I think he snickered, but I’m not sure. “Why don’t we just say Monday? I think you need more than just one day, Lizzie.”
I straightened. “Monday it is, then.”
“Take care,” he said, then snickered—or something close to it—again and hung up.
Thursday morning I helped Samuel get settled in his recliner, gave him his medication, fluffed his pillows, positioned the TV remote, and then helped Samantha get the children ready for school. I waved as they climbed on the school bus, shoved a cup of coffee-to-go into the hands of both of my children, and ran them out to the car, where they climbed in, looking somewhat perplexed, and drove toward Breckenridge. I stood guard as Samantha got ready for her job, and I walked her to her car as well (which a friend of theirs had brought up from Louisiana during Christmas vacation for the small price of five-hundred dollars). She winked at me as she slid behind the driver’s wheel and then drove away.
I was alone.
Sort of. By this time one of the judge shows was up and going— Milian, I think—but I paid it no mind. I called out to Samuel, asking if he needed anything. He said he’d like a cup of coffee, so I poured him a fresh cup, took it to him, then literally ran up the stairs to our bedroom, where I shut the door and climbed onto our bed, pushing the pillows toward the headboard at the same time. I pulled my Bible from the bedside table and opened it to anything, then read for the next thirty minutes.
After that I took a nap for about fifteen minutes. A more glorious fifteen minutes has never been spent, though I dreamed the entire time about baking... stuff. I was standing in a large kitchen—a baker’s kitchen, they call it—and I was putting food dishes together like the pros one sees on the Food Channel when one’s husband was not watching judges with stage makeup wield their power. I was wearing a pretty dress and an even prettier chef ’s apron with this nice design on it, though I couldn’t tell what it was. But it was pink. Lisa Leann pink, to be honest with you. And I was baking and baking and baking. At the end of the dream I pulled what appeared to be tiramisu out of a stainless steel refrigerator.
Then I woke up, sat up, and called the facility where my mother was staying so I could check up on her.
“You might want to come see her today,” the charge nurse said. “She’s a little feisty.”
“My mother is always feisty, but I’ll come,” I told her. “I’ll be there around lunch so we can eat together.”
“I’ll let her know,” the nurse said.
I took a shower. A long, hot shower, and then I took my time slathering my body with lotion and body spray, and I played around with my makeup and thought that Lisa Leann would be so proud of me. I fluffed my hair a bit more than usual, and I put on a pair of black jeans and a pretty blue sweater and some funky earrings Michelle had given me for Christmas that are so not me, but who cared.
Then I went downstairs to check on Samuel, whose meds had kicked in. He snored and drooled—a blessing considering he was in constant pain when awake—while Judge Mathis sat with his chin propped in the palm of his hand listening to the defendant explain why it was not her fault. I smiled, turned the volume down just a bit, then went into the laundry room and started a load. After that I cleaned the kitchen, and after that I went back into the family room to tell Samuel—who was now awake and trying to find a comfortable position—that I was going to see my mother.
“So much for your day off,” he said.
I laughed. “So far, I’m not complaining.”
Mother was her usual bossy self, fussy because she didn’t like the way the kitchen personnel prepared the English peas. “Not enough pepper,” she was saying.
I reached for the pepper packet on the tray that had been delivered moments earlier and said, “Pepper, Mother?” Without invitation I tore at it and began to sprinkle the spice onto the vegetable.
“Well, why didn’t they just do that for me?”
“What if you didn’t like pepper on your peas?”
“Who wouldn’t like pepper on their peas?” she asked.
After lunch I helped Mother into a lounging chair and styled her cottony white hair and smiled at her while she looked at me as though I had three heads. “What are you looking at, Mother?” I asked.
She chuckled a bit. “Who did your makeup today? Dolly Parton?”
I continued to smile. “No, Mother. I did. Now hush your fuss and enjoy having someone play with your hair. Do you remember when you used to style my hair?”
“Unruly hair,” she said.
“Yes, but you styled it just so.”
“What I remember is the time you cut it all off so you’d look like... who was that?”
“Peter Tork.”
“A man. My daughter cut off her hair to look like a man.”
“I thought he had a nice haircut.”
“But he was a man,” she said, shifting in the chair as though indignant.
“Yes, but he had long hair,” I reminded her.
“Wasn’t he a Beatle?” she asked, suddenly spry.
I smiled at her and shook my head. “No. He was a Monkee.” “Beatles and Monkees. No wonder your generation has problems.”
My generation has problems, I thought later. Yes, indeed. Well, at least one member of my generation did—me—and for once, I was stumped as to how to fix her.
As I drove down Main Street toward home I spied Lisa Leann walking into her shop, laden with what appeared to be magazines, so I stopped and followed her inside.
“Lizzie, what brings you here?” she asked, pulling herself out of her thick mink coat. “Why aren’t you at school?”
I smiled at her as I unzipped my parka. “I took the day off.” Lisa Leann had walked behind the L-shaped counter near the front of her shop, where she dropped the stack of bridal magazines. “I had the most interesting dream about something this morning,” I told her. “It reminded me of you.”
“Was John Tesh involved?” she asked, pulling a CD case sporting the entertainer’s face off the back shelf and popping its top.
“Ah... no.”
“Drat. I can’t seem to get him into my dreams either.” She laughed and added, “At least not those I dream at night.”
She came around the counter and walked over to a built-in stereo system where she popped John Tesh in. Seconds later, an inspiring and romantic melody filled the room.
“Lovely,” I mused, pulling my parka off and hanging it on a coat tree near the door.
Lisa Leann crossed her arms and studied me for a minute. “What have you done to yourself, Miss Lizzie? Makeup? Hair?”
“I know. I got creative.”
Lisa Leann gestured to the Victorian seating arrangement. “Care to sit for a minute? I can get us some tea.”
“Tea sounds wonderful.”
Lisa Leann headed toward the back, calling over her shoulder while I took a seat. “Good,” she was saying. “I want to talk to you about the makeover and shower I’m having for Evangeline.” Her voice faded momentarily, but minutes later she came waltzing back, carrying a silver tea service and two bone china cups and saucers atop an ornate and heavy silver tray.
I stood. “Let me help you.”
“Oh, posh. This is my job,” she said.
I sat again.
“Cream or lemon?”
“Cream,” I answered, pushing myself back against the velvety softness of the settee and then reaching for the cup she’d prepared for me. “This is nice, Lisa Leann. Thank you.”
“I just wish more of the girls would come by.” She sat down. “So, let’s talk about the shower, shall we?”
“Have you run it by Evie?”
Lisa Leann’s eyes danced with delight. “Evangeline has placed her entire wedding, reception, and anything to do with it, completely in my hands. Except for her gown. She has chosen her own gown... not that I’ve seen it. Oh, goodness, I do hope it’s appropriate for a golden girl wedding.” She paused long enough to ponder. “I’m just dying to know if it will be white. D
o you know? Because, I’m just sure Evangeline is still a virgin and so, naturally, she should wear white; not that it seems to make a bit of difference these days, but I was just wondering.”
“I don’t know,” I said, somewhat stunned.
Lisa Leann continued as though I’d said nothing. “The wedding is the 28th and the club meets this Saturday for prayer, so I was thinking the 14th or the 21st. If we wait until the 21st, of course, we’ll have the altered dresses, and we can have a fitting party too. I just hope Mandy’s baby doesn’t arrive at the same time, and I do surely hope Donna will attend the party.” Lisa Leann shook her head sadly. “Other than church, have you seen hide or hair of her since that awful thing that happened at the Christmas tea? I take total responsibility, of course. Then again, if someone had just told me that Dee Dee McGurk was actually Donna’s mother...”
“None of us knew,” I said. “Except Evie. She and Vernon knew, of course.”
Lisa Leann shook her head and sipped at her tea. “Poor Evangeline. Bless her heart, bless her heart. What it must be like to have waited your whole life to marry the man of your dreams, the love of your life, your childhood sweetheart, only to have his first wife swoop into town and try to break things up.”
I was a little stunned and wondered if Lisa Leann knew something I didn’t. “Has Doreen done that?”
“No. But I’m sure she will. Did you see the look on her face when she and Evie were fighting out there in the parking lot? My lands, I thought we were going to have a catfight.”
I set my cup and saucer on the antique coffee table before me and said, “We did have a catfight.”
“Have you spoken to Evangeline since then?” Lisa Leann asked, crossing her short legs.
“Only at church, and she and Vernon seemed to be handling things okay. I guess you saw that Donna was there too.”
Lisa Leann cocked an eyebrow. “With Wade Gage on one side and David Harris on the other, no less. And Clay Whitefield with that card shop girl.”
“Britney.”
Lisa Leann waved her hand. “Whomever. All I know to say is, they’re putting the mojo on the dating service I’ve been trying to get up and running.”
I giggled, but Lisa Leann frowned.
“To answer your question,” I continued, “I’ve seen Donna a few times. She came out to the high school on Tuesday to talk to the kids about drugs and—”
“How’d she look?”
I thought for a moment. “She looked good.” I looked down at my hands for a minute. “The depositions have started. I guess you know that.”
“That poor darlin’, that poor darlin’. She does not deserve any of this. I understand from our illustrious Mr. Whitefield that he is developing a campaign to help Save the Donna. He’ll have something about it in this week’s paper, so be sure to read it.”
I scooted up a bit and stood. “I will. I really should go,” I said. “Thank you for the tea.”
Lisa Leann scampered up and said, “But we haven’t decided on the date for the party!”
“I should think you’d do better to talk to Evie about that. But my money is on the 21st.”
Lisa Leann pointed upward. “I’ll make a note of it,” she said and then escorted me toward the coat tree, where I retrieved my parka and put it on.
“By the way, how is your dating service going?” I asked.
Lisa Leann beamed. “Thanks to me, there are three new couples in Summit View.”
I had to smile back. “Who otherwise might never have found each other,” I said. “Thank you again for the tea.”
I headed out the door, but before I reached my parked car I spied Goldie going into Higher Grounds, so rather than leaving just yet, I crossed Main and followed behind her.
She was standing at the counter, purchasing two cups of Sally’s special hot cocoa.
“Yum,” I said from behind her.
She jumped and then smiled. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Following you,” I said. I looked around at the near-empty restaurant. “Want to sit while we wait for your hot cocoa?”
“Sure,” she said.
We sat at a nearby two-seater. I leaned over the table a bit. “So? Have you told Jack yet?”
She shook her head. “I was going to the night of the tea, but then... well, you know. The fight.”
“I saw the two of you getting into his car.”
Goldie chuckled. “I was actually angry with him over the whole situation.”
“You mean the situation with Doreen and Velvet?”
Goldie nodded. “Not that he had anything to do with it, but he just seemed like a good target. Doreen had an affair and caused all this hurt. Jack has had multiple affairs and caused all this hurt. I just... got mad at him.”
I frowned. “But you haven’t told him about Charlene?”
“No.”
I rearranged the novelty salt and pepper shakers on the table between us. “I saw Charlene the other day at school. I tried to see if she’s showing, but...”
“It’s difficult to tell. I know.” Goldie looked toward the counter, and I followed her gaze. Sally was moving toward us, carrying two hot drinks to go. “Thank you, Miss Sally,” Goldie said in that Southern way she still has, even after all these years in Colorado.
“Tell Chris I added some extra whipped cream on his,” Sally said with a laugh.
“He’ll love you for it,” Goldie commented as Sally walked away. Then she looked at me. “I’d best get these back across the street,” she said, cupping the two Styrofoam cups in her mittened hands.
We stood together. “Goldie,” I said. “Tell him. Get it over with, girl.”
Goldie nodded. “I will. Soon.” She licked her lips. “I’ll know when the time is right, and it just hasn’t been yet.”
We walked out of Higher Grounds and straight into Clay, who was coming in.
“Ladies,” he said.
“Clay,” we said together.
“I understand you’ve begun a campaign to help Donna,” I said.
Clay gripped the handle of the door but didn’t open it. “Yes, I have. You can read the start of it in today’s paper,” he said.
“We certainly will,” I replied, then watched as he walked in. I looked back to Goldie. “I’d better get home,” I said. “Samuel’s probably in need of something by now, and there’s more laundry to do.” I winked. “Call me and give me all the details once you tell Jack, you hear me?” I said more than asked.
“I will,” she said, then shivered in the cold. “Gotta go. See you at the potluck?”
“See you then,” I said, then crossed the street to where my car waited to take me back to reality.
37
The Good Egg
Clay ambled into Higher Grounds and immediately went to the newspaper stand, pushed in a dollar’s worth of quarters, and then pulled open the door. He swiped the top paper toward him, then let the metal door bam shut before heading toward his table.
Sure, he could get his papers for free at the office, but Clay liked the sensation he felt whenever he bought a copy. It was the same stir of emotions he’d felt the first time one of his articles ran and he’d rushed down to the corner store right after school to buy his personal copy. He’d been a boy of thirteen then, but he still had the same feeling when, on Thursdays, he came into the café and purchased a paper.
Today he was particularly anxious to read his editorial. He’d spent hours longer than usual working on it. He’d interviewed anyone and everyone he could think of—from Vonnie Westbrook, Donna’s childhood Sunday school teacher, to Betty Yancy, the housebound woman Donna drove up Snake Mountain once a week to bring groceries, prescriptions, and mail to. He’d ended with the story of her rescue efforts in Summit Ridge and how she’d practically dug the Dippels out of the snowslide. Enough was being said to destroy his friend, and he’d interviewed more than a dozen people who couldn’t say enough good about her.
He opened the paper to the s
econd page and sat in his usual chair in one fluid movement, then looked toward the counter so as to catch Sally’s attention. “Cup of coffee,” he said easily.
“Coming right up,” Sally said, then ambled over with a mug and a pot of fresh coffee. The aroma of it reached Clay before she did, and he smiled.
As Sally poured the black gold into the mug she’d placed on the table, she ran her free hand over his shoulder and said, “You did a good thing for Donna there.”
Clay looked up but not at Sally. “Thanks. I just hope it helps.”
Sally patted him. “Front page article about how Donna saved that baby’s mother was good too.”
Clay shrugged as he pinked. “That part is just reporting. The editorial came from here,” he said, pointing to his heart.
Sally patted him again. “But how are you going to make sure it gets into the right hands? I mean, we all love Donna, but those folks who are suing her—”
“It’s been handled” was all he said.
Sally tugged at a lock of his red hair before moving away. “You’re a good egg, Clay Whitefield. I’ve always said that, and I always will.”
He smiled after her, then went back to reading his editorial.
Goldie
38
Steamed Encounters
After leaving Lizzie, I hurried back down the sidewalk toward the card shop. I stamped my boots free of the packed snow I’d gained along the way. The delicious aroma of hot cocoa wafted upward; I was more than a little anxious to get back upstairs so that I could enjoy the little mid-afternoon pick-me-up Chris had sent me out for.
This was but one of the many things I’d grown to love about working for Chris Lowe. He was generous to a fault. He allowed for my personal life. He listened when I just needed to talk. And he often treated us to something wonderful from the café.
If Jack thought for one second that I was going to go back to being a housewife with nothing to do all day but clean his house and wash his clothes and cook his meals, he had another think coming, I reminded myself. I loved my job and I intended to keep it even when we reunited.
The Potluck Club—Takes the Cake Page 21