’t wait for Millicent’s reply. Penelope turned away to fiddle with her glasses. Finally, she plucked them off her nose to polish them with a cloth she produced from her pocket. Sliding them back on, she brushed past Millicent and removed the tacks from one of the drawings. With trembling fingers, she straightened the artwork and then tacked it back to the wall. Millicent watched the performance with no idea what had upset the gentle Siren.

  When Penelope located her voice, she said, “I’m being silly. You haven’t met Fancy because the time isn’t right. When you do meet her . . . Well, good things come to those who wait.”

  An English proverb on patience. The relevancy was lost on Millicent.

  “Fancy sounds delightful,” she offered. She couldn’t get a fix on what was wrong. Hoping to smooth over the impasse, she added, “There’s a simple explanation as to why I know about Fancy’s interest in make-believe. She called Jada during one of our baking lessons. They had the funniest conversation. Quite a debate, really, over what Fancy will wear to Linnie’s wedding.”

  “Yes, they spoke when I was with Fancy at the bus stop,” Penelope said. “She adores Jada.”

  “I can see why. Jada is a nice young woman.”

  “It’s remarkable, when you think about it.”

  “What is?” Millicent asked.

  “How Jada remains steady in the fiercest wind. I’ve never seen her lose her temper with any of the employees. Lately, she’s been dealing single-handedly with the staff. Hiring, training, work schedules—she doesn’t miss a beat. Cat’s newly married, and Linnie will be soon. Jada has assumed most of the day-to-day operations without complaint.”

  “Yet she finds time in her schedule to befriend a six-year-old.”

  “She finds time for Philip too.” Penelope sighed. “He’s crazy about her, but she’s very practical. He’s afraid she doesn’t view him as the man he’s become.”

  A detour into Jada’s romantic entanglements wasn’t appropriate. Millicent had befriended the pastry chef under false pretenses. Increasingly, the situation brought a flurry of second thoughts. Millicent loathed dishonesty, even though she’d assured herself that in this particular instance the end justified the means. Jada was the key to unlocking the secrets sure to repair her shattered family.

  “There’s no hope Jada will view Philip romantically?” Millicent heard herself say. Why she felt invested in the outcome, she wasn’t sure.

  “In most of her relationships, Jada plays the role of competent advisor. I doubt she views Philip as her equal.” Penelope shook her head with resignation. “He was quite reckless when he was younger. I believe she’s unaware of how much he’s changed. Philip didn’t truly grow up until Fancy came along. Becoming a father made him into a man. The trials of his marriage did too.”

  “Divorce is never easy,” Millicent said. “Especially when there’s a small child involved.”

  “Not divorced. Philip lost his wife soon after Fancy’s birth.”

  Pity darkened Penelope’s eyes. With a start, Millicent wondered if the pity was meant for her. Certainly not. There was no plausible reason for Penelope to view her with pity.

  “His wife was in an accident?” she asked, brushing off the strange observation.

  “Oh, it was no accident. A horrible situation for all of us. She had such a flair for drama and a brittle personality. How do you guide a lost soul when she refuses your help? Actually, she was making the threats about harming herself even before Philip got caught up with her.”

  “She followed through on the threats?”

  “She did.” The color drained from the Siren’s face. “She took her own life.”

  For a perilous moment, the words refused to penetrate Millicent’s uncomprehending brain. When they finally sank in, the revelation shook her to her bones. In the heavy silence that followed, she inhaled shallow breaths.

  A brunette approached the counter. The woman placed a green dress before the cash register.

  The interruption put Penelope in motion, her dimpled hands working quickly to fold the garment, her voice brimming with false cheer.

  While she finished the sale, Millicent surveyed Fancy’s artwork with a heavy heart. She liked Philip. He was good-natured and polite. As much as Jada had revealed, she hadn’t mentioned that Philip wasn’t divorced—he’d lost his wife. And he’d raised his daughter alone, right from the start. With dreary precision, Millicent did the math in her head. Philip must have been around Vasily’s age when a birth and a death swept into his life. He’d been a young man in his twenties, in the middle of the decade of one’s life when adulthood arrived with all the abundant pleasures, and few of the responsibilities to come. Yet Philip had known the sort of heartache sure to break most youths.

  Millicent brushed absently at her nose. The story bothered her more than was sensible.

  Loose change clanged in the register. The brunette strode down the aisle with a wave.

  Penelope sifted through the paperwork nestled beside the cash register. “I nearly forgot. Ah, here it is.” She produced an index card. Neat cursive, laid down with purple ink, covered the card stock. Offering a watery smile, she added, “I’ve been meaning to give this to you.”

  A recipe.

  Taking it, Millicent read quickly. “This sounds interesting. Are they good?”

  “They’re divine,” Penelope assured her. “Ask Jada to make a batch with you.”

  Chapter 10

  April arrived like a prankster.

  At eight in the morning, the new elevator installed during the winter renovations went on the blink. The carriage froze between the lobby and second floor, trapping a newlywed couple and a girl from Housekeeping. The newlyweds managed well enough, but Sally Anne Peterson was claustrophobic. Her whimpering carried through the walls until the serviceman got the lift running.

  At eight thirty, the harried cook spilled pancake batter on the kitchen floor. Two members of the waitstaff slid through it. The man caught his balance in time. The woman, hired only the previous week, rammed into the industrial-size refrigerator. Jada sent her home with full pay and a goose egg on her brow.

  By nine o’clock, three employees had called in sick. Cat called in late—she’d overslept. And a new employee in the laundry dumped bleach in a pastel load. Three sets of sheets were ruined.

  Jada foisted the sheets back into the arms of the crestfallen girl. “We’ll give them to Goodwill,” she decided. They were standing in the corridor between the kitchen and Jada’s office. “Take them back to the laundry. Then go upstairs and help make up rooms.”

  “Shouldn’t I finish in the basement?”

  “I’ll hav
e someone else do the laundry.”

  After the girl hurried off, Jada glanced at her watch. She was scheduled to meet with Linnie and Cat in less than an hour to discuss the ad buys in regional magazines Cat wanted to place for the summer months. With Cat still a no-show this morning, she wondered if she ought to send Linnie a text and reschedule.

  Jada was still deciding when she strode into her office. She came to an abrupt halt.

  Philip was leaning against the desk.

  Despite her misgivings about the kiss they’d shared, she’d missed him. With the completion of the patio in limbo, Philip no longer appeared at the Wayfair each day. His crews were split up across town, working smaller residential jobs.

  He looked good. His dark-brown hair needed a trim, but she liked how the glossy locks fell haphazardly across his brow. The sleeves of his chambray shirt were rolled up, showing off well-defined muscles beneath skin deepening to bronze from all the hours he spent outdoors. His arms and his ankles were crossed; an air of impatience surrounded him.

  Stalling for time, she closed the door. “Philip.” Her thoughts scattered like leaves on the wind.

  When she came no closer, his mouth curved with disappointment. He pulled himself off the desk. With ill-concealed frustration, he rubbed his hands down his thighs.

  “Can we push the reset button?” he asked. “Last week, when you came over to help Fancy, I was way out of line.”

  Jada wasn’t sure what she’d expected would happen when they finally came face-to-face. Not the remorse curving his shoulders, or the hurt in his eyes. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt him.

  “You don’t owe me an apology,” she said, upset that he thought he did. “Nothing has changed.”

  “Everything has changed, but I get it.” A note of injury colored his words as he added, “You’re not ready.”

  He meant she wasn’t ready for a relationship beyond the easy camaraderie of the past months.

  “I don’t like making rash decisions,” she said, as if he didn’t understand the core motivations of her personality. He did, of course. Their long acquaintance guaranteed his understanding. Which didn’t stop her from adding, “Philip, did we make a mistake last week? Maybe we pushed our relationship toward the wrong path. We were joking around, and it got out of hand.”