I sighed. “Now, Evie, dear, a lot of healing happened during her devotional at our meeting today. She offered to resign from the group, in an effort to make amends, and we wouldn’t have it. Remember? You haven’t changed your mind about accepting her apology?”
I could hear Evie sniff in that way she does when she’s really steamed. “That woman. She just won’t leave the Christmas tea alone. Well, I just won’t have it!”
“Calm down, Evie,” I said. “The pastor did make her co-leader on that project. You know that.”
“But Lisa Leann is a newcomer. She doesn’t know about our ways or our traditions. She thinks every situation, every potluck meeting, every Christmas tea, is all about her.”
I smiled and changed the subject. “Speaking of which, Evie, you did notice my son David Harris today?”
A sudden silence filled the phone line. “I’m sorry, Vonnie. Here I am going on and on about Lisa Leann and totally ignoring one of the most important days of your life. What kind of friend am I?”
“A dear one,” I said. “You’re just a bit upset.”
“You can say that again. So, where is David now?”
“He’s with Fred watching one of his truck shows. They seem to be getting along.”
“Seem to be?”
I giggled. “Well, when David indicated he was interested in dating Donna, Fred seemed concerned.”
“David likes Donna?”
“It would seem so.”
“How does she feel about him?”
“I have no idea, other than to say, I guess the two of them have been emailing one another.”
“You don’t say.”
“Well, pretend I didn’t. We don’t want Lisa Leann to get hold of anything that could start a rumor.”
“That woman,” Evie said again.
“Now, Evie.”
“I know. It’s just that I could actually use her help, that is, if she would only do things the way they’re supposed to be done.” She sighed. “Here I am scrambling to get this Christmas tea together and I’ve got a wedding to plan. Say, did I tell you that Vernon and I set the date?”
“No!” I chided her. “And since I suppose I’ll be your matron of honor, this is something I need to know.”
“Of course you’ll be my matron of honor. Who else would be? But you’re not going to like it.”
“Like what? The wedding?”
“No, the date. We’ve decided ‘why wait?’ Or, I should say, why wait any longer than we’ve already waited. We’re getting married the end of next month.”
“You mean January? This coming January?”
“That’s right, and there’s a million things to do, like selecting the bridesmaids dresses, renting the church, picking out the cake, sending the invitations. I mean, this is the wedding I never had, so I’ve got to do it up big. Plus there needs to be a bridal shower.”
“That’ll be my job,” I said, giggling. “But honestly, Evie, you’re not going to be able to pull off a big wedding in such a short time frame, not without professional help. Do you think?”
Uh-oh. The line sounded like it went dead again.
“You mean Lisa Leann’s High Country Weddings, don’t you?”
“Yes, dear. It’s the only way. Besides, this could be the opportunity you two need to help you learn how to get along.”
Silence again.
“Well, then, glad that’s settled,” I teased. “Talk tomorrow?”
“Yes, okay.”
A couple of hours later, I pulled out my red Christmas placemats, the ones I’d gotten on clearance last year at Wal-Mart, and set the table with three Christmas plates loaded with hot microwaved leftovers. I lit my cinnamon candle centerpiece and put my cake and cake plates out on the nearby countertop before filling the glasses with ice and tea.
So despite the fact that my kitchen dining table was not located in a Beverly Hill’s mansion, we actually had a lovely dinner, though a few awkward silences occurred between Fred and David during the meal. Once when David asked me about his father, Joseph Jewell, I caught David’s eye and held my index finger to my lips as I tilted my head toward Fred.
I was glad Fred hadn’t seen the gesture, but at the same time, David caught the meaning and discreetly nodded as he changed the subject. “Tell me about my grandmother, Maria Jewell.”
I laughed as I shared a memory of her. “She was so full of life and joy,” I said. “English was her second language, and as smart as she was, she would sometimes get things all twisted around. Like the night of my birthday dinner, she said, ‘Just for you, Vonnie, I make birthday suit. Si?’ ”
Both Fred and David raised their eyebrows. “What had she meant to say?” David asked.
“Soup, she meant birthday soup!” I said, laughing.
David laughed while Fred shifted uneasily.
“That’s really the first time I’ve heard you speak of your former mother-in-law,” Fred said quietly. “I didn’t realize how important she was to you.”
My laughter stopped, and I changed the subject again. “So, David, you’re going out with Donna for breakfast tomorrow?”
Fred shifted uneasily again. I inwardly threw my hands in the air. Was there no safe topic?
David nodded sheepishly. “Yeah, she’s working the afternoon shift tomorrow, so we thought we’d do breakfast.” He attempted another topic. “Vonnie, tell me more about your mother. Is she still living?”
This time, it was my turn to try to change the subject. “Mother? Yes, she lives not far from here, in Frisco.”
“I’d love to meet her,” David said. “If it would be okay.”
I hopped up to scoop what was left of my pumpkin dessert into individual bowls.
“Wouldn’t that be interesting,” Fred said, then winked at me.
“That certainly would be,” I agreed as I put a bowl before each of my men. “However, she might not be up for a visit.”
David picked up his fork and dug into the rich dessert. “She’s sick?”
Fred looked to me to see how I would answer. I nodded. “Yes, that’s how I’d describe it,” I said.
“That’s too bad,” David said between bites of the dessert. He smiled. “This is really good. Did you make this?”
“I did.” I smiled at my husband. “It’s one of Fred’s favorites.”
David looked wistful. “To think, all these years, I had a mom who could cook.”
“Harmony didn’t?” I asked, my own fork readied for my first bite.
David laughed. “No, she had employees who could cook, but she wouldn’t go near the kitchen. She’d always give me ‘what for’ when she found me baking with her personal chef.” He imitated Harmony’s famous, sexy drawl. “My dear David, cooking is so beneath you. You’re royalty.”
I swallowed my bite. “Royalty?”
“Yeah, she meant Hollywood royalty. Not that any of those socalled ‘royals’ wanted anything to do with me.” His voice rose an octave. “‘Go to your room, dear, can’t you see Mummy is busy with her leading man? We’ve got to practice our lines.’”
Fred looked at me then back at David. “So, I guess you’re saying you didn’t have much of a childhood, growing up in that mansion of yours.”
“Childhood? No, you could say I missed that part of my life.”
I reached for David’s hand. “Fred and I missed it too, dear.”
Fred looked at me with his eyebrows raised to question my meaning. “Come on,” I said to my husband. “You know good and well you’d have been a father to this boy if the two of us had shown up in Summit View. Knowing you, you wouldn’t have been able to resist us.”
Fred looked as if he felt a bit ashamed of himself. “You’re probably right. In some ways, this tragedy played out in a way that robbed me of the only son I’d ever have.”
David stopped chewing and really looked at Fred. “Son?” He smiled. “Do you think it’s too late for that—for us to be father and son, I mean?”
“We�
��re practically strangers, you, me, and Vonnie,” Fred said. “You were raised in a completely different world, ah, and lifestyle than ours.”
David pushed his plate away. “I know that. I feel like I was cheated out of a real family. Not that Harmony wasn’t good to me, in her own way; it’s just she didn’t know how to be a mother.” He looked at Fred and then looked down at the table. “I know we can’t really make up for all the lost years, but maybe, somehow, we could all become, you know, a family—especially since I’m moving here.”
Fred’s fork froze in midair.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to blurt it out like that,” David said sheepishly. “I put the mansion on the market, and movers are already putting everything in storage. The contents of my apartment will be here in a couple of weeks. After breakfast with Donna tomorrow, I’ve got a date with a realtor so I can buy my own mountain bungalow. Then I’m going to see about getting a job as a paramedic. I’ve loved my job in LA, but there’s no reason I couldn’t pick up here where I’ve left off there.”
Fred’s eyes widened. “You’re moving here? Why—”
A pounding knock erupted at the front door. “Vonnie, Vonnie, open up!” a voice called.
I sprang from the table. “Daddy?”
“It’s your mother, Vonnie, she needs you,” he called from the other side of the door.
Fred and David followed as I flung open the front door while little Chucky performed his bark and dance routine.
There before me stood my mother, with my father by her side. She leaned on him like one would a cane. Then I noticed that her foot sported a brand new, rock hard, hot pink cast.
“She slipped on the ice outside our condo tonight and broke her ankle,” Dad said. “We just left the ER, and she insisted I bring her here. She says she can’t make it up and down our stairs, as steep as they are.”
With Dad’s help, Mother hopped on one foot, scootching her way toward me.
“It’s only for a few weeks,” she said. “I won’t be a bother. Besides, I’ll be much better able to navigate your place than ours.”
I felt as if my feet were stuck to the floor. How presumptuous she was. She knew how angry I was at her, but no, never mind my feelings and never mind that she was interrupting one of the most sacred moments of my life, not that she’d noticed.
She hobbled over the threshold as Dad guided her by an elbow. “Your father will run home and pack some of my things for me. I think I’ll manage fine in that guest bedroom of yours, even if it does need a good dusting.”
“But Mother...”
David peeked around me. “Well, who do we have here?” he said.
Mother stared at him, then chirped at me, “You have company?” She looked back at David. “Or is this your handyman making a latenight repair? If that’s the case, I’ll want your number, young man.”
“Mother!”
Her eyes locked to mine. “Yes, Vonnie?”
“Mother, I’d like to introduce you to David Harris.” I detected a tremor in my voice as I announced, “Your grandson.”
Mother’s eyes widened in horror. David somehow ignored her reaction, and before she could protest, he gave her a quick hug, a hug that felt to me like sweet revenge. I tried not to smile as Mother stood stiff in his embrace, all the while her eyes locked with mine.
David pulled back and turned to my father. “And you would be?”
I said, “David, this is my father, your grandfather.”
David reached out and shook his hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, sir.”
My father grinned. “I never thought I’d see this day,” he said.
That was an understatement. I wanted to blurt out a laugh but somehow refrained. If it weren’t for the announcement that Mother expected me to be her caregiver, the moment would have been perfect.
I mean, I hadn’t spoken to Mother since I’d learned of her betrayal. And I probably would have slammed the door on her if David hadn’t been watching my every move. But to tell the truth, my emotions were in such a jumble that it was hard to react with anything other than caution. I’d figure all this out later. All I knew was I was not going to let my mother upstage the miracle of my reunion with my son.
I found my voice. “Tonight, David, let’s put you in the study on an air mattress. Dad, take Mother to the spare room.”
As I watched everyone spring to action I inwardly turned to the Lord. Now what? I asked him. How do you expect me to handle this?
How indeed.
5
A Brand-New Me
Clay laid his head against the soft donut-shaped headrest and closed his eyes. From overhead the soothing sounds of Kenny G swept through the room. The scent of jasmine—or was that lavender— wafted from the flickering flames of nearby candles. His naked feet—which had experienced their first pedicure—stuck out from the stark white sheet covering him. They were cold, so he kicked a bit until the bottom of the sheet fell over his toes like a tent.
He breathed in. Breathed out. So this was what drew women in droves?
He heard a noise from beside him, and he peeped his eye to see the door open just enough to allow the petite Asian woman entrance. “You ready, Mr. Whitefield?” she said.
Clay closed his investigative eye and nodded.
Words were hardly necessary.
“I will begin by exfoliating your face,” she said, and he felt her presence as she moved to his head. “Then the rest of your body,” she continued.
“Will it hurt?” he asked, just above a whisper.
The girl giggled. “Not too much,” she said. “That’s the price of beauty, no?”
Goldie
6
On a Low Boil
Some days you’d just as soon wish away. Turn back the hands of time. Jump into bed, pull the covers over your head, and pretend they never happened. Such was this day.
It’s not that I hadn’t had bad days before. The good Lord knows I’d had some pretty bad ones. You can’t be married to an unfaithful man for nearly thirty years and come away unscathed.
But this one... this one was the worst of all. This one was such a slap in the face, I thought I’d never recover. What had started out as a cold and crisp December morning touched with a hint of promise, followed by an evening of dining and laughter with one of my best girlfriends, had turned into a night filled with despair.
Despair and anger. Fury.
Remorse.
Oh, why did I ever say I’d go away for a weekend with my estranged husband, Lord? What in the world was I thinking?
I stood dead center before my opened bedroom closet, jerking at the clothes hung neatly and in color coordination along the wooden rod. “What was I thinking?” I said, ripping a maroon sweater away from its hanger and then shoving my arms into the sleeves. “Telling Jack I’d go away with him to a mountain cabin up in Summit Ridge. For two days and two nights?” I wrestled out of the sweater and threw it toward the bed, where one of my oldest and dearest friends sat perched on the end as though she were modeling for a Sealy Posturepedic ad.
Lizzie Prattle caught it in midair. “Goodwill?” she asked.
I nodded, turning back to the closet. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Well,” she said with a purse of her lips. “Maybe deep down you really want to go.”
My hand froze on a hanger draped with a long black velvet skirt and top I’d recently worn to a local church’s early Christmas special with Jack. I’d bought it, wondering if Jack would notice the way it slenderized my hips and gave me an elegant flare. Though I’d kept him at arm’s length the entire morning, the dress had certainly worked its magic. I felt beautiful, and Jack had barely been able to keep his eyes off me. Now the rhinestone buttons down the top’s front winked at me, toying with my memories in the dim bedroom light of the “bachelorette” pad I’d been renting for the past couple of months, ever since I’d had my fill of my husband’s cheating ways and, later, our daughter’s overbearing will to see us
reunited. It was not that I blamed Olivia. After all, we are her parents, and she loves us both. We did not raise her in a home of turmoil and calamity so that she might say, “Better separate than together.” Instead, our memories are full of good times, of laughter around the dinner table as we readied ourselves for the next big high school sports game (Jack being the coach), where Jack would move beautifully across the field or the court and Olivia would stand proud in the center of the cheerleaders, kicking her legs, waving her pom-poms while I sat in the bleachers, sipping coffee and feeling content. We had memories that were good memories. Looking back on it, we—Jack and I—never really fought. But now that I know myself a bit better, I find that this was more my fault. I willingly allowed Jack to run over me in certain areas of our marriage, just as his mother had done with Jack’s father. Like I said, I sat content in the bleachers. Not happy. Not unhappy. Just content. It wasn’t until Olivia married and moved on with her life with her new family that I became sad. I was willing to continue to live as man and wife with Jack, reasoning that so many other wives out there had it worse. Besides all that, I did love Jack, and I knew that—in his own way—Jack loved me. He was a product of mimicking what his father had taught him. And now, since Jack had been in therapy, he seemed to understand that too, while I am learning things about myself and about my own role in the breakdown of our marriage and about my odd hopes of putting it back together.
I pulled the hanger holding the velvet frock from the rod, twisting around and displaying the outfit to Lizzie. “I looked right pretty in this, didn’t I?” I asked, reverting back to my Southern “tongue.”
She smiled at me, and for a moment I noticed how “handsome” she was. Silvery-gray hair worn short and always in place. Eyes that seem to dance even when she’s sad or stressed. A face with so few wrinkles she’d have a hard time convincing anyone she’s a grandmother. “You always do,” she answered.
The Potluck Club—Takes the Cake Page 3