by V. M. Burns
“I prefer a man with more spunk, someone you can argue with.” She laughed. “You should have seen some of the fights your grandpa and I had.” She gazed off into the distance. “Makes a marriage stronger.” She tsked. “Of course, then you get the fun of making up.” She guffawed.
“Nana Jo, I don’t want that image in my brain.” I shook my head as if trying to erase an Etch A Sketch.
She laughed.
Lunch was tasty. Good food and a glass of wine restored my humor. After lunch, we ate cake. In fact, cake was the main reason Mom wanted us to eat at The Avenue. The pastry chef presented us with samples from three different cakes as possible choices for the reception.
The pastry chef was a tiny little woman with electric-blue hair. She presented the first sample. “This is a chocolate almond cake with raspberry mousse filling topped with chocolate ganache.” She watched our faces as we tasted.
“This is delicious. Chocolate cake is my favorite.” Harold’s eyes sparkled, but then he turned to my mother. “What do you think, Grace?”
Mom took a small bite and then washed it down with a long drink of water. “It’s very good, and I know a lot of people like chocolate, but . . . well, I was hoping for something a little more . . . well, unique.”
Harold promptly nodded in agreement. “Of course, you’re right. It’s delicious, but you can eat chocolate cake anywhere. A wedding is a special occasion.” He gazed at my mother as though she was the first person to entertain the idea the earth was round.
For the second tasting, we were presented with a white cake. “This is a traditional white cake with vanilla mousse filling and white fondant topping.”
I’d never quite understood if you’re supposed to eat fondant. It made the cake look nice and smooth, but it wasn’t the tastiest topping I’d ever had. This one was no exception.
Based on the look on my mom’s face, she wasn’t a fan of this one either. “White is definitely traditional, but not very unique, is it?”
I agreed with her on that one.
The third tasting was presented. “This is a pink champagne cake with a filling of rum-infused custard and whipped cream frosting.”
“Hmm. That’s good stuff.” Nana Jo licked her fork.
Harold turned to see my mom’s reaction so he could know what his opinion should be.
Mom took a bite and smiled. “I really like the pink, don’t you, Harold? It will go with the color scheme.”
The cake wasn’t the bubble gum color my mom seemed to like best, but it was definitely pink. Regardless of the cake’s color, it was by far the tastiest of the selections. The chef explained she used champagne in place of water for the cake. I struggled to think of anything that wouldn’t taste good if it was doused in champagne.
Cake choice made, we moved on to the ballroom, which was massive. The crystal chandeliers and marble columns, with views of Lake Michigan from nearly every window, would be an ideal space for a large wedding.
“Grace, I thought you wanted a small wedding? You could hog-tie cattle in this room,” Nana Jo said.
Mom fluttered her hands around. “Well, we want to make sure the guests have room to dance, but maybe you’re right.”
“Our library can accommodate up to thirty-six guests comfortably and the patio could be used for cocktails,” the manager continued his sales pitch.
“Well, this room isn’t big enough to cuss a cat,” Nana Jo said.
Frank whispered in my ear, “How much space does it take to cuss a cat?”
I shrugged. “Beats me. None of us have one.”
“What do you think, Sam?” Mom asked.
“I agree with Nana Jo.”
The manager looked as though he was about to provide all of the sales features for the library, but I’d beat him to the punch.
“The ballroom is too big. The library is too small. The—”
“If you say, there’s a room that’s just right, I’ll gag.” Nana Jo stuck her finger in her mouth but thankfully didn’t actually gag.
“Actually, I was going to say the library is too small for the reception, but it might make a nice place for a family breakfast.”
“Oh, what a wonderful idea,” Mom said with such amazement the compliment made me question when was the last time I’d had a wonderful idea.
I mumbled, “I do get good ideas every decade or so.”
Frank chuckled until he saw the look my mom shot my way and then coughed to cover up his laughter.
We reserved the library for a family breakfast and avoided the manager’s sales pressure to reserve the ballroom to ensure it would be available. His “I’m only looking out for your best interest” suggestion would require a nonrefundable thousand-dollar deposit, which Harold was glad to pay, but Nana Jo’s Midwestern frugal nature refused to concede.
“I have to get back to work,” I said.
“I’d better go with you.” Nana Jo grabbed her purse.
“Well, if you must go.” Mom fluttered and looked around in the “I’m so helpless” way she had.
However, Nana Jo and I were immune.
“Yep, we gotta go. See you tonight at Frank’s place for the family dinner. We’ll talk then.” Nana Jo gave mom a kiss on the cheek and hurried out of the door mumbling, “Once I’ve had a glass of whiskey to steady my nerves.”
“Don’t be late to dinner tonight,” my mom yelled at our retreating backs as we made a quick exit out the door.
Despite my frustration with shopping for bridesmaid dresses, I wouldn’t have missed tonight’s family dinner for all of the fish in Lake Michigan. Tonight, my mom and Harold were introducing the two families. I didn’t know a lot of truly rich people. This would be my chance to see how the other half lived. Plus, it would allow me to be nosy and learn what I could about my mom’s intended.
Frank drove us back to my car, and I drove the short distance over the bridge from South Harbor to North Harbor. All of the one-way streets downtown South Harbor made the drive about two miles total. However, the differences between North Harbor and South Harbor felt like the twin cities were separated by more than a bridge. The two cities shared the same Lake Michigan shoreline but were light-years apart. South Harbor was affluent and thriving, with cobblestone streets, a bustling downtown, and beachfront property both on the beach and on the bluffs above the Lake. In contrast, North Harbor had abandoned and burned-out buildings and boarded-up houses and downtown offered very little foot traffic. There was a small area of renovated buildings, bakeries, art galleries, and cafés, which were trying to revitalize the economy and bring people back downtown. My bookstore, Market Street Mysteries, was one of those. The brick brownstone stood on a corner lot with a parking lot shared with a church. There was an alley that ran behind the buildings, and I was fortunate to have a garage. The previous owner built a fence to connect the garage to the building, probably in an attempt to keep the homeless and late-night bar hoppers from trespassing. However, the result was it created a nice courtyard area where my dogs, Snickers and Oreo, loved to play. The garage had an upstairs studio apartment my assistant, Dawson Alexander, called home.
Nana Jo and I entered the store through the back. There was a glass door that led up a flight of stairs to the right. Snickers and Oreo must have heard us coming because they were waiting at the bottom of the stairs. The two chocolate toy poodles pounced and barked their greeting. I hurried to let them out to keep the noise down while Nana Jo went through to help Dawson take care of the Christmas crowds. This was my first Christmas season, and I’d been pleasantly surprised by the traffic we’d received so far.
December in Southwest Michigan was cold and snowy. Christmas was only a few weeks away, and the wind off Lake Michigan was harsh and bitterly cold. Snickers, the older of the two poodles, true to her nature, stepped over the threshold, squatted and took care of business quickly, and hurried back inside to heat and warmth. Despite the red and green Christmas sweater she wore, she didn’t like the cold and would just as soon have taken care of he
r bio needs inside as out. Oreo, on the other hand, had a more carefree, frolicking nature. He leapt into the air and tried to catch snowflakes. He was halfway across the yard before he realized his paws and his underbelly were cold. He then hurried to the back door, expecting to be let back inside. After ten years of Michigan winters, you would expect him to have caught on that snow was cold. Unfortunately, he was a slow learner. Snickers and I coldheartedly stood our ground and watched him through the glass until he hurried to the corner of the fence, hiked his leg, and heeded the call of nature. Snickers looked up at me as though to say, Remind me again why you wanted a second dog? I shrugged and opened the door to admit him as he bounded inside. He shook, scattering wet snow around the room, and then pounced, getting my jeans wet. I pulled the towel I kept at the back door off its hook and cleaned as much snow from his underside and legs as I could before letting him down. The static from the towel made the hair on his ear flaps stand out, and I smiled. Oreo might not be the brightest member of our pack, but his zeal and energy always put a smile on my face.
I went upstairs to the area I’d converted into a loft where I now lived. I grabbed a couple of dog biscuits from the jar I kept on the counter and tossed them into the dogs’ beds and then hurried downstairs to help.
Each time I went into my bookstore, I was overcome with joy. Owning my own mystery bookstore had been a dream my husband and I shared. After his untimely death just over a year ago, I fulfilled my promise to him to sell our house and take the insurance money and live out our dream. Death of a loved one helped to put things into perspective. For me, Leon’s death reminded me life was too short not to be happy. So, I quit my job as an English teacher at the local high school, sold the house Leon and I had lived in, and bought the brownstone we’d walked by and dreamed of one day owning. It was bittersweet to live the dream without him by my side, but, over the past year, I’d found a host of friends and family who helped to fill the void.
The store was bustling and Nana Jo was running the cash register. My assistant, Dawson Alexander, was stocking a shelf. Dawson was the quarterback for the Michigan Southwest University Tigers, or MISS YOU as the locals called it. He was tall and slender; the MISU trainers asked him to “bulk up.” So, he’d gained over twenty pounds of pure muscle, which was helpful on the football field and also came in very handy for hoisting boxes of books. The fact Dawson loved to bake, and was exceptionally good at it, provided the conduit for some of the weight gain. Unfortunately, I suspected I too had gained a good ten pounds since he started working here and baking all sorts of sweet, delicious items.
Market Street Mysteries wasn’t on the same level as big-box stores, but business was steady and that was enough to keep the lights on. My staff consisted of my grandmother, Nana Jo, who refused to accept a salary; Dawson, who rented the studio apartment above my garage and I paid a small salary, which he more than earned by providing baked goods; and my twin nephews, Christopher and Zaq, when they were on break from college, which thankfully, would be in a few days.
Dawson, Nana Jo, and I worked steadily for the remainder of the afternoon. When my older sister, Jenna, walked in, I looked at the time and realized we’d been working nonstop for four hours. It was time to close shop and it wasn’t until I sat down that I realized how tired I was.
“You owe me big-time.” I glared at my sister, who stared innocently and fluttered her eyelashes.
“I have no idea what you mean.”
I pulled out my cell phone and swiped until I came to the selfies I’d snapped before I gave up and delegated the task to my sales consultant.
Jenna looked at the pictures and tried to keep from laughing but failed and eventually gave up and laughed long and hard.
Nana Jo and Dawson looked over her shoulder. Nana Jo had seen the originals but still laughed at the shots as much as Dawson and Jenna.
“Great. Laugh, but I won’t be alone in those pink concoctions. Just remember that.” I pointed at my sister.
“Your mother is crazy if she thinks I’m wearing any of these clown dresses.” Jenna handed back my cell phone. It was always your mother when Mom was being demanding or irritating.
“I don’t understand how she thinks she’s going to plan a wedding in three weeks.” I hoisted myself out of the chair and went to the back and got the broom. After sitting for just a few minutes, my joints felt tired. I knew if I continued sitting, I’d never get the store cleaned and ready for tomorrow.
Christmas was just three weeks away, and my mother was getting married on Christmas Eve. I tried not to stress out about all of the things that needed to happen in the next three weeks. Bubble-gum-pink-piñata-gone-with-the-wind-mermaid dresses were just the tip of the iceberg. Unlike most brides, who spent over a year planning the perfect wedding, my mother told us just two weeks ago she was getting married on Christmas Eve. Thinking about everything that needed to happen made me want to scream. I must have looked like a crazy woman.
“Don’t worry about cleaning, Mrs. W. We’ll take care of that.” Dawson took the broom from my hands and held out a chair.
I stared. “Who’s we?”
The bell that chimed whenever someone entered the store jingled and Jillian Clark and Emma Lee entered the store.
“Hello, Mrs. Washington,” both girls said.
Emma Lee gave Jenna a hug. “We knew you’d be tired after wedding shopping.” She took off her coat and placed it over the bar at the back of the store.
Emma was a petite Southern belle with long, dark hair and almond-shaped eyes that showcased her Asian heritage. Emma was a student at MISU and was dating my nephew, Zaq. At about five feet tall and one hundred pounds, Emma was often dwarfed by my nephew’s six-feet frame. When the two were together, he towered over her, but the two didn’t seem to notice or care.
“We would have been here earlier, but I had a rehearsal.” Jillian placed her coat on the bar next to Emma’s and went to the back to get a duster.
Dawson followed her, and I couldn’t help but smile. He and Jillian were a couple, and he followed her so they could have a few moments alone.
Jillian was the granddaughter of one of Nana Jo’s friends, Dorothy Clark. She had a tall, slender body and walked with the grace that only a ballerina possessed. She had dark eyes and dark, frizzy hair, which she’d tried to tame by braiding and pinning to her head tonight. However, several curly tendrils refused to be contained and created lovely curls on the sides of her head.
When Jillian and Dawson returned, she was wearing an apron and proceeded to dust. “Now, you better go upstairs and get dressed or you’ll be late for the party.”
I looked at my watch. “You’re right.”
“Shake a leg.” Nana Jo hurried to the steps. For a woman in her seventies, who was a couple inches under six feet and well over two hundred fifty pounds, my grandmother was still pretty spry. It probably had something to do with her yoga and aikido classes. She was a brown belt.
I followed at a slower pace. This was the first opportunity any of us, my mother included, had had to meet Harold’s family. I knew she was nervous and, despite the humiliation she planned for me in a pink bridesmaid gown, I wanted to make a good impression.
I showered and dressed in a vintage print A-line, high-waist dress. The top was navy with three-quarter-length sleeves and a scoop neck, while the skirt had a bold navy and white floral imprint. Since I’d started writing historic British cozy mysteries, I’d found myself drawn to clothes from the late 1930s and early 1940s, the period I wrote about. The dress had a vintage feel, without being too kitschy. I had a pair of navy heels that matched the outfit perfectly. The dinner was only a few blocks away, which was the only reason I dared wear the shoes in the middle of winter in Michigan. Plus, Frank promised to make sure the sidewalk from my store to his restaurant was not only free of ice and snow but was well salted.
When I came out to the main living space, Jenna and her husband, Tony, were sitting at the large dining room table with their son
s, Christopher and Zaq. The twins were dressed in dark jeans with white shirts and jackets. Despite the fact that the twins were dressed in similar items of clothing, their personal style showed through, distinguishing each boy. Christopher was serious with a preppy style, while Zaq was the techie and tended to be nerdier in the way he dressed. Tonight, that was obvious from the tweed jacket and bow tie Zaq wore. Christopher looked dapper with a solid-color suit jacket and tie. Only when I got close enough to hug him and took a good look at the tie, did I realize what I had initially mistaken for a paisley print was actually a skull and crossbones.
I hugged my nephew. “Nice tie.”
“Thanks, Aunt Sammy.” Christopher bent down to hug me.
“Don’t encourage him,” Jenna said.
Tony shook his head. He was a man of few words.
I looked around. “Where’s Dawson?”
Jenna tore a page from a catalog.
“What are you doing?” I walked over and picked up the page.
“You’ll thank me.” She smiled and ripped another page from the catalog I’d just recognized was one of my favorite stores.
“Not likely. I just got that catalog today and I haven’t even had a chance to look at it.” I picked up the other pages she’d ripped out and scattered across the table. “What are these?”
“Potential bridesmaid dresses.” She smiled. “I’m not wearing that pink crap you tried on today.” She cocked her head to the side and looked at another picture but must have decided against it and flipped to the next page. “Besides, we don’t have time to get any of those dresses altered and delivered in three weeks. We’re going to order nice dresses or suits that we won’t be ashamed to be seen in public with and can wear for more than a few hours.”
I picked up the pages again. “I’m sold, but how are you going to convince your mother?”
“Simple. I’ll just tell her I saw it in a fancy magazine and it’s the latest thing for the twenty-first century.” She folded the pulled pages and put them in her purse. “The boys will need interview suits, so they’ll be fine.” She looked at her sons.